The nightmare comes back like it never left.
Same shadows. Same silence pressing against my lungs. Same sense that I'm standing in front of something huge and ancient and listening—waiting for me to choose.
And like always, I never remember the choice.
And like always, I can't forget that I made one.
Sleep spits me out with the taste of ash on my tongue and blankets twisted around my legs like restraints. My heart is already racing, like I hit the ground running from a fall I don't remember starting. For a few seconds I don't know where I am—just that the ceiling above me feels too close, the air too thick, and my skin is wrong in that post-nightmare way where the body is here but the edges of you are still somewhere else.
I press my palm to my sternum and count my breaths.
One. Two. Three.
The room doesn't answer back. The world stays still. That should be comforting.
It isn't.
It's Saturday, but I'm not resting.
Northwood Academy waits.
Charms class—one of the few things I actually look forward to.
Mom used charms constantly at home, but she never taught me how. "Some things must be learned through living," she'd say, like lessons were wounds and I hadn't earned the scars yet. She'd say it with that half-smile that made it sound gentle, but it always landed like a boundary drawn in ink.
Every doorway in our house has a charm above it. Little bundles of dried herbs bound in twine, stems wrapped so tight they look like bones. Some are pretty enough to pass as cottagecore décor to an unsuspecting visitor. Some look like warnings nailed up in plain sight.
I remember the first one I touched.
Lavender, hung over my bedroom threshold. I thought it was decoration. I was seven and bored and wanted to "make it pretty." I tore it down, petals scattering across the floor like confetti.
My mother reacted like I'd set the house on fire.
She didn't yell. Didn't grab me. Didn't ground me. She just went very, very still. Then she looked at the empty doorway like someone had ripped the front door off and invited the whole world inside.
That night, she burned the lavender in the sink. The smoke made my eyes water. Hers stayed dry. She stood there in her robe, sleeves rolled up, hair loose and wild, watching it go to ash like she was performing a funeral.
She didn't replace it that evening.
The next morning, there were lilacs over the doors instead. Woven tighter. Hung higher. The twine was new. The knot was…different. More deliberate. Like she'd tied it the way you tie something you can't afford to lose.
I never confessed.
She never asked.
We both pretended the world hadn't shifted a fraction to the left.
Now, in Charms, twenty of us sit in a circle, chanting in low harmony. The classroom is one of Northwood's older rooms—stone walls and high windows, wooden beams so dark they drink light, shelves lined with jars that pretend to be harmless. Everything in here smells like beeswax and dried rosemary and old paper.
The air thickens, tingles—static crawling along skin, searching for a place to land. Beeswax candles drip slow tears into clay dishes. The stone floor drinks in every word like it's hungry.
My pendant rests in my palm.
A small silver crescent moon on a leather cord. The metal warmed by a lifetime of skin, and beneath the silver, a faint heavier weight that doesn't feel like metal at all—something dense, almost stubborn. Like it's holding a memory in its mouth and refusing to spit it out.
Grandmother Lottie's.
Irony is not lost on me.
"Focus your intent through the anchor," Professor Albright murmurs, walking the edge of the circle. Her voice is low and sure, the kind that could either lull you or gut you, depending on the word she chooses.
Her gaze skims over the others—Marissa biting her lip in concentration, Diego's brow furrowed like he's trying to bully the spell into behaving, Leah's eyes shut tight like she's praying rather than practicing.
Then her gaze catches on me.
I feel it land—like a wire pulled a little tighter.
The chant threads through the air, Old Greek mixed with something older that doesn't belong to any language I've seen on a page. We're weaving a simple ward into our chosen object: protection from minor curses, ill wishes, bad energy.
Basic stuff.
For everyone else.
For me, the power sits close to the surface, like it's been waiting for an excuse.
Heat gathers in my palm. Not burning—more like my skin has turned into a slow ember. The hair on my arms rises. My voice falls into rhythm, each word hooking into the next until they're less sounds and more…pressure. The chant stops feeling like something we're saying and starts feeling like something the room is saying through us.
