On the same day, 5 hours earlier.

  A small hand, incapable of hurting a single ant without feeling guilty, stretches out from beneath a firm mountain of blankets toward the nightstand. It misses once, twice, five times; nearly knocks her round glasses to the floor and, at last, manages to silence the insistent alarm clock.

  She yawns.

  Another day. Another chance to go to a school she never thought she would attend in her entire life.

  She never dreamed of being a mage. It was never on her wish list.

  When you’re born into a family of bakers, the future usually comes kneaded in advance. Flour on your hands, oven burning, long dawns spent rolling dough. It wasn’t just a job: it was a living inheritance. Wheat didn’t run through her blood, it fermented inside her.

  And she didn’t complain. Truly, she didn’t.

  That’s why stopping being a blank caught her completely off guard.

  Her morning prayers to Eleyra were always simple. Nothing grand. Nothing heroic. She only asked for a real friendship. The kind that doesn’t break no matter what.

  The goddess answered… oh, she did, though with a questionable sense of humor. She gave her a demon best friend—explosive, with crimson eyes, a scent of smoke, and terrible decisions—right in the house next door.

  And, as an extra gift, magic.

  —Meeooww…

  A sharp meow. The sound hits her before the weight. Mittens drops onto her legs like a plush missile. Annya groans, trapped, half-buried in her vanilla-scented pink fortress.

  —Nnghh, Mittens… I don’t want to…

  Waking up is hard when it’s cold and the bed offers that warm embrace that begs for just five more minutes; the same five that usually turn into three hours.

  She suddenly covered her freckled face, mutating from human to caterpillar, trying to flee the world. From the responsibilities of being a teenager. Curling into a fetal position, she shrank completely.

  It didn’t help at all.

  Mittens meowed again, purring as his heavy paws sank both Annya’s body and the mattress, until he settled near where messy orange strands peeked out between the blankets.

  He purred, satisfied, pressing his little paws into the bed as he kneaded it like fresh dough. He learned it by watching them work. Every cat is a silent heir.

  Annya lowered the covers just a little. Her sleepy eyes found him immediately: her tuxedo cat, a bit chubby, staring at her with pupils completely dilated.

  —Hi… —she murmured, her voice rough from the blankets—. Did you sleep well?

  The feline leaned in to sniff her face, making her laugh softly as his whiskers brushed her skin. Between giggles, Annya sat up and, with effort, lifted her pet. She looked at him with the same blue eyes full of love as on the first day she rescued him from that dirty alley.

  —Thank you, my alarm with legs.

  —Meow~!

  Mission accomplished.

  The cat withdrew with dignity, heading down the stairs in search of his well-deserved breakfast.

  Annya stretched, wrinkling her pastel purple bunny pajamas. She misjudged the drop when lowering her feet from the bed and the cold wooden floor ran through her body like an electric shock. Luckily, her bunny slippers were nearby.

  Bless you, slippers.

  Quick shower. Eye gunk gone. Distracted humming while she used the hair dryer.

  Time for a quick breakfast. And sugary.

  When Mom and Dad are at the bakery, the house falls silent. Just her and Mittens.

  She went down the usual stairs, the ones she’s walked since she can remember. Her older siblings, all with the same orange hair in different styles, greeted her from the stillness of the frames hanging on the wall.

  From the fridge, milk. From the shelf, cereal. Following the universal logic of every ordinary person, she poured the chocolate balls first.

  Chocolate. Because that’s how the world should work.

  At the breakfast nook, the only sounds were her rhythmic chewing and Mittens lapping at his bowl, which she had also filled with milk. Annya swung her slippers on her small feet.

  There was a problem: she was still sleepy.

  She yawned long and loud. The sound bounced around the empty house. She knew what she had to do, and it gave her a slight sense of revulsion.

  Coffee.

  —Yuck…!

  She never understood how Feralynn drank it without sugar. Ironic, considering she’d seen her down up to three cans of energy drink in a single day.

  —Are you sure? Aren’t you going to explode into marshmallows or something?

