In the hidden training room under the school, darkness surrounded me. Not just against my skin—but deeper, against my soul.

I needed light. Not just to see—but to remind myself I still existed.

"The real test here wasn't the spell," he said. "It was whether you could control yourself when it failed."

"Focus and say Ignis Orbis," he ordered. "It's a simple spell. It creates a fire orb to light the room."

I drew in a breath. If I can't even manage this... what does that say about everything else?

I closed my eyes, whispering again and again: Ignis Orbis... Ignis Orbis...

A faint warmth stirred in my palms—but when I opened my eyes, there was nothing. No flame. No spark. Only in the dark.

Another failure. And this time—in front of him.

"Seriously? This is the most basic spell there is." He raised an eyebrow. "Every beginner manages it."

His words hit harder than any curse. There's no counterspell for that.

He lifted his hand—and with a sharp motion, light flooded the room. It blinded me for a moment. Then I saw it: the space had become a maze.

It rose from the shadows. Walls shifted, guided by some invisible will—or maybe by him. The air thickened, pressing in with unseen force.

The scent of scorched stone. Stagnant water. Each step echoed like thunder.

"We'll move on," he said flatly, shoving me forward.

"For what?" I snapped, my voice cracking. "If I can't even do the simplest spell... how am I supposed to get through anything else?"

"You're right. Better give up. It's a waste of time."

The chill in his voice stung—but not more than the fear of unleashing real fire. Or maybe unleashing me.

"What? Hurt your feelings?" He smirked. "A little anger won't kill you. Learn to channel it—into spells, into battle, into emotion. Stop locking everything inside."

He stepped closer, his voice low behind me. "The fight isn't with me, Amelia."

I turned toward him, curious. "Is that what you do?"

"We're not talking about me," he cut me off. "We're talking about you."

Then he shoved me down. A chill slithered up my spine. For a moment, I froze. Not from the cold. From fear.

"You don't have to be such a jerk..." My voice wavered. Tears burned behind my eyes, but my jaw clenched. Always quiet. Always surviving.

He knelt and extended a hand. "Relax. I'm not who you are fighting."

"If you're not the enemy," I whispered, "then why do you act like one?"

He didn't answer. He helped me up—carefully. And in that flicker of a glance, he forgot he was a teacher. And I remembered that he was human.

"Let's fight," he said. "But this time—use everything you're feeling."

I looked up. The maze walls shifted, tightening around us. That's when I understood: he wasn't just training me in fire. He was teaching me to understand myself. Training me to fail—and then to burn.

I closed my eyes. Pain locked in my jaw. Fear leaked through my breath—the metallic taste of panic, like old blood. My body trembled, but something gathered inside. A flicker of strength rose, spilling at my fingertips.

It surged through me—a molten current beneath my skin. I wanted to set everything ablaze. Not out of rage, but out of the desperate need to feel.

I wasn't afraid of failing; I was scared of succeeding.

What if I burn away whatever is left of me through success?

But maybe that's precisely who I am—the fire.

Through the roar and the heat, I whispered soundlessly, I'm here. See me.

A silent scream burst inside me. Flames erupted—burning tears that never found words. They wrapped me around him, howling through the air. The scent of scorched smoke. Skin. Fear.

He tried to retreat—but the flames clung to him. Not physical pain—something else. Emotional.

He looked at me—and for a breath, I saw wonder. But also recognition. As if something in me had happened to him before.

He shifted the room. A surge of water burst from a hidden tank, smothering the fire.

The fabric of his coat had almost caught—like my heart. Too close. Too fragile.

Silence. Only water drips from the ceiling.

I stood still, staring at the puddle left behind. My heart is racing. Breath uneven.

Proud. Ashamed. Confused. But mostly—tired.

Tired of apologizing for existing.

He lingered. For a second, his eyes almost softened—

Then it slammed shut again, like a door closing without a sound.

"You ruined everything," he said. "Don't go to the ball. It's in your honor—and it would be a shame for it to end in disaster."

"And who said I wanted to go?" My voice was soft.

A faint smile tugged at his lips, almost hidden. "It's because it's in your honor," he repeated.

There it is again. Balls. Masks. Pretending.

"I've been to too many," I murmured. "Each time—a new smile. A different death. Another lie. Maybe this time I'll skip it. On purpose."

He said nothing. Then he whispered, "You're impossible. And that's precisely what makes you unstoppable."

I used to fold inward. But not this time.

I looked at my hands. They were still warm.

If this journey is only the beginning, what else lies buried inside me, and what will it cost?

Me?

Or them.