Page 17

The banquet hall shimmered with warmth and laughter, where midlife students gathered like old friends at a harvest feast. Spiced cider steamed in goblets beside heavy ceramic plates, each one piled high with roasted vegetables, flaky cheese pies, and soft, buttered rolls that seemed to replenish themselves the moment they were emptied.

Ember had tucked a sprig of rosemary behind one ear and was animatedly trying to convince a skeptical group of witches that her magical cleaning shortcut didn’t result in any more explosions than necessary.

Nova lounged at the far end of the hall with a tarot card in one hand and a baked apple in the other, her laughter joining the gentle clinking of silverware and floating candles.

And the gossip.

Life was back to normal inside these walls as it should be.

"Did you hear Skonk enchanted a hallway to whisper everyone's names in alphabetical order for five hours?"

"He said it was a strategic auditory symphony," one student giggled.

"Twobble nearly threw him out a window."

"Again."

I smiled into my mug of cider, the sweetness tingling along my tongue.

Despite the chaos, or maybe because of it, everything felt more alive than it had in weeks.

The students glowed from within, not magically, just joyfully.

They were learning, thriving, reclaiming their magic and purpose in a world that had once told them they were too late.

But beneath all that light and bustle, a quiet thread pulled at me.

A tingle.

A flicker.

A delicate ripple of warmth spread across my butterfly birthmark.

I froze, my fingers tightening slightly around the curve of my mug. It wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t pain. Just… a presence.

A soft knowing.

Like being gently summoned.

I scanned the room. Nothing obvious. The Wards were intact. The students were safe.

But the feeling didn’t go away.

I rose slowly, careful not to draw attention, and slipped out through the archway near the far hearth. The laughter faded behind me like candlelight down a corridor, replaced by the soft hush of the upper hallways.

The corridor curved gently toward the living quarters, sconces flickering to life as I passed. My boots made no sound on the smooth stone, and yet the moment felt loud. My skin prickled with that same quiet energy.

I turned the corner near my room and stopped.

There, rounding the opposite end of the hall with surprising swiftness, was my grandmother.

Elira.

No longer the solo caretaker anchored to the Academy and wrapped in a life of solitude.

Her silver hair flowed down the back of a deep blue cloak, and her eyes, clear as twilight, locked on mine the instant she saw me.

“Well,” she said with a breathless smile. “I was hoping to catch you before you buried yourself in another round of magical theory and heroic nonsense.”

I blinked. “Grandma?”

“Who else would it be?” she asked, walking forward briskly. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“Would that be so unusual?” I managed.

Elira laughed, full-bodied and unapologetic. “Fair point.”

She reached me, her hands cool but firm as she grasped mine.

“I felt you,” I whispered. “That pull.”

“That was the Academy,” she said softly. “And me, perhaps, riding on its coattails. There’s something I need to talk to you about. Something I’ve remembered.”

The breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding finally slipped free. “Good or bad?”

“Both,” she said. “But maybe not in the ways you’re expecting.”

She glanced toward the door to my room. “Shall we?”

I nodded and opened it, letting us both inside.

My dad lifted his head from the rug, gave a short huff of acknowledgment, and promptly returned to snoring. I understood the sentiment. The day had been long, and yet somehow, I felt it hadn’t really begun until now.

Elira sat by the hearth, conjuring a fire with a flick of her fingers, as if she'd never been absent from this world.

“I’ve been walking the old halls,” she said after a moment. “Listening. The Academy is remembering faster now. Your presence, the students, the Wards… they’re stirring more than just bricks and ivy.”

I sank onto the edge of the bed, watching her. “What does that mean?”

“It means the curse is thinning in places even I didn’t expect. But it also means the past is bleeding through.” She hesitated. “I know now why the Academy shut its doors.”

My heart picked up.

“And?”

Elira met my eyes. “Because we didn’t listen. Not to the land. Not to the warnings. We tried to fix it with power. With certainty. But it was intention that mattered. And that’s what you’re doing differently.”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly tight. “I’m not sure it’s enough.”

“It will be,” she said, her voice steadier than mine. “Because you’re not doing it alone.”

The fire crackled.

And in the flickering glow, I saw it…the thread that had wound from the banquet hall to this moment. The students’ laughter. The clink of goblets. The ache in my soul when my dad curled against me. The flicker of my mark.

