Later that afternoon, Rose sat alone in the spell gardens, surrounded by wilting wishflowers and whispering vines. Her soup had finally stopped confetti-ing, and she needed air—and silence.
Nimbus floated nearby, casting little rainbows on the mossy path.
"She didn't curse you," Nimbus said for the seventh time.
"She looked at me like a curse," Rose replied, tracing a glowing spiral into the dirt with her finger. "You know what that kind of gaze does to a person's confidence?"
"Raises their heart rate?" Nimbus offered. "You were blushing."
Rose made a noise somewhere between a cough and a denial. "It was warm. Sunlight."
"Under the shade of three hex-trees?"
Before Rose could retort, a ripple of shadow passed over the garden. A presence. Familiar.
She stood, brushing off her robe—and there, stepping between the vines like a secret the world was trying to forget, was Archmistress Belladoma.
Today, her robes were the color of scorched midnight. Her hair shimmered like starlight trapped in ink. Her eyes locked onto Rose's with that same unreadable depth, but this time… not unkind.
"You meditate like a novice," she said, voice low and fluid. "Your aura leaks."
Rose blinked. "Thanks, I think?"
Belladoma tilted her head. "You've drawn attention."
"To the soup?" Rose asked.
"To yourself. Your magic. Your presence." Her gaze flicked briefly to Nimbus, then back to Rose. "You're not ready. But you could be."
Rose's heart thudded. "You think I have potential?"
"I think you're dangerous," Belladoma said, stepping closer. "But so is fire, and we build kingdoms with that."
For a breathless moment, they stood just a few feet apart. Rose swore the air between them pulsed—not with fear, but something electric, humming beneath the surface.
"Why are you really here?" Rose asked quietly.
Belladoma looked away for a split second, as if the question had cut too close. Then her mask returned. "To warn you. Not all power comes from skill. Some of it is legacy. Blood. You'll need more than charm and chaos to survive this academy."
Rose nodded, slower now. "So help me. Train me."
Belladoma's expression shifted. Not surprise. Not displeasure. Just… consideration.
"Be careful what you ask for, Rose Wynthrope," she murmured. "Some doors, once opened, will never close again."
And with that, she turned—cloak catching the wind just so—and vanished between the vines as if the garden had dreamed her up and decided to let her go.
Rose let out a slow breath.
Nimbus floated down beside her. "So… are we falling in love with the possibly cursed, very dangerous Archmistress, or…?"
"Shut up."
Nimbus grinned, crackling.