  That’s what Fer had asked before offering her a long sip. Annya wanted to look brave. Worthy of being at her level.

  She ended up in the school infirmary with a panic attack, convinced she was having a heart failure. It didn’t help that Feralynn laughed afterward.

  —You're such a wimp.

  —Ughh...nghh...

  She took her dad’s instant coffee from the top shelf. Plenty of sugar. Plenty of milk. Sweet was safer, even if it annoyed.

  Especially if it annoyed.

  The cause of her drowsiness was simple: she’d been waking up an hour earlier than usual for days. That sacrifice of sleep had a proper name: beauty.

  Thanks to Rose’s advice, she’d gotten a basic makeup set at the mall when they went shopping together.

  She went back upstairs. Mittens followed, just as determined.

  Back in her room, the arsenal awaited her on the desk. Each item in military formation. Without realizing it, she furrowed her brow. She didn’t understand why: with her old childhood friends, Mónica and Juliet, she’d spent entire afternoons playing with her older sister’s makeup.

  But one thing is playing at being grown-up at seven years old. Another is being fourteen and in high school, where every glance weighs something and appearance matters more than it should.

  —Feeling pretty… —she whispered—. It’s just… feeling a little pretty! Yeah!

  She didn’t want to impress anyone. Or did she?

  It was normal for boys to look at well-groomed elf girls, at humans with lipstick, even at orc girls with imposing, radiant beauty.

  Her heart skipped when she realized who she would ask first for an opinion: the rebellious girl with black hair, a smell of smoke, and a temperament impossible to tolerate. Almost impossible.

  The diary hidden under her pillow was full of pages about her. Ever since that small accident in the cooking club closet, when she caught her before she fell. Faces close. The blush. That hypnotized look from Feralynn, so uncommon…

  She shook her head hard. She didn’t want to think about that right now.

  —No, stop. Stop.

  Already dressed in her uniform, she looked at herself in the mirror. Determined. A schoolgirl stepping for the first time into the chaos that is the world of cruel female beauty.

  —Okay… you can do this, Annie.

  She turned on the radio to focus.

  First, the red velvet lipstick. Second brand.

  —It’s trendy in second year girls. You have pale skin, it’ll suit you!

  Rose echoed in her head, explaining like some fashion diva.

  Then, before the red reminded her of eyes that felt far too familiar, she moved on to the pink gloss. Soft. Not to shine. To look hydrated. Healthy. Kissable, without knowing it. Or wanting to.

  The third weapon: light black mascara.

  —Just one coat. Sometimes it smudges. Sometimes you clean it with your finger and it gets worse. Use it, it opens up your eyes a bit more.

  Fourth.

  —I hope no one laughs at me…

  She took a deep breath. Her right wrist trembled slightly. If it got worse and she ended up late for the bus, her book of miracles would turn into a profane grimoire.

  Eyebrow pencil.

  —Careful… very… careful!

  From the bed, Mittens opened a single eye, entertained by the duel to the death between his owner and her own pulse.

  Lastly, she took the peachy pink cream blush and applied it with two fingers. Not too much, not nothing either. Just enough to be noticeable.

  —And...Done!

  Finished, she looked at herself in the full-length mirror. The earrings she’d bought with her bakery allowance, the immaculate uniform, the skirt sitting just right, the winter tights, and her face… She stood there, mouth agape, taking in the result.

  Having a perfectionist friend like Rose had its advantages. Everything suited her perfectly.

  It didn’t scream, it didn’t draw too much attention. It simply didn’t ask permission to exist—and to let her cuteness stand out.

  She wanted to show them right away. And especially her. Quickly she slipped on the school uniform coat from the wardrobe.

  “Mittens! How do I look?”

  But when she turned toward her bed, the cat wasn’t there. Curious, she realized he’d jumped onto her desk to play with a strip of taped papers. Nearby, coincidentally, was her favorite perfume.

  She gasped in surprise when she saw it. It was crucial to also smell good. Without hesitation, she applied it to her neck and wrists. She thanked her pet with several belly rubs, then left him on her bed to sleep with the heating set to minimum.

