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When I opened my eyes, the air hit me like a wave of smoke, thick and clinging to my skin. The world outside the cottage window was cloaked in an unnatural stillness. Shadows danced across the scorched ground, the once-vibrant greenery reduced to a blackened wasteland. The acrid tang of charred wood and smoldering leaves assaulted my senses, and the heat still radiating from the earth pricked at my skin like a lingering ember.

My breath caught in my throat. I stumbled to my feet, my gaze locked on the devastation I had wrought. Where vibrant life had flourished just hours ago, now lay a swath of death—a cruel testament to my magic's ferocity. The vine-laden trees were skeletal silhouettes, their leaves withered to ash. Even the hardy moss that clung to the stones beneath my feet had shriveled and turned to dust.

My heart pounded, a rhythm that felt more like a dirge than anything alive. I took a trembling step forward, my boots crunching against the brittle remains of what had once been a lush meadow. Guilt surged through me like a flood. What have I done?

The sound of slow, deliberate applause cut through the stillness, sharp and jarring. I turned, my cheeks flushed with shame and anger. The Headmistress stood in the doorway of the now half-charred cottage, her imposing frame backlit by the flickering remnants of an extinguished fire. Her expression was one of tempered approval, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at her lips.

"Impressive," said the Headmistress, her voice smooth and relentless as polished stone. "It has been many years since I've beheld such unbridled power."

I opened my mouth to protest, to deny any sense of pride or accomplishment, but the words caught in my throat. I cast my gaze downward, unable to meet her penetrating eyes.

"You must learn to temper it, of course," she continued, stepping forward with deliberate grace, her boots crunching the blackened earth. "Raw magic is as a tempest—magnificent, yes, but perilous in its wrath. The Southlands shall demand control of you, not chaos."

"The Southlands?" I whispered, the words trembling on my lips. "You mean... I am to journey there?"

She inclined her head, her expression steady. "On the morrow. For now, rest, child. You shall require your strength." She gestured to the charred staircase within the cottage. "Go on. Upstairs."

"But—" I hesitated, my mind racing. "The letters... the ones I found in Martha's chambers... They spoke of—"

"Ah, yes," she interrupted, a knowing glint in her eye. "The letters detailing your supposed inadequacies. They were most enlightening. Martha was thorough in her observations—and her underestimations."

My chest tightened, a mixture of humiliation and anger rising within me. "You've read them?"

"You've read them?" I asked, my voice low, torn between humiliation and fury.

"Indeed," she replied coolly. "They portrayed a girl unfit for the path of sorcery, but they spoke little of the strength now standing before me. Even the prince, with all his lineage, needed a year at least to discover his song."

Before I could respond, her expression softened slightly, her gaze turning toward a branch above. There, perched with an air of casual superiority, was the raven. Its dark feathers shimmered faintly in the dying light, and it tilted its head as if to regard the scene with bemused detachment.

"Your letter to TADS was received," the Headmistress remarked. "The raven guided me here. A curious creature."

My stomach dropped. I'd forgotten in the chaos that I'd sent a reply to TADS. Shame and confusion twisted inside me, but the raven offered no explanation—only a low croak of amusement as it fluttered down to perch on my shoulder.

"Don't drift off too soon," the bird rasped, its tone laden with mischief. "You snore like a bear in winter."

My face burned crimson. "I do not!" I shot back, my voice rising in indignation.

A warm laugh echoed from above, and I turned sharply to see Cyrus leaning against the banister at the top of the stairs, his golden hair catching the faint glow of the embers outside. "Actually," he said, his tone teasing, "you do. Remember after the shadowmantle attack? You could have woken the dead."

"That was—" I stammered, my embarrassment deepening. "That was different!" I pushed past him, my shoulder brushing his as I made my way to the cot. "You're insufferable."

"And you're exhausted," he called after me, his teasing softened by a note of concern. "Rest, Aster."

I sank onto the cot, the weight of the day pressing heavily on me. My body ached, the effort of wielding so much magic leaving me hollow and frayed. Yet before sleep could claim me, Cyrus spoke once more.

"Do you wonder what they're speaking of?" he mused, his gaze drifting toward the murmured voices below.

The raven flapped its wings and hopped onto the windowsill beside him. "I'll find out," it said with a smirk in its voice, taking flight before I could protest.

"Wait," I said suddenly, turning to Cyrus. "You were speaking to Martha earlier. What was that about?"

Cyrus's expression shifted, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he dismissed my question with a wave. "Nothing of importance," he said lightly. "But congratulations are due—you've found your song. Not as grandly as I, perhaps, but it suffices."

I raised an eyebrow. "Headmistress mentioned it took you a year to prove you had any magical capability as a sorcerer."

He laughed. "Fair enough. Though truth be told, you've been proving it for sixteen years—you just didn't realize it."

Despite myself, I allowed a small smile. His easy demeanor was infectious, even as my thoughts turned bittersweet. "Vae... and my father," I murmured, my voice barely audible.

