Page 170 of Magical Mischief

“What if I’m not enough?” I whispered.

Nova didn’t flinch. “Then you’ll grow. And if you break, we’ll help you gather the pieces. But you arenotweak. You are uncertain. That’s not the same thing.”

I shook my head, trying to breathe through the knot in my throat.

“I don’t know how to lead something this big. I barely know how to leadmyself.I’m still figuring out what kind of magic I even have. I’m still grieving my old life. My daughter’s gone. My mother’s a mystery. I didn’t come here expecting to become some chosen key to an ancient place.” I met her eyes, my voice cracking. “I just wanted to feel like I belonged again.”

Nova’s expression didn’t shift. She let me spill it all.

When I was done, she gently tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “That,” she said, “is exactly why the Academy chose you.”

I frowned. “What?”

“Because you’re real. Because youfeel.Because you don’t pretend to be perfect or wise or unshaken. The magic heredoesn’t need a statue on a pedestal. It needs someone who will walk through the cracks and still choose to love what’s broken.”

Tears stung behind my eyes, but I blinked them back.

Nova sat fully now, cross-legged on the floor beside me, her hands folded in her lap.

“The Ward is unraveling,” she said, quieter now. “Not because of Gideon. Not because of a curse. But because you’re stretching. You’re growing. And growth looks a lot like breaking at first. The seed of doubt is powerful. The Butterfly Ward is showing you just how powerful it can be.”

“How destructive,” I said softly and stared out the window. The arch looked smaller from here. Distant. Fragile in a way it never had before.

“True.”

“What if I can’t fix it? Fix my self-doubt?” I asked.

Nova smiled. “Then you’ll ask for help. And we’ll fix it together.”

The fire in the brazier cracked.

The crystals on the table pulsed gently.

Something I hadn’t realized was clenched inside me, and it began to loosen slightly.

No bond to Gideon.

No tether to the past.

Just a wound where doubt had taken root.

Nova reached for my hand again, her grip warm and firm.

“We’re going to start with the heart,” she said. “And we’ll see what blooms.”

I stood up too fast, the cushions beneath me sighing as I left them. The energy in my chest had shifted again. It was no longer the soft unraveling of fear, but something sharp and hot and sparking at the edges.

Anger.

At myself.

I walked a tight circle near the window seat, then crossed the room to the shelf cluttered with drying herbs, jars, and little stone animals carved by hand. I didn’t touch anything; I just stood there, fists tight at my sides, the scent of mugwort still curling in my nose.

“I can’t believe I let it in,” I muttered.

Nova didn’t ask what. She knew. She stayed on the floor, cross-legged, patient.

“Self-doubt,” I hissed. “Ofallthe things.”