Under my fingers, the crescent moon reacts.
Not visible, not to normal eyes. But the magic in the room leans toward it the way iron filings lean toward a magnet. I feel the charm's pattern forming—a braided ring spiraling inward, locking, layering. The ward should be a thin film. A coat. A barrier.
Mine sinks.
It doesn't sit on the surface.
It threads down into the metal like it's looking for something already inside it.
My breath catches.
For a second, it feels like the pendant recognizes the spell. Like it's been waiting for this exact shape. The sensation isn't gentle. It's intimate in a way that makes my skin tighten—like someone just stepped into my personal space without touching me.
Professor Albright pauses near my place in the circle.
Her eyes brighten in that way they do when she sees past performance into whatever's underneath. She always sees more. The woman radiates quiet I know what you did last ritual energy.
She hums softly. "Very good, Ms. Meyler."
Her pen scratches something into the leather-bound ledger she never lets out of her sight.
Top of the class. Again.
It isn't pride I feel.
It's hunger.
The closer I get to mastering charms, the sooner I'll be allowed to train without supervision. No more basic circles. No more being told which parts of myself I'm allowed to touch. No more smiling while instructors pretend they're not watching me more closely than everyone else.
No more waiting.
Mom's rule still echoes in my head:
If you want college, you finish Northwood. No excuses.
So I balance both lives. Mercy University during the week, Northwood on weekends, bookshop shifts jammed between—stitching two versions of myself into one breathless existence.
It's like jumping between parallel universes every forty-eight hours.
Magic is supposed to be simple here. White witchcraft. Healing. Protection. Blessings. The kind of magic that makes people think of herbal tea and moonlight and women in long skirts smiling kindly as they hand you crystals.
But there are other things I want to learn—things my family doesn't talk about.
Scrying. Blood memory. True names.
The forbidden shelves.
I've tried scrying in secret. Bowls of water hidden under my bed, dark glass buried in laundry, stolen mirrors angled just so. Shadows never form. Water refuses to tremble. The harder I stare, the worse my head hurts, like something behind my eyes is pushing back.
Like my mind is a door that's been barred from the inside.
But I keep trying.
Because Lottie could see everything.
Once.
And because waking up every night with ash on my tongue makes you start reaching for any tool that might pry the truth loose.
The chant winds down, our voices softening until the last syllable dissolves into candle smoke. The room exhales. The static eases off skin like it finally found somewhere to settle.
"Anchor complete," Professor Albright says quietly. "Do not remove those pendants for three days. They need time to fuse. If you do, the charm will not only fail, it may backfire."
A few students chuckle.
She doesn't.
Her gaze drifts back to me, and something flickers behind her eyes—calculation, not fear, but the kind of caution you use around sharp things.
"Meyler," she adds, too casually. "Stay a moment."
There it is.
That familiar sinking feeling—being singled out not because I failed, but because I succeeded too much.
Boots scrape stone, chairs drag, voices swell. Marissa rolls her eyes at her stubbornly non-glowing pendant. Diego blows out his candle with an overdramatic puff. Leah whispers that she swears hers hummed for a second.
Then they're gone, ghosts slipping through the heavy double doors.
I stay seated, thumb worrying the edge of my crescent.
"Relax," Professor Albright says once the room empties. "You look like I called you in for a disciplinary review."
"You only do that in your office," I say, trying for light.
Her mouth almost curves. Almost.
"True. You're not there. Which means this isn't trouble." A beat. "Not exactly."
Comforting.
She perches on the desk in front of mine, hands folded loosely around her notebook. In the candlelight, the silver in her hair glows.
"Your work is…accelerated," she says. "More than your marks show. When you anchor, the spell doesn't just sit on the surface. It sinks."
I swallow. "Is that bad?"
"It's…unusual." Her eyes soften. "Unusual is not bad. But it attracts attention."
My pulse jumps anyway.
"From who?"
Professor Albright's gaze doesn't flinch, but her voice goes quieter. "From people who pay attention to surges. To anomalies. To patterns that start repeating."