His smile softened, his sharp perception catching the shadow in my tone. "Once you pass the Piper's Test and complete your lessons, you shall be free to wander the kingdom as you will. That, I promise."

The weight of his words settled over me. "You sound so certain," I said softly, almost to myself.

"Because I am," he replied, his voice steadier than I expected. "You've strength enough to shape your own path."

The melody that had played in my ears earlier returned, soft and haunting. My eyes fluttered shut, the exhaustion finally pulling me under. Somewhere in the haze of half-sleep, I thought I heard Cyrus's voice again, a low murmur blending with the song.

"Goodnight, Aster," he said, but I was already adrift in the sound of that haunting refrain.

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The hours slipped by in a haze. Though exhaustion weighed heavily on me, sleep remained elusive. My mind raced with questions—about the Headmistress, about Martha, and about the power I had unleashed. The cottage creaked in the silence, the faint crackle of remaining embers whispering their own secrets.

I awoke to the faint clatter of voices downstairs, fragments of conversation carried up through the warped floorboards. At first, I thought it was the raven returning, but the cadence was different—hushed, deliberate. The voices were unmistakably the Headmistress and Martha.

The memory of the Headmistress's words mingled with Cyrus's promise from the night before. A sharp curiosity burned in me. What was being discussed? And what role did I truly play in this web of politics and power?

Slipping out of bed, I made my way to the staircase, pressing close to the shadows. Cyrus was nowhere to be seen; his window perch was empty, and the raven had not yet returned. I leaned against the banister, careful not to creak the wood beneath my weight, and strained to hear the exchange below.

"...too dangerous to ignore," Martha's voice hissed. "You're gambling with forces you barely comprehend."

The Headmistress replied with measured calm. "And yet it was your oversight that brought her to this moment. If she fails, the consequences will lie squarely at your feet."

I couldn't help but bristle, what was the headmistress threating Martha for? The sharp sting of resentment mingled with the desire to understand. What stakes had they placed upon me without my consent?

The conversation grew quieter, their words swallowed by the thick stone walls. I turned back toward the cot, a thousand questions churning in my mind. What would the Southlands demand of me? And how far had Martha gone to ensure I was molded into something I didn't fully understand?

A soft rustle from the open window drew my attention. The raven had returned, its beady eyes glinting with secrets. "They were speaking of you," it croaked, settling onto the bedframe with a knowing look.

"What of me?" I demanded, my voice sharper than I intended. I was tired of being kept in the dark, of being a pawn in games I couldn't see.

But the raven only clicked its beak, offering no further explanation. Its silence, infuriating as it was, told me enough.

I turned the knob to the room and wandered outside, my feet leading me toward the remains of the meadow. Moonlight spilled across the desolation, painting it in shades of silver and shadow. The sight was hauntingly beautiful—a reminder of both the destruction I'd caused and the raw potential within me.

I knelt by one of the withered trees, running my fingers over its scorched bark. The once-verdant life that pulsed through it was gone, reduced to nothingness. Yet, as I sat there, the faintest hum stirred beneath my fingertips. It was weak and fleeting, but it was there—a heartbeat of resilience.

"Will it return?" I whispered to the night, not expecting an answer.

The raven's voice cut through the stillness. "Perhaps. If you learn to wield your song without silencing others."

I glanced up to find the bird perched on a charred branch, its eyes gleaming in the moonlight. Its words struck a chord within me, echoing the Headmistress's earlier admonitions.

"I didn't mean to destroy it all," I said, my voice tinged with regret. "I didn't even know I could."

"And yet you did," the raven replied. "The question is not what you meant to do, but what you will choose to do now."

I stared at the bird, its cryptic wisdom both infuriating and oddly comforting. I wanted to argue, to demand answers, but I held my tongue. Perhaps it was right—perhaps I had to decide what came next.

Returning to the cottage, I found Cyrus waiting near the hearth, his expression pensive. "Couldn't sleep either?" he asked, offering me a small smile.

I shook my head, settling into the chair across from him. "Too many thoughts."

He nodded, poking at the dying embers with a stick. "The Southlands will give you clarity. They gave me mine."

"Were you afraid?" I asked softly.

He hesitated, his gaze distant. "Terrified. But fear is what pushes us to grow. You'll see."

For the first time that night, a sliver of hope stirred within me. Tomorrow, I would face the unknown. And perhaps, just perhaps, I would find my place within it.

Night fell, and the cottage grew quiet. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as the melody from earlier played faintly in my ears, a haunting reminder of the power that now defined me. Tomorrow, the Southlands awaited, and with them, the answers I so desperately sought.

For the first time that night, a sliver of hope stirred within me. Tomorrow, I would face the unknown. And perhaps, just perhaps, I would find my place within it.

For now, all I could do was close my eyes and let the melody carry me to sleep once more.

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