  At full speed, she shoved all her books into her backpack and headed out.

  She didn’t know why, but when she closed the door, she felt like she’d forgotten something important.

  …

  …

  …

  Feralynn, with pitch-black dark circles and the vibe of a convict fresh off a completed sentence, stepped out of her house. She zipped her school's jacket all the way up. An unlit cigarette hung from her mouth, and her backpack was slung over one shoulder, loose, like she didn’t care.

  As she walked toward Annya’s house—since the start of the year they’d been taking the bus together—she searched her coat pockets.

  —Fuck…

  She couldn’t find her dear Zippo.

  Sigh.

  Not wanting to waste time, she raised her thumb. A small flame, candle-sized, sprang from the tip.

  Before she could light the cigarette, two fingers with pink-painted nails snatched it from her mouth with surgical precision.

  Fer wasn’t surprised at all when she saw the cigarette fall onto the snow, near her own black boots. She knew who it was. She knew why. She smiled sideways, eyes closed.

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  —You’re evil —she let out a rough chuckle—. You know it’s bad to pollute the environment.

  —And you know it’s bad to rot your lungs.

  Feralynn looked up and felt like a lightning bolt struck her.

  —Huh…?

  Annya stood in front of her. Makeup on. With a blush that was a mix of the cold, the cream, the fury of seeing her with that harmful habit… and maybe something else.

  Fer stood there, mouth open, not blinking.

  Annya noticed the silence. Too long. Too heavy. She tried to hold onto her angry expression, but her legs trembled a little. So did her voice when she spoke.

  —D-Don’t look at me like that… you know I hate it when you smoke!

  Feralynn blinked once. Slow. From her angle, the made-up cheeks, puffed up by anger, made Annya look like a squirrel ready for an elegant dance. The smell of vanilla mixed with cinnamon hit her enough to tingle her nose.

  —Wow.

  Just one word. Dry. Raw.

  Annya stepped back, nervous, unsure whether to smile or run.

  —How… do I look?

  She looked away and, like a tic, tucked an orange strand behind her ear.

  Feralynn didn’t hesitate.

  —You look pretty.

  BAM.

  Low blow. The chest of the girl with glasses jolted violently. There was no sarcasm. No cruel mockery or venomous comparison. It was direct. Honest, like she always was. And still, in that moment, Annya didn’t know whether to believe her.

  She's joking, right?! Must be, she must be trying to be polite, right?! RIGHT?! IS SHE TELLING ME THE TRUTH?!

  Before she could respond, Feralynn turned halfway around and kept walking, as if she hadn’t just detonated something inside her.

  Annya froze.

  Fer stopped when she noticed she wasn’t following. She barely turned her head over her shoulder.

  —Aren’t you coming? —she asked quietly— Hurry up.

  Annya blinked once, twice, three times. Only then did she notice something else: a faint blush on Feralynn’s cheeks, competing with her own.

  She swallowed. Without realizing it, her smile widened.

  They walked through the neighborhood in awkward silence. Annya gripped the backpack straps tightly. She noticed how Feralynn’s eyes stole horribly discreet glances… and none of them escaped her.

  —Do I really look pretty? —Annya asked, looking at the houses—. I thought you’d make some hurtful joke or… I don’t know.

  —Do you want me to?

  —Of course not!

  The black-haired girl chuckled darkly, already elaborating possible commentaries and comparisons.

  Another silence.

  Feralynn pulled out another cigarette. Before Annya could react, she tucked it behind her own ear.

  —You know I say what I think. And… —she coughed, clearing her throat more than necessary— and you don’t look bad. Really.

  Annya’s cheeks flared even more. She smiled, glancing at her.

  —Thanks, Fer… —her voice came out vulnerable, relieved—. I didn’t know whether to try this today or not and… yeah. Thanks, for not making fun of me.

  Feralynn nodded. Then, noticing Annya was calmer, she smiled sideways, pure malice.

  —You’re missing a red nose and you’ll be a copy of Chappi—

  —FERALYNN!!!

