Page 6

If someone had told me a month ago that I’d be presiding over a magical dinner party for a crowd of midlife witches, vamps, shifters, and assorted magical creatures, I’d have smiled politely and checked their tea for suspicious herbs, illegal in many states.

And yet here I was.

In a banquet hall I hadn’t even known existed until ten minutes ago.

The doors had appeared behind a previously blank stretch of wall, as if the Academy finally realized it needed to feed its new students.

And what a dining room.

The ceilings arched high above like a cathedral, but instead of stone or timber, they shimmered with a celestial mural that moved with the hour. Right now, stars lazily blinked overhead in a navy sky that occasionally shimmered with glowing constellations.

The long tables curved in a gentle spiral, instead of the usual straight lines, because the room itself encouraged everyone to face each other, to talk, to laugh, to lean in.

And they were.

Oh, they were.

The hum of voices was a joyful buzz punctuated by bursts of laughter. There was the occasional clang of a goblet tipping over, and someone explained gently to a kitchen sprite that she needed her squash flambéed.

I didn’t even know that was a thing.

The kitchen sprites were everywhere. Never taller than a teapot, moving in bursts of speed and sparkle, their hats askew, their expressions deeply judgmental.

They balanced platters taller than themselves and delivered everything from smoked walleye pies to levitating cheese platters, never missing a beat.

One glared at me when I tried to help.

“Hands off, Headmistress!” it squeaked in a voice like old parchment. “You're not cleared for soup duty!”

And that was when I realized how easily I understood sprites now.

I was stunned that I could understand it. Usually, we communicated in hand gestures and things getting shoved in my face.

I blinked. “I didn’t even touch the ladle—”

The sprite narrowed its eyes and pointed two fingers at its eyes, then at me, before zipping off to rescue a tray of hard cider from a student who had clearly never encountered a pitcher that poured itself.

Across the tables, women sat in groups of four and six and ten, plates piled high, glasses clinking, spells flickering midair as someone tried to levitate a dinner roll and instead launched it into a friend’s hair.

I spotted Vivienne painting a sigil onto her goblet with melted chocolate. Mara was halfway through explaining how her ex turned into a chicken during their final argument, and I fondly thought about my barking ex-husband.

I had found my people.

Limora sat with one elbow resting elegantly on the table, listening with quiet amusement as Opal muttered to a pie that had begun humming softly.

It was magical.

It was chaotic.

It was perfect.

And it was also very, very clear that I was in so far over my head it was practically comical.

Nova slid into the chair next to mine with the grace of someone who had successfully avoided helping for the past twenty minutes.

She plucked a sugared violet off a tart and popped it into her mouth. “So. Full house. Amazing food. Enchanting guests.”

“Students,” I corrected.

“Already a headmistress.” She winked at me, and I chuckled. “And students everywhere.”

“Overflowing with them,” I said, watching as a shifter from the Northern Islands tried to coax a flame sprite into warming her tea. “We’re going to need more chairs. And possibly a fireproof wing.”

Nova grinned. “Also, more teachers.”

I nodded, then stopped nodding and let the realization truly land. “We need way more teachers.”

Grandma Elira, seated a few spots down, tilted her head like she’d been waiting for me to come to that exact conclusion. “What gave it away?”

I turned toward two women attempting spells that only resulted in smoke at the other end of the table.

“I’m choosing not to deal with that right now,” I muttered.

“You’re going to have to soon,” Ardetia said, appearing with a glass of something that sparkled in seven colors. “I counted fifty-six women. That’s assuming no one else shows up tomorrow.”

I choked. “Tomorrow?!”

Ardetia raised a brow. “You didn’t think word would stop at the gates, did you? This place is open and craving new minds.”

“Indeed.” I thought of the Wards and how the energy had to be helping them.

Nova leaned back, looking far too pleased with herself. “You're adorable when you're overwhelmed.”

“Thanks,” I deadpanned. “Tell that to the woman who just summoned a fountain of gravy.”

Because yes. That was happening. Right in the center of the room, a silver tureen now overflowed in a graceful arc, raining brown liquid into floating goblets like it was an enchanted chocolate fountain at a harvest fair.

The witch looked extra pleased with herself as the kitchen sprites darted out, feeling scandalized.

A full trio dove in with little squeals and began reversing the charm while cursing under their breath.

I turned back to Ardetia. “We need to recruit. Immediately. Nova, do you know someone who could teach magical herbology? I think we’ll need more than one teacher on that.”

Nova took a slow sip from her cider. “I know someone who thinks she invented magical herbology.”

“Good enough,” I said.

My grandmother tapped her goblet gently. “I know a historian. Retired. Cursed. Bit of a ghost. But she’s excellent with dates.”

“That all sounds very on-brand for us.” I grinned and nodded.

We started listing names, scribbling on napkins, arguing over magical theory versus practical training versus emotional resilience spells. But even as the to-do list grew, so did the laughter.

So did the joy.

Every table buzzed with women who had come back to magic. Some were rusty. Some were wild with talent. Some looked around like they couldn’t believe they’d been allowed through the door.