I think of the truck. The note. The timing. The way humiliation turned into a trigger like someone was testing my reaction.
My fingers tighten around the crescent.
"Especially as we move deeper into the season," she adds, carefully, like she's choosing words that won't echo wrong. "Some thresholds are…thinner when the world tilts toward heat."
Toward summer solstice.
Not spring equinox.
Not yet Chosen.
But the air still tightens in my lungs like it heard her say it.
My mind jumps straight to the invitation in my bag. Matte black. Silver ink. The emblem on the flap. The way it didn't feel mailed—it felt placed.
"Is this about the Masquerade?" I deflect.
She huffs a quiet laugh. "Child, I do not care what mortals wear to their dances. I mean older rhythms. Older…cycles."
My stomach knots.
I must not hide it well enough. Her gaze sharpens.
"You've been dreaming again," she says. "Since when?"
"Since always," I think.
Out loud: "A few weeks."
"Same pattern?"
"Same door," I admit. "Same…voice."
Her eyes narrow. "And the name you won't say unless you're cornered."
I go still. "What name?"
"Angela," she says dryly. "You are talented, but you are not yet difficult to read."
The crescent heats against my skin, like it agrees.
I let out a breath that feels like it scrapes my ribs. "Aetheria."
The word tastes like blood and snow.
Professor Albright's jaw tightens—just a flicker, but I catch it. Her gaze drops to my hand like she wishes she could pluck the sound back out of the air and crush it.
"That name does not belong in your mouth," she says quietly. "Not while you are still…a newer witch."
"It's in my head," I snap, sharper than I mean to. I soften my tone. "It's not like I went shopping for it. It's just…there. In my dreams."
Her gaze shifts to the pendant in my fist. "And when did you begin wearing that again?"
I freeze. "Again?"
"The crescent," she says. "You stopped wearing it last term. After the…incident with the sleep draught. You started again… possibly this spring. Why?"
I hadn't realized she'd noticed.
Of course she had.
"The nightmares got worse," I say. "Mom said it might help."
Something unreadable crosses her face at the mention of my mother. They've known each other for decades. There are conversations they've never let me near.
"Your grandmother's charm is old," she says. "Older than you. Older than this academy. It was crafted for a specific purpose."
"Protection," I recite automatically. "From 'the things that live between dreams.'"
Her eyes stay on mine. "Has it helped?"
I don't know how to answer that.
The nightmares haven't stopped. If anything, they've sharpened—less symbolic, more immediate. But every time I wake up gasping, clawing at my chest, the crescent is warm—never burning, never cold. Just…there. Holding me in the body I'm not sure is entirely mine.
"It keeps me here," I say finally. "Mostly."
"That is not nothing." She rises, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her skirt. "Be careful where you direct your hunger, Ms. Meyler. Power answers calls." A pause. "So do echoes."
"Echoes of what?" I ask.
Her eyes look very, very tired for one blink.
"Old vows," she says. "Old bargains. Old attention."
The last word lands like a weight.
I wonder if she knows about the scroll. The panel. The prophecy that sang through my bones like a song I almost recognized.
"Go," she says at last. "You'll be late for your next session. And Angela—"
"Yes?"
"If the dreams change," she says softly, "if you begin to see doors open instead of merely standing closed…come to me. Immediately. Do you understand?"
I nod, throat tight. "Yes, Professor."
She watches until I cross the threshold into the long, cool corridor, arches high above, lamps flickering like they can't decide if they want to stay steady.
Only then does she blow out the candles.
Only then does the charm at my throat flare hot, for just a heartbeat—as if it heard her warning and braced.
Later, in the academy's back garden, the air feels almost normal.
Almost.
The herb beds are overgrown in that deliberate witch way where "wild" means "exactly where it's supposed to be." Rosemary spills over low stone walls; sage fans out in silver-green waves; foxglove bells nod in the breeze like they know too much.
