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The night was an opus of fervent celebration, the bellow of revelry spilling through the Westshore halls. Laughter, song, and lively steps entwined in joyous chaos, mingling with the solemn chants of the final rites—a stark reminder of all I'd been forbidden to partake in. Somewhere out there, the mages stood in unison, bound in a tradition older than the stones beneath my feet, but I crept alone through shadowed halls, bound by a different purpose.

But in the mage towers, only shadows moved. Narrow passages stretched before me, choked with darkness, holding only a whisper of magic within their plain confines. These walls, thick with age and mystery, had seen centuries pass, their decoration sparse and unembellished save for the occasional brass-studded door. No banners, no gleaming sconces, only cold stone beneath the hush of dark tapestries.

As I passed through an endless sequence of chambers, each closed tightly to prying eyes, my gaze fell upon the final door at the far end of the longest hallway. It was a threshold reserved strictly for those of higher station, barred from all others. Not tonight, with the keys I had obtained, my hands trembled at the cold metal, fingers brushing the latch. A tremor of doubt seized me. Should I even be here? My father's voice murmured a warning in my memory. I paused, conflicted as my fingers hovered over the keys, heart quickening. The guilt of Juniper's last unfortunate encounter gnawed at me, as did a fear—an unease that Vae, my sole ally, might be swept up in the storm of my decisions tonight.

My hand tightened around the key, though anger burned brighter than guilt. My life was bound to these walls, to the shadows cast by Martha's ruthless grip on my powers. I would sooner face exile as a lowly practitioner than live another day chained to her iron will.

Whatever I owe him, I owe myself more than anyone else.

A soft clink as the key met the lock sent a jolt through my nerves, and I froze, holding my breath as the faintest shuffle of shadows emerged down the hall. Two servants drifted through the darkened corridors, but their backs turned, and I let a shallow sigh escape as they vanished into a far archway.

With a last steadying breath, I slipped through the doorway and closed it softly behind. The air inside was heavy, meticulously ordered. The Head Mage's chamber stood immaculate before me: shelves aligned with painstaking order, papers in neatly stacked rows, an impeccably made bed, and a large desk where parchment and quills lay poised for the next word. The sight of a large portrait hung above the desk—a severe likeness of Martha, her stare austere even in oil and canvas—I glanced the other way.

Driven by an urgency I could barely contain, I set upon the chamber, ransacking each shelf and cabinet in search of something—anything—to grant my insight or freedom. A mess of records, parchments, and missives littered the desk. I combed the room in silence, my gaze flitting from shelves to desk to cabinet. Every drawer I tugged and every shelf I disturbed was a reminder of her precision, the uncompromising control she held over all things. 

But beneath the orderly stacks, something caught my eye—a letter, half-finished, bearing Martha's unmistakable scrawl. I leaned closer, my fingers traced the ink as I scanned, piecing together only fragments of her cryptic words. Mentions of "subduing suspicion," a "near disaster" with the fool of a chancellor, but worse were the lines about me. The "unstable apprentice." The burden she'd "guarded" from the king's men. Between the lines, I saw another truth. 

Does she lie to the king as she lies to me? The thought took root, growing dark, thorny tendrils that twisted around my thoughts. If she could deceive him, she could me, or father, even. This was the Head Mage's familiar face—hidden schemes and carefully guarded words— which was why I wanted no part of her protection.

My heart beat faster; curiosity urged me on, yet the faint chants of the last rites filtered through the stone walls, reminding me that time was slipping away. I hurried to stack each document, careful to restore the desk to its pristine state, even the slightest disruption would arouse Martha's suspicions. Only then did I catch sight of it, resting near the quills: burnished gold, heavy, marked with her insignia. A chance, swift and simple. I fumbled in my satchel, retrieving my hidden letter and a candle.

A fire, I needed a fire.

I stretched three fingers over the wick, remembering one of the very few tricks Vae taught me to master, though I barely had any Flamecasting affinity in me. I stood stiff and willed the blood to circulate around my fingers, feeling a cautious heat emerge. I placed a shivering finger to the wick and a spark shone catching onto the thread. I murmured a soft thanks in her name as I dripped wax from the candle's flame and stamped it with Martha's golden seal. It left an indelible mark on the slightly crumpled parchment—my ticket, my silent rebellion.

I turned to leave, but a flicker of movement by the hearth froze me in place. A figure—small and spectral. It shimmered, childlike and faint, floating just beyond reach. My breath stilled as I stared, watching its form flicker, translucent, like mist catching the faintest glimmer of moonlight. It was too faint to be real, wispy as fog, yet its outline held, its form bending like it was watching. I blinked, breath held. The figure drifted towards Martha's bedside, where it lingered, tracing the edge of the table.

