Feralynn walked down the empty hallway. Despite everything, she was content. Hopeful. Hopeful that she might see her father again, even if only in memories. Painful or not, she wanted to remember everything her mind had erased to protect her.

  She knew there would be anguish, nightmares, wounds she hadn’t even discovered yet. But it didn’t matter. Romina would be there. And for the first time in a long while, Feralynn knew she wasn’t alone.

  Determination.

  That’s what she’d called it. That’s what pulled her out of the trenches when everything collapsed; that’s what held her up while the world burned around her. She wasn’t the strongest, nor the smartest. Not even the luckiest. Her only real talent was falling seven times—only to rise eight more.

  The runs through forests until her muscles screamed for mercy, the sniper training, the knife fights under moonlight, the first fire bullets fired alongside her father… each exercise had planted a seed of endurance within her.

  The vengeance that once drove her—that unsatisfied thirst to destroy everyone who reminded her of what she’d lost—had begun to change from that day on. She was tired of living fueled by hate, by the constant need to break, tear, burn.

  She wanted to sleep, for once in her damned young life, without nightmares of screaming soldiers or buildings being bombarded. She had so much now: Mom, Annya, Romina. No more war. No more enemies. No more excuse to live with a rifle in her hands.

  But the buried memories remained. And she’d do whatever it took to learn how to live with them—to rebuild the life stolen from her as a child. She’d do it for him, so that his soul—wherever it was—would know that everything he’d taught her had been worth it.

  She descended the stairs with steady steps. The echo of her boots thudded softly, matching her breathing. She crossed the empty hall toward the exit; her new goal was to catch a bus to the city center. Mom would be working, and Mrs. Oak couldn’t come pick her up.

  Fer kept walking, eyes down, watching how the floor reflected the snow of the past… until she ran into the snow of the present.

  “Blackwood?”

  That voice. That frosty formality cracked by genuine curiosity. Fer turned her head slowly. Miria was there, her white backpack perfectly fitted over both shoulders.

  “What are you doing alone so late in the castle?” asked the white-haired girl, as neat as ever.

  Fer’s red eyes blinked quickly. For an instant she thought she saw the bandages over the noble’s face—fleeting visions of guilt that still haunted her. Miria tilted her head, intrigued by how lost she looked. Fer tried to speak but only managed to stammer incoherently.

  “I… ah… y-you… what are you doing here?” she babbled, frozen before the one she had nearly killed… who remembered none of it.

  Miria took a step forward. Fer stepped back on instinct.

  “I was practicing archery in the arena.” She frowned, sniffing the air. “Tobacco, seriously? In school? Your lungs are going to rot, you idiot.”

  Blushing, Fer stepped back again. She searched for something sarcastic to throw back, some sharp joke to defend herself—but only stammered, dumbstruck. Miria raised her eyebrows, intrigued by the sight.

  “Are you okay?” Another step forward; another inch of distance erased between them. “You don’t look like yourself. You’re rarely without Oak.”

  “N-no… I mean, yes!” Fer groaned, covering her face. “Forget it, I’m just leaving—”

  “Wait!”

  Feralynn’s black boots stopped dead. She turned slightly, looking at her over her shoulder. Every part of her body wanted to flee, to hide, to vanish before facing her again. Guilt still burned in her knuckles; the memory of her fists striking that face made her want to run.

  “What do you want…?” she asked in a low, pained voice.

  Miria blinked, surprised by the obvious vulnerability radiating from her.

  “To talk to you.”

  “We’ve got nothing to talk about, Frosty.”

  “That’s exactly why I want to, Blackie.”

  Feralynn clenched her jaw. She turned fully to face her. Miria arched a brow and smiled—that half-arrogant curve that always balanced challenge and curiosity—one hand resting on her hip.

  “Don’t you want to walk through the gardens? Come on, relax. I don’t bite. At least not that hard.”

  The knot in Feralynn’s throat stole any reply. Maybe out of guilt, or maybe out of a quiet need for redemption, she nodded without a word. Seeing Miria behave like that was out of this world. Since when she gained so much confidence? Perhaps it's what she awakens in her, that desire to not be a porcelain swan in front of an ashen crow.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  They descended the stairs, keeping between them a silent, mutual distance—understood without being said. They walked together toward the great doors leading to the castle’s rear courtyard.

  There, where ice with no memory would meet—unknowingly—the fire loaded with sin.

  ...

  Romina kept smoking on the balcony. The nearly empty pack weighed more than the day’s exhaustion. Then she heard it: the sharp, steady rhythm of heels echoing down the hall. She didn’t need to turn. She knew that cadence, that precision—she could recognize it anywhere in the world.

  The classroom door opened, and another elven woman, her blond hair tied back with surgical neatness, stepped through the threshold.

  “Smoking’s forbidden on campus.”

  Astera didn’t raise her voice. Arms crossed, she observed the back of her former classmate—and now colleague. Her eyes scanned the room with near-military instinct, gauging the density of mana in the air that only a trained mage could perceive.

