For as long as I can remember, magic has been under my skin, quietly pulsing.
It didn't arrive with comets or symbols in the sky. No lightning scars. No disembodied voice whispering chosen one.
It started small.
Candles leaning toward me when I walked past—wicks tipping as if the flame had eyes. Dreams that felt less like fantasies and more like…warnings. Static in the air when I was upset. Shadows that flinched when I stared at them too long, like they didn't enjoy being noticed.
The kind of things you can't explain without sounding unhinged.
So I didn't.
I learned early how to swallow it. How to smile through the weird. How to tuck my hands into my sleeves when the air prickled and pretend my goosebumps were just cold. When a glass slid an inch across the counter because my anger spiked and reality decided to cooperate, I told myself it was condensation. When the ceiling fan stopped mid-spin the first time I got my heart broken, I blamed the wiring.
I didn't ask for it. I didn't earn it.
I just am.
And—gods help me—I love the rush of it.
The way a spell vibrates in the air right before it takes, the moment where everything holds its breath and then yields. The way ancient words taste like power on my tongue—metallic, sweet, almost electric. The quiet, glittering satisfaction when a potion turns exactly the right color and the room shifts—just a little—in response, like the world itself nods.
I like being good at it. Top of my charms class. First to master a healing sigil. The girl whose name the instructors jot down with a small, secret nod, like they're both proud and mildly alarmed.
What I hate is the fieldwork.
Especially when it's under her.
Victoria Langford is the kind of witch you remember even after you try to scrub her out of your head.
Not loud. Not bloody.
Something worse.
She leaves residue.
A heaviness in your chest that doesn't belong to you. A sense of contamination that clings like smoke days after she's gone. Shame you can't explain, because shame is what happens when someone makes you feel guilty for refusing to become what they are.
She's my assigned field mentor.
Just my luck.
The first time I saw her, she didn't introduce herself. She just stared—eyes like wet ash, irises so pale they were almost silver. Her skin the color of old parchment stretched over sharp cheekbones and a jaw that never seems to unclench. The kind of face that doesn't soften for anyone.
Her hair is a snarl of black and gray twisted up with a bone pin that looks disturbingly real.
She smells like rusty iron and wet earth.
I remember thinking she looked like someone who'd already been buried once and refused to stay down. I thought that was just me, until I heard the whispers later in Northwood's halls:
Death passed her by. She stared him down.
Today's assignment is with her again.
A house at the edge of town, the kind of street people move away from and no one moves back into. Sagging shutters. Peeling paint. A broken swing creaking even though there's no wind. The air around the place tastes stale, like the sun forgot to warm it.
The family called Northwood for help: cold spots, flickering lights, voices through walls. I pictured sage, salt, quiet chants for protection. A blessed bowl of water. A ward tied with thread. Something clean.
Victoria brought a crow in a burlap sack.
The bird shrieked and thrashed, claws catching on rough fabric. The sound sliced straight through my spine. Victoria didn't soothe it. Didn't whisper. Didn't apologize. She dragged it outside, slit its throat over the threshold, and murmured in a language that made my teeth ache—as if my bones recognized it and disapproved.
The blood hit the earth and steamed.
Not because it was hot.
Because the ground was wrong.
The family watched from the kitchen doorway, white-faced and shaking, their hands gripping each other like lifelines. The mother kept blinking too fast like she was trying to wake up. The little boy pressed his face into his dad's shirt, shoulders trembling. Nobody stopped her. Nobody even spoke. Fear makes people polite.
I watched from the porch, stomach rolling, my pendant suddenly too heavy against my throat.
Later, Victoria said the crow was a conduit—that it "drank what didn't belong in the house."
She said it like she was talking about plumbing.
I didn't sleep that night.
Since then, I've watched her bury bones under a full moon, hammer nails into wax figures, and once, hand me a glass jar full of teeth while she called something I couldn't see but could feel circling the room. The air got thick and wet, the way it gets right before lightning strikes, and my tongue went numb like my body was trying to stop me from speaking.