Phantoms were not the tales they once were; they had all but vanished from Hamelin, their sightings rare enough to be spoken of as mere legend, fabricated with half-truths and hushed superstition. Centuries had passed since the last phantom appeared—since the Siege, as they called it, that final, blood-stained stand where the king's battalions clashed against the sorcerer's firstborn legions. The Siege had claimed hundreds, and they said the battle itself was so fierce that the souls of the slain haunted the land for years, caught between realms in the wake of such horror.

The old texts whispered that Hamelin's dead now chose their own peace or concealment, whether for safety or some deeper fear of being seen, to guard themselves from the living, to haunt only the minds of those who knew to seek them. Yet here, tonight, a ghost had crossed into my world, and that same ancient chill that had terrified Hamelin's people now sent cold fingers of dread up my spine.

I swallowed my gasp as I forced myself to stay silent. In Hamelin, to witness a ghost was rare, but to do so without fear meant madness, a challenge to the natural order. Perhaps what I saw was a trick of light? A figment of fear?

The figure drifted, its presence an evident contradiction to my deluded reasoning, towards Martha's bedside table, lingering there for a few haunting moments before dissolving into mist. Another gasp threatened to escape, nerves on edge, yet I dared not cry out—the risk of discovery was too great to hazard for a phantom.

I stared at the empty space, thoughts adrift and tangled. All those tales of the restless dead—legends I'd once dismissed without a second thought—suddenly felt far less like idle talk. No one would believe this. But I saw it with my own eyes; of that, I swear.

My feet walked the distance to where the ghost last stood; by Marthas beside desk. A cold prickling swept through my fingers as I grasped the worn brass knob and eased open the top drawer. Inside lay a stack of letters, some brittle with age, others still crisp, all bearing the same mysterious crest: TADS. From the ink-streaked parchment dated over the past decade to the sealed envelope from mere days ago, every letter addressed that same unidentified authority—a silent, watching power just beyond my reach.

A single slip of parchment dropped from the stack—a progress report, my progress report. Attached to it was a thin, folded letter, marked with my full name in stern handwriting:

Rowena Aster Craft, it read.

I felt my heart squeeze as I unfolded the letter. The words leapt out in sharp, unforgiving strokes.

"...insufficient aptitude... inadequate control of elemental magics... unlike her peers, she struggles to manifest even the simplest conjurations without lapsing into instability. Rowena Aster Craft remains far beneath the standards set by the kingdom. Without significant improvement, she lacks the strength to even pass through the Academy's gates..."

The words mocked me, stripping away the slivers of confidence I had carefully built. There, on the parchment, it was laid bare: my inability, my insufficiency. The undeclared truth.

"... until she gains control over her own powers, Rowena cannot be trusted with the proficiency she claims to seek," it concluded, a final, damning blow.

I skimmed the rest of the contents, and my throat tightened. Each letter bore updates—callous assessments of my own powers, phrasing me as "highly volatile" and "dangerously unprepared." Martha's writing spoke of me, dismissing my ambitions and musing that I'd be sent to the Academy "when the time is right" and "my position here is made secure."

A hot rush of anger boiled within me, surging as I saw my own life laid out in cold, calculating ink. To Martha, I was nothing more than a pawn, a duty to be borne and, when convenient, discarded.

I snatched the unfinished letter from the desk and slipped from the room, the keys jumping in the pocket of my cloak.

An eruption of celebration reverberating through the gilded walls of the Mage Quarters as the final chants ended, I slid the keys under the door to the chamber-servants quarters and retreated to my chamber. From the window I saw Vae aglow with honour beside the Head Mage herself, wearing a mask of elegance and calm. Envy crept into my vision but so did resolve, violence could not answer my ill fate, but revenge might.

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The first sound to rouse me was the unceremonious crash of books striking the wooden floor, followed by the grating clatter of a broom against shelves.

I shot upright, my breath caught between dreams and waking. The golden slant of dawn bled through the thin curtains, illuminating the sharp figure of Elka, my old maid Elka muttered curses under her breath, dusting the spines with careless vigor and tossing a tome or two to the floor as she waged a futile war against the dust.

"The breakfast bell tolled an hour ago." Elka barked, "Get up and make yourself presentable before the Head Mage turns that tongue of hers on me next."

I scrambled upright, still tangled in my quilt. "An hour? Elka, why didn't you wake me?"

She let out a huff that spoke volumes. "Why indeed? Shall I carry you down to the table as well, Your Grace? Perhaps feed you morsels by hand while you lounge under the sunlight?" Her wiry frame stooped as she grabbed another book and slapped its cover against the shelf. Dust billowed like smoke from her assault. "You live like a hedge witch's feral child. And now look—I'm breaking my back, and for what? That stubborn streak of yours?"

