The morning after the beam painted the sky red, everything changed — but in ways that had no name.
No one sounded alarms. No headmaster called an assembly. But the world inside Glaethwyn Academy felt as though it were holding its breath.
Whispers brewed like tea in every corridor.
"Did you see it?"
"That light—like blood splitting the heavens."
"It's a sign. The Prophecies… they weren't stories after all."
The oldest students muttered of buried lore.
The younger ones looked for monsters under their beds.
The instructors said nothing — their silence speaking volumes.
And the new arrivals? They were the center of it all.
Avenya stayed quiet. She always had.
Even before the dreams. Even before the red sky and the whispering stars.
She wore a borrowed cloak too large for her and stuck close to the edge of the stone paths, head down. But the way her gaze scanned the world—it was measured, as if she already knew where dangers would strike.
She passed by Zerina one morning on the way to the training yards. The flame-touched girl stood in meditation, palms extended, lips silently moving.
Avenya paused.
Not out of curiosity, but because the magic in the air trembled between them.
Zerina opened her eyes.
They locked eyes. One heartbeat. Two.
Then Avenya looked away.
"You feel it too," Zerina said softly, not as a question.
Avenya didn't answer. She just kept walking.
Kaelara had claimed the overgrown garden behind the lecture halls.
Where others saw wild bramble, she saw a second home. A place without rules, without judging stares.
Her wolf, Ashbane, was always near—watchful, restless.
One afternoon, while Kaelara was trimming a vine with a dagger and humming to herself, Calla wandered in.
She wore a silk blouse too fine for this terrain and looked thoroughly annoyed by the buzzing insects.
"This is… not the greenhouse I was promised," Calla muttered, swatting a bug.
Kaelara turned slowly, her grin toothy and half-wild.
"Didn't your servants pack bug repellent, princess?"
Calla straightened.
"I'm not a princess."
"No? You smell like roses and entitlement."
"And you smell like dog."
"Wolf," Kaelara said coolly, standing.
Ashbane rose beside her.
Calla blinked, momentarily unsure if the creature was going to lunge.
Instead, Kaelara chuckled and sheathed her dagger.
"Relax. I'm not a monster. Unless provoked."
"You're one of the new girls," Calla said, collecting herself.
"And you're one of the old ones."
"Not that old."
A pause. Then, surprisingly—smiles.
A flicker of recognition, like two puzzle pieces brushing, unsure if they fit.
That evening in the courtyard, Serenya found herself surrounded.
She'd just hexed a smug noble boy with a beetle-burping curse after he called her "stain-blood."
Now three of his friends circled her.
"Wild dog," one spat.
"Backwater brat," said another.
"You'll regret touching the pureborn."
Serenya smirked.
"I regret nothing but listening to you breathe."
The punch came fast—but so did Zerina, who stepped between them without a word.
Her flame-marked fingers lifted and glowed faintly.
The attackers stilled.
"You want to fight?" Zerina said, voice like cracking coals. "Then try."
They hesitated. Then scattered.
Serenya exhaled. "I had it under control."
"Of course you did," Zerina said, brushing past her. "But next time, hit harder."
Later that week, an orientation for the new students brought the five girls—unintentionally—into the same room.
Not alone, of course. The lecture hall was packed. But fate pulled threads quietly.
They sat at different corners of the chamber. None acknowledged the others directly.
But Avenya, seated at the back, watched.
She felt it again—those sparks in her blood. The pull. The strange ache in her chest when Zerina tilted her head, when Calla sat with perfect posture, when Kaelara kicked her boots onto the desk, and when Serenya laughed too loudly at something not funny.
Something in her recognized them.
And something in them stirred when she looked their way.
Even if they didn't know why.
Between classes, the academy's social tiers became visible.
The Heir Circle ruled the lounges — children of dukes, guildlords, and archmages.
Their leader, Taron Veylor, eyed the new girls with disdainful interest.
"That forest girl walks like a beast."
"The red-haired one burned a curtain yesterday."
"That loud one has no table manners."
"And that quiet girl in grey—what's her name? She looks... dangerous."
His friends laughed.
But not all the laughter was cruel. Some was... fascinated.
Especially when Avenya passed through.
Heads turned. Not because she was loud or royal—but because her presence bent the air.
That night, Serenya lingered by the moonwell—a fountain that showed the sky's reflection clearer than any mirror.
She stared at her face.
"What are you hiding?" she whispered, brushing her fingertips across the water.
Behind her, Calla approached, surprisingly gentle.
"Couldn't sleep?"
Serenya startled. "You? Out here?"
"Looking for peace," Calla said. Then added, "And maybe... answers."
A long silence.
They didn't know each other. But the night made honesty easier.
"Do you ever feel like you're more than what they told you you are?" Serenya asked.
Calla's eyes shimmered.
"Every single day."
Beneath the academy, ancient rooms began to wake.
Crystals flickered. Symbols lit. The warded walls of the sealed kingdom pulsed once.
The Queens were gathering.
Not as rulers.
Not yet as warriors.
But as girls — drawn together by coincidence, friction, and moments that lingered.
Avenya walked the halls late, her boots echoing.
Somewhere nearby, Kaelara's wolf howled.
Elsewhere, Zerina's fingers sparked in her sleep.
Calla dreamt of a castle she'd never seen.
Serenya woke with fire on her breath.
They didn't know each other yet.
But magic did.
Magic always knew.