And that, more than anything, settled deep in my chest. We were doing it.

We were bringing magic back to people’s lives.

Real magic.

The kind that didn’t care how old you were or how many times you’d failed.

It just wanted you to try.

A butter roll whizzed past my ear, followed by a squeal and a muttered apology, and I ducked, laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe.

Nova smirked. “You good?”

I looked around at the chaos, the women, the sprites, the gravy fountain now reluctantly behaving itself.

And I nodded.

“I’m great,” I said. “Terrified, exhausted, out of my depth… and great.”

Because this?

This was what the Academy had always meant to be.

And now, it was alive again.

The feast was in full swing when I felt it.

Not a sound. Not a call. Not even the gentle ring of a visitor summons.

Just a shift.

Subtle, but certain.

Like the stone beneath my boots had exhaled.

I froze mid-laugh, my goblet of mulled cider halfway to my lips.

It wasn’t dread, and it wasn’t danger.

It was an invitation.

The sensation wriggled through me with a magnetic force.

Without a word, I set the goblet down and pushed back from the spiral-shaped table, murmuring a quick “be right back” to Nova, who raised a brow but didn’t stop me. Kitchen sprites zipped by in a blur, too busy wrangling flying napkins to notice me slipping from the hall.

I moved fast, weaving through the corridors with a sense of purpose I didn’t fully understand but didn’t question.

Because whatever had shifted was meant for me.

The windows lining the grand corridor glimmered with starlight, catching flashes of soft clouds and firefly motes flickering in the air. The Academy always hummed with magic, but now it thrummed, bright and full, like the wind before a spring thunderstorm.

And then I saw it.

Through one of the arched glass panes just before the front entry, I caught a shape.

No… shapes.

My feet stopped cold.

My breath hitched.

I turned, heart hammering, and reached for the doors.

The old handles were warm under my palms. The wood sighed as it gave way, and the doors creaked open with all the ceremony of a fairy tale.

And there they were.

Standing in the moonlight just beyond the threshold, framed by the ivy-wrapped arch and the faint shimmer of the active wards.

Stella. Keegan. Ember. And Frank.

My knees almost gave out.

Stella beamed first, with her red lips pinned in an eternal smile. “Did you think we’d miss your grand reopening?”

I laughed, loud and teary, throwing myself down the steps without hesitation.

My dad barked a loud, snorting, and enthusiastic noise and charged up toward me, all flapping jowls and bulldog determination.

“Dad!” I cried, dropping to my knees as he hurled himself into my arms, wriggling and huffing, knocking into my ribs with his joyful bulk.

“I told him he didn’t have to gallop,” Ember called from the path, smirking as she adjusted her bag. She was dressed in soft moss-green layers and carried herself like someone who had always known the woods better than the walls of any building, even though she could float through them all.

Keegan.

He hadn’t moved.

He just stood at the edge of the steps, his eyes fastened on me as if they were anchored there.

And stars help me, I felt it.

The familiar pull tugged softly in my chest. His presence knew where I began and ended, and wanted to meet me in the middle.

I swallowed, unable to look away.

“Keegan,” I said, breathless.

He stepped forward, the overhead light catching the edge of his half-smile.

“Took your time opening the place,” he said, voice low and warm.

“Took my time?” I echoed. “Where have you been?”

His gaze softened. “I never left. Just waited for the doors to open.”

I didn’t realize how fast my heart was pounding until I stepped toward him.

And then he reached for my hand, quietly…gently, and that was it.

The rest of the world slowed.

“You felt it too,” I whispered. “The shift.”

He nodded once. “We all did.”

Stella rolled her eyes behind him. “I was in the middle of mixing herbal blends. Ember was packing up an unruly inn guest. Keegan was staring off into the trees like he’d heard a voice. And Frank just barked and made a break for it.”

Frank gave a confirming woof.

I was laughing and crying at the same time, dragging them all into a hug I hadn’t realized I needed. Stella smelled like orange and cinnamon. Ember like crushed lavender. Keegan like the cold just before rain.

And my dad? Dad smelled like… well, Fritos.

When we finally pulled apart, I gestured toward the doors. “Come on. Come inside. You’re not students, but the Academy, she opened for you. I don’t even know what that means yet, but I know it’s right.”

Stella took my arm. “You’re glowing, you know.”

“That’s probably just flour,” I muttered, wiping my face.

“No,” Ember said with a quiet smile. “It’s something else.”

We climbed the steps together, my dad trotting proudly ahead like he owned the place. He probably did.

And as we passed through the entry, the light shimmered gently around them, a soft, welcoming glow like candlelight meeting old friends.

That’s when I knew.

The Academy hadn’t just opened to those seeking lessons.

It had opened to the ones I needed most.

My anchor points.

My past, my present, my future.

It had known exactly what I didn’t…that I couldn’t build this new chapter without them.

Keegan’s hand brushed mine again as we stepped into the glow of the grand corridor.

I looked up at him, heart steady now, quiet in a way it hadn’t been all day.

“You’re really here?” I whispered.

“I’m really here,” he said. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

And just like that, the Academy felt whole.