Echo fluttered toward me, her wings glimmering with soft light that danced across my walls.
She hovered just above my dresser, her legs crossed mid-air like she'd done it a thousand times.
Grumpy stood beside her with arms folded, glaring like I had just ruined his entire evening.
"You said I'm special," I began, still clutching my teddy bear like it was a shield. "What did you mean?" Echo glanced at Grumpy, who grumbled under his breath.
She sighed and looked back at me, her expression shifting to something more serious.
"You have the Mark," she said. "The… what?" "The mark on your back," she clarified. "That's not just a birthmark, Kiva.
It's ancient. Older than any of the magical creatures left in this world." I instinctively touched the spot where the strange mark burned whenever I got emotional.
It didn't hurt now, but it pulsed gently under my fingers, as if it heard her too.
"There's a prophecy," Echo continued. "A child born with the Mark of the Lost Bloodline.
A child who can see what others cannot. A child who can either save our world or destroy it."
My stomach turned. "Destroy it?" "That part is still… fuzzy," she admitted. Grumpy finally spoke. "You shouldn't even be here," he said with a scowl.
"You weren't supposed to awaken yet. And you certainly weren't supposed to see us."
"But I did," I said, more confident than I expected. "I've always seen things. Weird things.
Shadows that move, lights that no one else notices… creatures that vanish when I point them out." Echo nodded.
"That's the Sight. A gift—and a curse. It's how we knew you were the one." I sat down slowly, processing everything.
"So… what happens now?" Echo floated closer. "Now? Now you choose. You can pretend this never happened, go back to your normal life… and eventually, the mark will consume you from the inside out."
"Consume me?" I choked. "Magic cannot be denied," she said gently. "It grows wild in those who don't embrace it." "Or," Grumpy interrupted, "you can come with us.
Learn who you really are. Learn what your powers can do before someone else finds you—and uses you." I stared at them. Part of me still wanted to believe this was all a dream. But deep down, I knew it wasn't. I'd always been different. Now, I finally understood why. The following day dawned with a chill in the air, and I found myself standing before the tall, foreboding gates of my new school. Despite my initial hope that a fresh start might bring something akin to joy, reality proved less kind. The walls were grey, the halls too quiet, and the faces unfamiliar—none welcoming. Still, it was better than enduring the daily taunts at my previous school, those cruel words that had etched themselves into my memory like scars. That evening, seeking a moment of peace, I wandered into the garden behind our estate. The roses were in bloom, their petals heavy with dew, and the scent of lavender lingered in the cool air. I sank onto the grass, letting the silence wrap around me like a blanket. But just as I began to breathe more easily, a sudden, sharp pain tore through my back, so intense it forced a scream from my lips. The world spun around me, my vision darkening at the edges. I collapsed, gasping, nearly losing consciousness. Before everything faded, I caught sight of a line of black shapes on the garden fence—ravens. A dozen of them, their beady eyes fixed on me. The longer I stared, the more the pain crescendoed, until it became unbearable. Then—nothing. I awoke under sterile white lights, the beeping of machines steady in my ears. I had been rushed to the hospital, but to the doctors' confusion, no cause for my collapse could be found. No fever, no wounds, no abnormalities. Just pain—and fear. When I searched for my parents, I found only empty chairs. They hadn't come. That night, I cried quietly beneath the stiff sheets, feeling smaller than I had in years. The next morning, the door creaked open, and to my surprise, Grumpy and Echo appeared. Their presence was like a balm to my wounded spirit. Grumpy scolded the monitors and muttered about the 'sterile stink' of the hospital, while Echo tried to entertain me with shadows that danced across the walls. I smiled for the first time in days. Their visit lifted my spirits, and I momentarily forgot my longing. But tranquility never stayed long in my life. A week later, on a storm-lashed night, we were playing in my room when a strange tension suddenly crept in—an unsettling stillness, as if the world held its breath. Thunder cracked the sky, and the lights flickered. A knock echoed from downstairs—three measured raps, slow and deliberate. Curious and uneasy, I descended the staircase, the wood creaking beneath my feet. The storm outside howled against the windows, but all I could hear was the pounding of my heart. At the door stood a woman—tall, cloaked, and drenched by rain. I couldn't make out her features, but there was something eerily familiar about her silhouette. One of the maids answered and ushered her in without hesitation, and I watched as the woman walked with quiet purpose toward the study. Moments later, my mother appeared, her expression unreadable, and they slipped inside together, shutting the door behind them. Their hushed voices were lost behind thick walls, but I knew—something significant was being decided. The next morning, I awoke to news that would change my life: the mysterious woman was to be my new nanny. Her name was Margaret. My heart sank. I was fifteen. I didn't need a nanny. I needed parents who were present, who noticed me. Each new caretaker felt like a bandage slapped over a wound no one wanted to see. Resentment burned within me, and I greeted Nanny Margaret with cold silence and narrowed eyes. Yet, she didn't react with frustration. She met my bitterness with patience, and a soft kind of sadness in her eyes. In the days that followed, I tried to resist her presence, but she was persistent in the gentlest way. She listened when I spoke—truly listened—and didn't dismiss my thoughts as childish. Slowly, she began to fill the spaces my parents left hollow. She sat beside me when nightmares visited, brushed my hair with such care it nearly made me cry, and told me stories—not ordinary tales, but strange, beautiful ones filled with magic and old power. One quiet evening, I finally revealed the secret I had guarded so long—the scar on my back. It was shaped like a half-moon, dark and sometimes burning, especially when the ravens returned to perch on the garden fence. Nanny Margaret examined it gently, her fingers cool and steady. She didn't recoil. Instead, she smiled softly and said, "There are old ways to ease pain like this. You'll see." For the first time in a long while, I felt seen. Understood. One night, as Grumpy and Echo flitted in to visit, something shifted. Nanny Margaret entered the room unexpectedly, and I watched in shock as the color drained from their ethereal forms. Echo trembled, and Grumpy—usually defiant—took a protective step toward me. They could sense her. Worse, she seemed to sense them. She paused, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, and then said, "Kiva, dear, would you be kind enough to fetch the book I left downstairs?" Her tone was gentle, but there was steel beneath it. Grumpy looked at me with unspoken panic, but I obeyed, heading for the stairs.