It was all the same call.

The same reason.

I had to see this through.

For the Academy.

For my father, Keegan, and me.

My grandma reached forward and took my hand.

“You’re the first Bellemore in generations not to run from this place,” she said quietly. “Whatever happens next, that courage will carry you through.”

I nodded, my voice caught somewhere behind a thousand emotions. “You didn’t run.”

Her eyes met mine. “Because I was trapped.”

My grandma’s words dug deep, and outside, the bell tolled once, soft, distant.

The night wasn’t done with us yet.

“Goodnight, Grandma.”

“Goodnight, Love.” She started toward the door and stopped, turning slowly to look at me. “And you were right about Twobble.”

“I know.” I smiled, feeling the approval seep deeply.

She left with the same quiet intensity she always carried, and I stood in the center of my room long after the door had closed, staring at the space she’d just vacated, her words circling in my head like moths around a candle.

“You’re the first Bellemore in generations not to run from this place.”

The ache that sentence left behind was almost physical. I pressed a hand to my chest as if that would ease it.

I wasn’t running. Not from the curse. Not from Gideon. Not even from myself.

But that didn’t mean I wasn’t scared.

I moved toward the window, looking outside. The fog from the practice Shadowick had lifted, and the stars above were just beginning to prick through the sky, faint but brave.

The pull came again. Not from the Butterfly Ward this time, not from the Hedge or the ghosts of the Academy’s past, but something older. Something deeper.

And I knew, without a doubt, where I had to go.

The dragons.

Grandma Elira’s words had cracked something open in me. If the Academy remembered more each day… then so did the ones who had always lived within it. The secret keepers. The ancient witnesses.

The dragons deep within the school.

I threw on a warm shawl, tucked a charm into my pocket just in case, and made my way through the quiet halls.

Most students were still enjoying the last of their meal, or lingering in the common spaces.

The corridors were empty, lit only by floating orbs of light and the soft murmur of magic behind the walls.

The entrance to the dragon den wasn’t marked. It never had been. You had to know where it was, or more truthfully, why you needed to be there. A flutter of wings and a key appeared before me, and I unlocked the door.

It warmed beneath my touch.

The door sighed open, and the air changed immediately.

Heavier. Older. Scented with smoke and damp stone, tinged with the soft metallic scent of scale and magic.

My heart thudded with something that wasn’t fear exactly, but reverence.

I wasn’t sure the dragons would welcome me now, but something inside urged me on.

The wide den glittered with bioluminescent moss and strands of crystal embedded in the walls. A soft orange glow pulsed in the far corner. The nest had moved. The sound of breathing, slow and deep and steady, echoed like wind down a canyon.

And there they were.

Curled like celestial serpents, their bodies shimmered in low light—silver, jade, a deep plum streaked with gold. At least three adults lay scattered across the den, half-asleep but still alert, their eyes opening one by one as I stepped forward.

But my attention was pulled beyond them.

To the far wall.

To the clutch of young dragons nestled in the stone alcove hollowed by time and instinct.

The youngest was no bigger than a hound, the eldest not much bigger.

Though their wings were already too large for their bodies, they were draped over each other like velvet canopies.

One lifted its head at my approach. Its eyes impossibly clear, its horns still soft and pearlescent.

My breath caught.

They were beautiful.

And fragile.

And new .

A soft rumble stirred to my left.

She’d changed so much from when she’d first hatched.

One of the adults, a silvery dragon with sea-glass eyes, shifted and lifted her head. Her scales rippled in the light like moonlight over water, and her voice came not with sound, but as thought. Old and warm and undeniably feminine.

Bellemore child, she said. Why do you come?

I stood frozen, the dragon’s voice still echoing inside my mind, not in sound, but in thought, smooth and ancient, threading directly into my consciousness. My mouth opened, but no words came.

I could understand her. Not vaguely, not through intuition or some dreamlike haze, but clearly.

Intimately.

It was as if she were speaking in my own language, woven with stardust and scale. Shock rippled through me, a full-body jolt of wonder and disbelief.

“I didn’t know I could…” I whispered aloud, more to myself than anyone else. The silver dragon blinked slowly, her gaze like moonlight through mist, and I knew in my soul that this moment, this connection, had just changed everything.

I stepped closer, bowing my head just slightly. “I needed… clarity.”