I sat up, rubbing sleep from my eyes. My mind was a river clogged with silt, and for a fleeting moment, I missed Juniper—the maid whose kind eyes and gentle hands had once eased my mornings. But that life was gone, and so was Juniper. "I was studying," I mumbled, though the books she scattered had long been abandoned. My dreams the night before had been far more haunting than words on parchment.

I swung my legs over the bed, the cold floor jarring against my skin. Her words stung, but I pushed them aside. Elka had always been sharp-tongued, though I suspected her barbs came more from a place of care than cruelty, after all only she suspected of the Head Mage's cruelty beyond her poised façade.

"Elka, must you toss every book I own to the ground?" I muttered rising from the cot.

"If you'd clean once in a fortnight, I wouldn't need to," she snapped, her voice following behind me, punctuating her point by hurling a particularly hefty tome into the growing pile. "This shelf's more cobweb than knowledge."

Ignoring the maid's grumbling, I stumbled toward the basin, its tarnished brass reflecting the warped silhouette of my weary face. It was cold to the touch as she splashed water onto her face, willing herself to wake fully, but the mentioned of the Head Mage was enough to pull me out of my initial sleep. The mirror above the basin was cracked, its fractured surface distorting my features. I couldn't bear to look too closely—it was easier to see myself in fragments.

My eyes fell on my apprentice cloak hanging neatly by the mirror—a dull green garment marked with patches where it had been mended, faded to a drab shadow of its former self. The Head Mage had ensured I would remain exactly here—an apprentice in name and nothing more.

Like a bird caged in its own feathers.

My grip on the basin tightened, knuckles whitening. For a brief moment, my reflection seemed to sneer at me, but I pushed the thought away. The sting of humiliation was nothing compared to the fire in her chest. This was no longer merely father's dream—it was my chance at escape.

As I straightened my uniform, I reached for the Celosia vine beneath the sink. Yesterday, its scarlet leaves had glistened with vitality, but now the edges had curled, darkened, and wilted. I reached for the last healthy leaf, cradling it between my fingers, its fragility mirrored my own. Its soft veins pulsed faintly, almost as if alive. Carefully, I tucked it into the folds of my satchel —a silent plea for luck

When I stepped back into the room, Elka had begun piling books haphazardly back onto the shelves. "Useless girl, you'll never get anywhere leaving a mess like this behind," she muttered, half to herself.

I slung my satchel over my shoulder, the weight of it a familiar comfort, and pushed two envelopes inside—a secret nestled among my notes.

"Elka," I said, pausing by the door.

"What now?"

"I'm sorry about Juniper." The words were soft, almost swallowed by the quiet of the room. Elka snorted, waving her off with a dismissive gesture, but a flicker of sorrow softened her eyes.

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The morning air carried the faint, persistent chill of early spring, a biting reminder that the frost of winter had not yet fully surrendered to the season's renewal. I made my way down the spiraling hallways, my boots tapping against worn stone, stained by the touch of time, the smell of freshly baked bread wafted faintly from the dining hall. As I hastened toward the main passage, a familiar figure appeared at the bend. Vae stood waiting near the garden arches, her dark cloak casting her in shadow, though the crimson badge at her collar glinted like a drop of freshly spilt blood. She seemed a figure out of some noble tale, destined for glory, and the sight made my stomach churn.

"Aster!" Vae exclaimed, wide-eyed. "I thought—" She hesitated, searching my face. "I thought you'd gone and fled in the night. You missed breakfast."

I would in a heartbeat I craved to answer but I masked my discomfort with a shrug. "Fled?" I gave a wry laugh. "And abandon this haven of delight and opportunity? Never."

Her brows knit together, her expression doubtful. "You jest too easily, Aster. One day, I'll not be able to tell when you're truly in trouble."

I waved her worry away and offered her a grin, though my chest tightened at the truth buried in her words. "You know me better than that, Vae." Vae didn't seem convinced but dropped the subject, her features softening into a grin as my gaze fell to the gleaming red badge pinned to her black cloak.

"You're officially a mage now," I pointed with bittersweet pride.

She hesitated at the statement, then reached out to clasp my hand. "Today is my last day in these halls," she said softly. "By nightfall, I'll move to the mage towers."

I hadn't anticipated it to be so soon. Without Vae, the mage quarters would feel emptier than ever, and the weight of Martha's cruelty would grow unbearable. I managed a tight smile. "The towers," I echoed. "You'll finally see the halls of greatness."

Her hand squeezed mine, her grip firm. "And you'll join me there soon. I know you will." I burned to include her in my grand plan of escape, to ease her worries, but my fear of the repercussions drowned any further longing.

"Soon." I agreed, and the reality of the statement kept me afloat.

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