  Annya pinched her arm hard. Fer burst into loud laughter, covering herself as best she could. Annya’s face turned red with fury and embarrassment… until she ended up laughing too.

  How dare she?! Compared to the castle’s clown butler. In the end, it wasn’t as terrible as she’d expected.

  —You're the worst!

  —I know. That's why you are with me.

  Having concluded her fateful attack, Annya clenched her hands. She huffed, feeling the icy air crawl over the bare skin of her fingers, which she began rubbing unconsciously.

  White knuckles, stained with a pink hue that begged for warmth against the bite of winter.

  She searched her uniform pockets as they walked.

  —My gloves… —she unhooked her backpack, checking in a hurry—. Damn it, I forgot them at home…

  They couldn’t go back. They were already close to the stop.

  Feralynn raised an eyebrow. She lowered her gaze, thoughtful.

  —Give them to me.

  She stopped and turned to face her. Her voice came out like a military order: direct, final. No room for negotiation.

  Annya lifted her eyes, wide, not understanding… until, without asking permission, Feralynn took her hands and wrapped them in her own.

  She took a deep breath. The scent of bitter coffee condensed into thick vapor, as dense as her gaze.

  —Fer…

  Focus. Don’t burn them.

  —Shut up —she cut her off, without aggression— Just… stay still.

  Don’t hurt her. It’s warming, not incinerating.

  She treated her with almost reverential care, as if Annya were a glass rose. One poorly measured pulse, one nervous flare out of control, and she could severely damage her skin.

  In the blizzards of Soleria, getting burned was relief. But she was no longer in the forests.

  Fingers intertwined. Palms pressed together. Throats tight.

  If Annya’s pulse were a drum, it would be announcing the end of the world. Or hers, at least. She couldn’t read Feralynn’s face. It was serious… but that didn’t help: it almost always was.

  Is she annoyed because I forgot them? Is she afraid of burning me? Did I ruin everything? We’re going to be late because of me…

  The whirlwind of thoughts dissipated when the warmth emerged. Fer squeezed her hands just a little, as if sealing a pact she didn’t dare name.

  Annya understood immediately: You matter to me. Let me help you.

  An orange aura, as alive as her hair, bloomed between their palms. Annya gasped, clenching her teeth. It wasn’t dangerous… but it was intense. Impulsive. It reminded her of the heat that bit even through oven mitts when she pulled trays of freshly baked bread from the oven.

  —Tss… haah…!

  Feralynn noticed and stepped back abruptly, on the verge of letting go.

  —Are you okay? —she asked quickly, unsure—. I just wanted to—

  She felt the brush of Annya’s index finger, a light caress. She squeezed back, holding in the grimace.

  —I’m fine. Really. —she laughed, nervous, making sure no one was watching—. It burns a little, but… don’t stop.

  It was an oven. And if that oven was Feralynn, Annya wouldn’t hesitate to draw closer, even if it was uncomfortable.

  Feralynn swallowed. Took a deep breath again.

  Domesticate the heat.

  Not to destroy, but for something that was always much harder for her: to protect.

  She could create fireballs capable of flipping vans. Fiery discs that deflected projectiles. Cauterize open wounds in seconds.

  Warm a pair of thin fingers?

  Almost impossible. Almost.

  Reluctantly, she calmed the pulse of her mana. Softened the intensity. The orange campfire glow dimmed until it became gentle.

  The cold yielded, defeated, giving way to a warmth that climbed from Annya’s palms up to her elbows. She couldn’t help smiling when she saw Fer with her eyes closed, focused with a solemn firmness she rarely showed.

  She brushed her fingers against hers before slowly letting go.

  Feralynn opened her eyes.

  —Better? —she asked softly, hoarse.

  Annya nodded, lowering her hands slowly.

  —I’m okay now… thank you.

  She gave her a genuine, grateful smile. But that joy shattered instantly, tinted by sudden concern, when she noticed a long red thread slipping from Fer’s nose.