As Kiva left the room to fetch the book Margaret had asked for, the door clicked softly shut behind her.
In an instant, Margaret's entire demeanor shifted.
Her spine straightened, her eyes sharpened, and the gentle, watchful presence she wore around Kiva hardened into something colder—commanding.
"I know you're here," she said sharply, voice low but laced with power.
Grumpy flickered into view first, arms still folded, but his usual scowl now tinged with guilt.
Echo followed, her wings fluttering nervously. "We didn't mean to cause trouble," she said quietly.
Margaret turned to face them fully. "You disobeyed direct orders. Both of you."
Grumpy grunted. "We didn't mean to disobey. We just—"
"You just what?" Margaret interrupted, her voice like steel wrapped in silk. "Decided the rules didn't apply to you anymore? You left the kingdom. You crossed into the mortal world without sanction, and you bonded with the girl."
Echo winced. "We didn't plan to bond. It just… happened. She saw us. She needed us."
Margaret's eyes narrowed. "That is not your decision to make."
"She was awakening," Grumpy muttered. "The mark was flaring. If we hadn't been there—"
"Then she would've come to me as she was supposed to!" Margaret snapped. For a breath, the storm outside seemed to answer her—thunder booming low and distant. "You risked everything. The veil, the laws, our safety—for what? A chance to play guardian?"
"We weren't playing," Echo said softly. "We were protecting her."
Margaret exhaled slowly, steadying herself. Her voice was cooler now, but no less firm.
"You were sent to observe. Nothing more. You know how delicate this is. The balance between realms is hanging by threads. And now the Mark has awakened early—because you interfered."
Silence fell.
"She's important," Echo whispered. "You know that."
"I trained both of you to recognize importance," Margaret said. "I know what she is. But you're not the ones who will guide her anymore."
Grumpy looked away. "So what, we're done? You're cutting us off?"
"No," Margaret said firmly. "When she's ready—when the time is right—she will come to Phoenix. That is where her real training begins. And when she arrives…"
She paused, gaze softening just slightly.
"You will see her again."
Echo's eyes shimmered. "Promise?"
Margaret gave a single, solemn nod. "I promise. But not before. She needs time. She needs to not know everything just yet. It's the only way she'll survive what's coming."
"I'm not heartless," Margaret said. "But I'm in charge. You'll report back to the Fairy Kingdom immediately. I'll deal with Kiva from here.
"Grumpy gave a reluctant nod. "Fine. But we'll be watching."
Echo hesitated, sorrow flickering across her tiny features. "Will you protect her?"
"I always have," Margaret said, softer now. "Even when no one else did."
She turned away, brushing a hand across the edge of the dresser. "Now go. Before she returns."
Grumpy muttered under his breath, but this time, he didn't argue. The two figures shimmered, then vanished.
When Kiva returned a moment later with the book, she found Margaret seated calmly in the armchair once more, smiling as though nothing had happened.When I returned with the book, my eyes scanned the room before I even realized I was doing it.
The far corner—empty.
The curtain rod above the window—no flicker of wings.
The dresser top—bare, no sign of Echo's glow or Grumpy's usual scowl.
They were gone.
I held the book a little tighter and stepped back inside. Nanny Margaret sat with the same calm grace, her hands folded neatly in her lap as if nothing had changed.
"Thank you, dear," she said, taking the book from my hands. "Now, where were we?"
I nodded mutely, sitting down beside her again. A question burned behind my lips, but something in her steady gaze made me hesitate. There was no sign of surprise, no indication that she had seen anything unusual in my absence. If she noticed my pause, she said nothing.
So I said nothing too.
But inside, my heart sank.
They wouldn't just leave. Not without a word. Not without saying goodbye. My fingers itched to call their names, to search again, but I forced myself to stay still. Maybe… maybe they had to go. Maybe this was part of the magic Echo had spoken of—the part that demanded silence, patience, and trust.
Still, a cold emptiness settled in my chest.
Margaret opened the book, her voice drifting into another story, something about a forgotten war between stars and sea spirits. I tried to listen, I really did. But all I could think about was the flicker of wings and the scent of moss and candlelight. The presence of friends I didn't know I needed until they were gone.
Even though I didn't understand it yet, something had changed. Something important.
And deep down, I knew I'd see them again.
Just… not yet.