  “You used your Final Style with her. Interesting.” she remarked, not bothering to hide her reproach. “You don’t usually apply that level of spellwork in your first psychopedagogical sessions.”

  Romina said nothing. She only shrugged, exhaled another plume of smoke, and looked toward the golden crowns of the trees swaying in the wind. Astera sighed, removing her glasses and saving them in her pocket. She walked toward her with measured steps.

  “I imagine you saw quite a lot.”

  She stopped beside her colleague. The breeze lifted both their hair, tangling it in a silence that smelled of nicotine and melancholy. Romina offered her a cigarette; Astera declined with a swat and a grimace.

  “Hey, Astie…” Romina began softly. “Remember that Halloween party we threw in the abandoned house during senior year?”

  The headmistress smiled faintly, her eyes drifting to the same trees they had once covered in toilet paper and colored foam.

  “We dressed as pirates,” the blond elf recalled. “I had to hold your hair while you puked the pink fairy liquor we snuck in.”

  Both laughed, letting smoke and memory blend in the air. For an instant, they were teenagers again.

  “So, what brings you here, boss?” Romina asked, regaining composure between chuckles. “Worried about your fiery prodigy? I doubt it’s my health you’re concerned about.”

  Astera shrugged, still with arms crossed.

  “When you’ve got a girl of that caliber, you take precautions.” The professional tone replaced nostalgia. “How bad was it?”

  “A lot of work ahead,” Romina whistled, resigned. “But we started off well. More than I expected. Maybe in six to ten months she’ll have healed enough that the accident won’t repeat. I’m grateful she’s willing to cooperate; few teenagers last more than three months under my spell. She’s special.”

  She turned her wrist, revealing the golden seal of oath etched into her skin.

  “You swore a pact with her,” Astera observed—not surprised, but tinged with respect. “You care for her.”

  “And you’re afraid of her.”

  “...”

  The headmistress frowned almost imperceptibly, she put on her glasses and shifted her gaze toward the garden paths where the wind moved the cherry blossoms.

  “You know,” Romina continued with a mischievous half-smile, “I could offer you therapy sessions to help you get over Blake.” She winked. “Though those wouldn’t be free.”

  Astera snorted, rolling her eyes with wounded dignity.

  “Seriously, Astie, you haven’t changed in the slightest. You’re married, two kids, a businessman husband—why is it still so hard to let go of the school’s bad boy?”

  Silence dropped like a slab. Only the murmur of wind and leaves filled the pause. Romina instantly realized she’d gone too far.

  “Hey… sorry, guess that was too—”

  “Blake wasn’t just a high-school crush,” Astera interrupted, her voice low, heavy with memory. “He helped me when no one else could. Saved my life countless times when we joined the Spellborne in our first Rank-A missions. He was like a brother to me.”

  The silence returned, gentler this time. From the balcony, they could see Feralynn and Miria walking along the polished stone paths of the garden.

  “She wants to enter this year’s Elemental Tournament,” Romina said, eyes fixed on them. “Think she could make it if she keeps improving with me? Believe me, my lioness has claws. She’s braver than most grown mages I’ve ever met.”

  Astera was about to answer—but a high-pitched voice interrupted from below.

  “Only if our dear little demon girl improves~!”

  Smiley appeared, floating beneath the balcony, singing in delight.

  “AAHH—!”

  THWACK!!!

  “Woohohoho~! I’m flying~!”

  The reflex was instant: startled by the sudden appearance, Romina delivered a kick so fast and precise the sound echoed into the forest—loud enough for even Feralynn and Miria to hear it.

  The poor headmaster chuckled through his mask as he fell, until a dull thud in the bushes marked the end of his flight. Astera and Romina exchanged simultaneous blinks of disbelief. They leaned over, worried.

  A wooden hand emerged from the foliage, followed by a pained voice.

  “I’m fine!”

  Both women performed a synchronized facepalm. They still couldn’t believe how absurd the supposed most powerful mage in the kingdom could be.

  “So?” Romina asked, tone unchanging. “Do I have your blessing, General?”

  Astera bit the inside of her cheek before answering.

  “What he said. I want weekly reports and private self-control tests—no audience, no staff. Just her and training dummies. And don’t think that just because you care about her, I’ll make it any easier.”

  Romina nodded, satisfied despite the tough conditions. They remained silent for a moment longer, enjoying the view. Then she noticed something unusual: a small smile forming on the headmistress’s usually stern face.

  “Even if Blake did what he did…” Romina murmured, “he was a good father.”

  Astera didn’t reply. She simply lowered her eyes.

  Smiley floated back up to the balcony edge—slower this time—and carefully sat beside them. The three stayed there, watching the sunset, looking down at the two young girls walking together in the breeze.

  For a fleeting moment, the three adults—a kind therapist, a sentimental headmistress, and an immortal jester—shared the same silent thought: that this new generation deserved a different ending.

  ?