The next morning, Rose awoke to find a parchment scroll nailed to her door with a ceremonial dagger. Nimbus read it aloud in a dramatic voice:
"By decree of the Academic Circle, Rose Wynthrope is hereby assigned to the Cauldron Committee—effective immediately. May your brew not explode."
Rose stared at it. "The what committee?"
Nimbus shrugged. "Sounds fake. Probably cursed."
It was real. And worse than cursed.
Down in the damp, moss-slicked kitchens beneath the Academy, Rose was introduced to the Cauldron Committee—a ragtag group of students who had accidentally melted a professor, cursed the soup again (not her this time), and turned a whole corridor into custard.
Their job? Brew the magically-enhanced sustenance for the entire school while avoiding catastrophic side effects.
"We work in shifts," said Vex, a girl with one eye and three opinions. "Don't stir clockwise more than twice. And if the cauldron hisses at you, apologize. It's got feelings."
Rose didn't belong here. She belonged in battle classes, or magical duels. Or possibly in forbidden romantic dreamscapes with powerful witches.
But no—she was elbow-deep in angry porridge.
Belladoma found her there.
Rose froze as the Archmistress swept into the steamy kitchen like a thundercloud with purpose. Her robes were immaculate. Her expression was not.
"You're wasting time," Belladoma said, staring at the mess.
"I'm on probation," Rose muttered, stirring clockwise just once.
Belladoma stepped closer. "This is punishment. Not progress."
Rose set the ladle down with a clunk. "You think I want to be here?"
Belladoma leaned in, voice low. "No. But I think you need to learn discipline before power consumes you."
Something about the way she said it sent a shiver down Rose's spine—not fear, not anger. Something… sharper.
"I am learning," Rose said, cheeks flushed. "Maybe not the way you'd teach."
Belladoma looked at her then—really looked. Not as a student. Not as a project. But as something unexpected.
"Good," she said softly. "Then maybe there's hope for you yet."
And she left.
Nimbus drifted down from the rafters. "She totally flirted with you."
"She totally threatened me."
"Same thing with her, probably."
Later that evening, as Rose sat alone scrubbing the bottom of a cauldron that hissed passive-aggressively at her, she caught her reflection in the dark metal—tired, a bit wild, still on fire from one short conversation.
This wasn't about soup. Or probation.
This was about magic. About power. About becoming.
And somewhere at the edge of it all, was Belladoma.
Watching.
Waiting.