She never explains. Never teaches. Just orders.
Always with the same warning:
"Tell no one."
I haven't. Not the instructors at Northwood. Not my mother.
Partly because Victoria terrifies me.
Mostly because she knows things she shouldn't.
Things about me. About my bloodline.
Once, in that soft, gritty voice, she said my grandmother's name like it was a flavor she could still taste.
Lottie.
"She had promise," Victoria murmured. "Before she got soft."
I didn't ask what she meant.
I didn't want to know.
Today, we're supposed to meet behind the old greenhouse. The building's been fenced off for years—choked in ivy and moss, glass panes cracked, door rusted shut. It's the kind of place the Academy uses as a cautionary tale: this is what happens when something grows unchecked.
Of course Victoria has a key.
By the time I reach the back, she's already there, crouched over a stone circle etched with runes. The moss around it looks darker than the rest, as if the ground keeps drinking what she spills. A small fire burns in the center. The smoke is thin and pale and wrong, rising straight up even though the air is moving.
Something wrapped in cloth lies beside it.
She doesn't look up.
"You're late," she says.
I check my watch. "I'm on time."
Her mouth barely moves, but I can tell she's amused. That's the problem with her—she doesn't need expressions. Her presence does the work.
"Witches bend time," she murmurs. "You'll learn that."
The words land like a threat disguised as wisdom.
I don't rise to it. My gaze drops to the cloth parcel, my throat already tightening, my skin already anticipating what it's about to see.
She unwraps it.
Small. Limp. Fur matted.
A rabbit, maybe. Or a squirrel.
Whatever it was, it isn't anything now.
The sight doesn't just repulse me—it makes my body recoil on principle. My stomach pitches. My fingers go cold.
I take a step back. "No. We're not doing this again."
Her eyes finally lift to mine. They darken, storm-cloud gray.
"You want power," she says.
"I want control," I snap. "Knowledge. Not—" I gesture at the carcass, the fire, the stone circle. "Not this."
She rises slowly. Firelight hollows her face, pulling every sharp line into something almost skeletal. She moves like she has all the time in the world and doesn't need your consent to take it.
"There is no control without sacrifice," she says. "No knowledge without risk. Did you think your mother taught you everything? She trained you to be careful. I am training you to be strong."
My hands curl into fists. My nails bite my palms hard enough to hurt, a cheap anchor. "There's a difference between strong and cruel."
The air around us drops several degrees as she steps closer. It feels heavier—as if gravity narrows around me. Like the greenhouse and its broken glass are leaning in to listen.
"You're not ready," she says softly.
Somehow, that cuts deeper than if she'd shouted. Because it's not an insult. It's a diagnosis. Like she's naming a weakness she intends to remove.
"You think you are," she goes on, "but fear still owns you. Just like it owned Lottie in the end."
My breath catches. "Leave her out of this."
A ghost of a smile tugs at her mouth. Not kind. Not warm.
"I knew her long before you did, girl," Victoria says. "We bled under the same moon. She tried to shield you from what's coming. From your dreams. From your line. But you can't stay hidden forever."
Her gaze drops to the pendant at my throat.
My hand flies up on instinct, fingers closing around the crescent like I can protect it from her eyes.
"What is inside you will find its way out," she says, and the words slide under my skin like ice water.
I don't understand what she means.
I don't want to.
She turns back to the fire, dismissing me like I'm a candle she's already snuffed. "We're done for today. Next time, you'll bring something special."
Her eyes gleam when she says it.
"Something that bleeds."
The air seems to lean toward that sentence, eager.
My pulse pounds in my ears. I don't trust my voice not to shake, so I give her nothing. I turn and walk away, each step controlled, deliberate, like leaving calmly can undo what she just said.
I don't look back.
But her words follow, clinging like smoke.
What is inside you will find its way out.