  Feralynn saw the gesture before she felt it. The taste of copper hit her lips, slid down her chin, and ended in the snow, staining it the same color as her eyes.

  A lipstick of blood.

  —Ah, shit… what—?

  She brought a hand to her face to cover the bleeding. Turned her head, avoiding Annya’s gaze.

  —Let me clean you up, I have tissues—!

  —No! —she cut her off, alarmed—. No, no. I’m fine. Really. Just a bit tired.

  She wiped her nose with the back of her jacket sleeve, not caring if it stained, until the blood began to subside. Then the dizziness hit her full force. The cigarette behind her ear fell into the snow as she brought a hand to her head.

  —Feralynn…?!

  Annya stepped closer, scared. She let her backpack fall to the ground and pulled out her catalyst gloves.

  This time, she wanted to help her.

  —W-wait… let me try something, please.

  She extended her gloved hands toward Fer. They trembled, more from fear than temperature. The runes flared to an intense yellow. Feralynn, leaning against a lamppost, didn’t resist. The dizziness threatened to turn into a brutal headache.

  —M-Miracle Style… —the runes shone brighter— Comforting Light.

  From her hands emerged a translucent, uniform sphere, which, upon reaching Feralynn’s head, wrapped around it like an ethereal bubble. Annya held the posture, rigid, afraid of ruining the spell.

  Feralynn exhaled.

  The relief was immediate. Like a deep massage after a nap she’d never allowed herself. Her legs weakened as exhaustion and stress began to melt out of her body. Night terrors. Insomnia drowned in heavy doses of nullwine.

  Everything dissolved.

  If she could, she would let herself fall right there and sleep. Sleep knowing the last thing she’d see would be Annya, made up, worried about her.

  She fought to keep her eyelids from closing.

  She was sleepy. Very sleepy.

  She wanted to sleep for days and not wake up. Not have nightmares. Not remember. Not study how to be a normal girl. Not learn how to leave the past behind.

  All at once.

  She raised a hand in a stop gesture. Annya lowered hers, dissolving the spell. Before Feralynn slipped off the post and fell to the ground, Annya caught her; in an awkward but firm movement, she lifted her right shoulder to support her.

  Held against the post, Fer coughed.

  It wasn’t just the headache. Nor the bleeding. It was the contingency mark on her abdomen, now knocking on the door in the queue of pains.

  Even so, seeing her friend smiling at her—worried, but present—helped her keep her composure. She had underestimated the impact she had on her. She needed to be on the brink of collapse to remember it.

  —If you feel really bad, we can skip school. I can help you get back home.

  Feralynn wiped the fresh drops running down her nose. She hated herself for scaring her like this.

  —You’d miss the bus, idiot…

  Annya shrugged, rolling her eyes.

  —Sounds more fun to take care of you. Besides, your mom is working. —she smiled, tilting her head— Don’t you want me as your personal nurse for a day?

  She let out a small giggle. Fer didn’t laugh, instead, her imagination took off without permission with nurse outfits. She shook those thoughts away quickly.

  —I'd rather bleed alone.

  Annya shook her head, smiling at yet another serious fa?ade.

  Recovered, Fer pulled a small can of energy drink from her backpack and opened it faster than her friend could judge her.

  —If you had your catalysts this whole time —Fer asked as she drank, not caring that it was warm— why didn’t you wear them?

  Looking at her own leather-covered hands, Annya shrugged.

  —Because these are leather and metal. My other gloves are made of cotton and fleece.

  They stayed silent for a few seconds. Then, they laughed. An awkward, nervous laugh. Necessary to bring the volume down.

  Pretending nothing had happened, they kept walking. Walking, hand in hand. Just in case the cold came back. Just for that, they lied to themselves.

  …

  …

  …

  Later on.

  Feralynn stopped abruptly for the third time that morning, eyes still swollen.

  She saw two blond dog ears and perfectly styled pink hair. Two heads peeking out halfway into the street, using the bus stop as an improvised hiding place.

  Rose and Jax.

  Their friends. Hawk eyes. Watching them with shameless attention.