I sit on a worn bench under a fig tree, textbook open in my lap, notes scattered beside me. The pendant is cool now, its earlier warmth faded to a faint awareness—like a fingertip resting against my skin.
My phone vibrates against my thigh.
Cassie: are you hiding in witchy world again
I smile despite myself.
Me: Northwood Academy, respect the brand
Cassie: i will when they stop trying to recruit me via ominous dreams. how's charms?
Me: turned my necklace into a magical security system, my professor is suspicious. so business as usual
Dots blink.
Cassie :you feel loud today like standing next to an amplifier
Me: that's flattering and terrifying
Cassie: seriously be careful what you touch in there the walls echo
I glance at the Academy's stone façade—runes carved over windows, gargoyles that definitely move when nobody's looking.
"Yeah," I murmur. "No kidding."
Cassie: anymore door dreams?
My fingers hover.
Me: same one same guy same weird name
Cassie: Aetheria
Even typed, it thins the air.
Me: don't
Cassie: can't help it every time you dream it my head rings
My frown deepens.
Me: what do you mean rings
Cassie: like a bell or a knife depends on the night
Well, that's not horrifying at all.
Cassie: you know your grandmother tried to see my future once
I straighten so fast the bench creaks.
Me: what
Cassie: didn't i tell you? i was like eleven my mom took me to her for a reading your grandma lit three black candles looked at me and blew all of them out at once
My skin crawls.
Me: dramatic even for her
Cassie: she told my mom "this one's timeline isn't mine to touch" then she looked at the window like something was standing there
Yeah. That sounds exactly like Lottie.
Cassie: she stared so long i thought she'd stopped breathing
Me: what did you see
There's a long pause.
Cassie: you know when you look at a storm on the horizon and you know it's for you
Me: that's not an answer
Cassie: yeah it is
I scrub a hand over my face.
"I hate prophecy," I mutter.
The wind picks up, rustling the fig leaves. The light shifts as the sun slips behind a heavy cloud. For a second, everything in the garden feels…held.
Like someone pressed pause.
The pendant warms against my chest.
Not heat from my skin.
Heat like a response.
My phone buzzes again.
Cassie: maston's is dead. come rescue me. if i do one more reading for a girl asking if her ex is coming back i'm going to hex a latte
I huff a laugh.
Maston's is the little occult bookshop off Main where she works weekends. Technically "metaphysical supply store." In Lindsey Isle, labels are elastic.
Me: i thought you liked your job
Cassie: i like the books and the one knife under the counter not the customers
Cassie: also head's buzzing again feels like you're about to do something stupid
I look down at the crescent, now pulsing warm—cool—warm, like it can't decide whether to comfort me or warn me.
I think about the invitation in my bag, tucked between Academy notes and Mercy textbooks. About Albright's caution. About the hidden scroll. About the sea and the arena and the labyrinth and the girl who wasn't supposed to exist.
About how every nightmare returns to the same truth:
A door. A voice. A choice.
"Too late," I tell the pendant under my breath.
Then to Cassie:
Me: finish your shift i'll meet you at maston's i want to check something in the restricted section later
Cassie: if you touch the cursed mirror again i'm telling on you
Me: you'd have to explain why you knew it was cursed snitch
Cassie: touche hurry up
A beat.
Cassie: bookkeeper*
My heart lurches anyway—hard enough to hurt.
My fingers go numb around the phone.
Me: what
Cassie: autocorrect. also i'm stressed. move faster.
Me: you're lying
Cassie: then run faster
The pendant flares sharp and almost cold, like it's warning. Or agreeing. Or both.
The wind stirs again, and the garden feels watched in that specific way that makes your body tighten before your brain can justify it. The leaves shiver like they're listening. The air presses against my skin like it's waiting for the wrong word.
And still, the days keep moving.
One. Two. Seven.
Each one carrying the same quiet dread under its ribs.
Each one pretending to be ordinary while something inside me sharpens its teeth.
Whatever waits behind that door…
is getting closer.
And I keep living anyway.
Because I don't remember the choice.
But I remember that I made it.