By the time I reach the edge of the grounds, my jaw aches from clenching it. I need distance. Space. Something normal—or the closest thing I have to it.
For the first time in years, I'm desperate for the upcoming break from the academy. It starts June 21st.
The day before my birthday.
My plan is simple: sleep until my brain resets, wake only for food and showers, and avoid Victoria Langford and her jar-of-teeth brand of "education" at all costs.
Shelby is picking me up today. We're going shopping—Ball accessories, shoes, jewelry, maybe a clutch. It's ridiculous. It's frivolous.
I need it.
She's the only person outside my family who knows I'm a witch. Getting permission to tell her was like petitioning a small, exhausted government. I begged for years. Mom finally caved when Shelby swore to keep it secret, pinky swear and solemn vow and all.
Mom's fear has always puzzled me.
It's not the 1600s. No one's building bonfires for witches.
Still, I've seen the way her eyes tighten when I mention Northwood. How her fingers trace invisible sigils on doorframes without her realizing. How she flinches when Lottie's name comes up, like it's a wire she doesn't want to touch.
Shelby didn't flinch. She didn't run. She didn't call me crazy.
She lit up.
She wants to know everything—my classes, my assignments, the spells I mess up. When I complain that most potions smell like dead animals or gym socks, she laughs until she cries, then asks if we can name them like cocktails.
She's the only one who makes this madness feel almost…normal.
Her blue Volkswagen hops the curb slightly when she pulls up, as usual. She leans across the console to shove the passenger door open before the engine's fully off.
"Get in, witchling," she announces like I'm royalty.
I toss my bag at my feet and slump into the seat, letting the car's ordinary smell—vanilla air freshener, old fast food, Shelby's perfume—crowd out the greenhouse.
"The morning sucked," I sigh. "I tried a side-project charm on a teddy bear."
Shelby's eyes widen. "And?"
"It caught fire."
Beat.
She bursts out laughing. "You what?"
"Don't ask," I mutter, but my lips twitch, betrayed by relief.
"Okay, Pyromancer." She wiggles her brows. "Where to?"
"Anywhere the shoes are cheap and the coffee is strong."
Hours blur into fabric and mirrors and fluorescent lighting. We raid clearance racks and try on everything from combat boots to glittery stilettos. It's stupid and shallow and exactly what I need.
For a while, the world behaves. The worst thing that happens is Shelby nearly faceplants in a pair of heels she refuses to admit are too high. We eat pretzel bites and judge strangers' outfits like it's an Olympic sport.
Then I lift a silver mask from a display rack—filigree curling like vines across the cheekbones, tiny crystals set like dew.
When I raise it toward my face, the mirror fogs.
Just for a moment.
My reflection fractures—doubling, then tripling—three versions of me staring back with different expressions. One looks frightened. One looks furious. One looks…empty, eyes too old for my face.
My fingers go numb.
I blink, and the glass clears.
Only one of me remains, wide-eyed and trembling, mask hovering in my hand like evidence.
"Ang?" Shelby calls.
I set the mask down before it can shift again. My pulse thuds hard enough to make my vision vibrate.
"It's pretty," I say, too quickly.
Shelby's gaze narrows, then softens like she's decided not to push. "You're pale," she says anyway. "Did Victoria do something insane again?"
I swallow the truth down. "Just…Northwood stuff."
"Mm," she hums. Translation: we're filing this away to interrogate later.
We finally find them—her shoes.
Midnight blue, dusted in tiny sparkles, with a heel that makes Shelby's legs look like they go on for miles.
She spins in front of the mirror. "I look like a goddess."
"You look like trouble," I say, smirking.
She absolutely does.
Dark chocolate hair in loose curls. Heart-shaped face framed by bangs. Skin with a glow that looks bottled and sold in expensive skincare ads. People orbit her without trying—not because she demands it, but because she radiates something they want to stand near.
I've always admired that.
Maybe envied it, just a little.