  When Feralynn frowned, caught between anger and embarrassment, both of them ducked away at lightning speed.

  Annya didn’t understand a thing. She only saw her best friend clearly ready to cook: dog roasted over embers and elf over charcoal.

  One humiliated. The other, naive.

  They reached the bus stop.

  Fer shot them a silent serial-killer glare. Jax whistled, arms crossed behind his head, leaning against the metal structure. Rose, wearing her I-knew-it expression, filed her nails in the opposite direction.

  Pure performance. Feigned ignorance.

  “For two members of the drama club, they sure are really terrible at acting…” Fer thought.

  "I SWEAR IF THEY SAY ANY OF THIS TO ANYONE—"

  Annya greeted them like nothing was wrong. Rose glanced at her sideways, satisfied: her makeup guide had worked. Hours of magazines and well-invested advice. They both asked her if she was okay, Fer shrugged in response, not wanting to explain anything. Rose stepped closer to Annya, congratulated her for daring to wear makeup, and gave her a couple more tips.

  A few steps away, Jax and Fer were left alone. The boy with dog ears and tail nudged her shoulder lightly.

  —Hey, Feralynn~! I didn’t bring gloves either… —he sing-songed, with an arrogant smile—. Can you also warm my hands~? Come ooon~!

  Ting.

  Feralynn, in a neutral, almost bored voice, said yes.

  —Wow. First time I see you this nice.

  She shrugged.

  —I’m in a good mood, I guess.

  It was a trap. And Jax was twice as naive as Annya.

  With the boy’s bare hands, Fer repeated the spell. Jax watched the orange glow with curiosity… until—

  —IT BURNS, IT BURNS, STOP, IT BURNS! YOU CRAZY WITCH!

  —Heh.

  He yelped like a puppy. Fer let out a low, hoarse laugh while he plunged his hands into the snow, desperate.

  Offended, Jax formed a snowball and threw it with a triumphant grin. It didn't last long, tho.

  Feralynn barely tilted her head. The projectile flew past and shattered against the glass display of an electronics store.

  —Too slow.

  Jax immediately crouched to make another. Fer did the same. To him, Feralynn was like his older sisters: just as rough to play with.

  —Had enough, huh? Had enough?

  —GGgghhh...!

  —Tap out, man! Tap out!

  They stared at each other, defiant smiles. Second round.

  —Gods… —Rose sighed, massaging the bridge of her nose—. Are they six years old? They act like savages.

  Annya would have liked to join in… but that meant ruining her makeup. She stepped back beside Rose and watched them fight, smiling.

  Then they stopped.

  Not from exhaustion. Not because of an imposed order.

  Uneasy murmurs began to rise among the adults walking along the sidewalk. Low voices. Alarmed. Before they could react, a small crowd had formed in front of the electronics store’s display window.

  —This is terrible! —wailed a woman, dropping her purse to the ground.

  All four turned at the same time.

  Fer and Jax exchanged a quick look, abandoned the snowballs, and moved closer. Annya and Rose followed, driven by the same unease.

  Reluctantly, Feralynn forced her way forward, digging her elbow into the side of a man blocking the view. He didn’t even protest. No one did. Everyone stood rigid, trapped by what was unfolding on the screen.

  A train accident. It had arrived in pieces at Larion’s central station.

  Seven dead. Thirty-two injured. Half of them in critical condition.

  And below it, an enlarged photograph.

  A face accompanied by a brutal headline:

  MISSING.

  —Miria…?

  The name slipped from Fer, pure reflex. Pure automatic shock. Her heart stopped, as if a fist had clenched around it and refused to let it beat. A dreadful chill ran through her body.

  She didn’t want it to be her.

  The others looked just as unsettled, frozen, unsure how to react or what to say.

  No. It wasn’t Miria. Thank fate it wasn’t her. Instead, it was her exact reflection in a male version: her older brother.

  Before they could read more details, the bus arrived. They had to go.

  And as they boarded, Feralynn knew that for the entire ride to school, a single image would not leave her alone: the girl with white hair and sky-blue eyes.

  ...

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