We end up outside the food court with iced coffees, watching strangers stream past in blurred color. Shelby talks about the Ball—hair ideas, Evan's suit, feathered mask versus gold filigree.
I nod. Sip. Smile.
My mind is nowhere near her words.
It's in the greenhouse.
In the fire.
In Victoria's eyes.
In the way she said Lottie like a weapon.
"I lost you," Shelby says suddenly.
I blink. "What?"
She studies me over the rim of her cup. "You were doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The 'I'm in two places at once and one of them is on fire' thing," she says dryly. "Where'd you go?"
"Nowhere." Too fast. Too sharp.
"Uh-huh." She leans in, lowering her voice. "Nightmares again?"
"Yes."
It slips out bare, without makeup. Like truth escaping through a crack.
"And Victoria being…Victoria," I add. "And my mom is being weird about Lottie. And my brain connecting dots I'm pretty sure don't want to be connected."
Shelby's fingers tap against her cup. She doesn't joke this time. "Call Cassie."
"Cassie has enough visions to deal with," I protest. "I'm not adding my horror film to her queue."
"She offered," Shelby reminds me. "Seers like puzzles, remember? And she already thinks your dreams are 'liminal bleed-through'—whatever that means."
"It means she reads too much," I mutter, but the thought of Cassie's unimpressed face eases something tight in my chest. Cassie would look at Victoria Langford and say something flat like, That one smells like a warning, and somehow it would help.
As if summoned, my phone buzzes on the table.
Cassie: Headache from hell. Are you seeing doors again?
Goosebumps prick up my arms so fast it feels like a wave.
Shelby's eyes widen. "Did she just—"
"Probably a coincidence," I say, even though I don't believe in coincidences anymore. Not after the truck. Not after the note. Not after a name that tastes like ash showing up in my dreams.
I type back anyway.
Me: Define "seeing."
My fingers already know the answer they don't want to name.
Her reply is instant.
Cassie: Don't go anywhere alone tonight, okay?
My throat goes dry.
Shelby reads over my shoulder because personal space is a myth between us. "Okay," she says, voice careful. "That's creepy."
The laugh that escapes me is thin and borrowed, like I stole it from someone who still knows how to breathe. "You always said I needed more social plans. Maybe 'avoid solitary corridors' is the universe's way of saying 'have friends present at all times.'"
Shelby bumps my shoulder, but her thumb flicks against mine—a silent check-in she thinks I don't notice. "Good thing you're stuck with me," she says lightly.
I look at her—really look—and the normalcy of this moment stings, like pressing a bruise just to prove it's still there. Two girls at the mall, iced coffees sweating on cheap laminate, talking about masks and shoes and seers texting cryptic warnings like it's just another group chat update.
I haven't seen my grandmother since that day in her basement. Since I felt something in me get cut out, leaving an absence shaped like a memory I can't touch.
But I wear the pendant she gave me—a silver crescent moon etched with tiny runes I've never fully translated. She told me it would protect me from "the things that live between dreams."
I didn't understand then.
Now the edges of the truth scrape closer, sharp enough to draw blood.
The nightmares are back.
The door. The voice. The choice is waiting like a breath against my ear.
And no matter how much coffee I drink, or how many sequined masks I pretend to care about, or how brightly Shelby and Cassie orbit my life like twin stars, I can't shake the feeling:
Whatever crawled out of my dreams last night didn't stay there.
And no amount of denial is strong enough to shove it back down.
Whatever's been clawing at the edges of my sleep is stirring again.
And it's done waiting politely.
But nothing happens. Not at first.
No more dead crows. No new warnings. No fresh nightmares slamming me awake.
Just the steady drum of ten days passing—each one feeling like a held breath I can't release.
As we head for the exit, a shiver rolls down my arms. No breeze. No open doors. Just pressure—a soft pull in my chest, like someone whispered my name across a crowded room without sound.
I stop, hand instinctively finding the crescent at my throat.
It isn't warm.
It isn't cold.
It's alert.
Like it's listening back.