The next time Rose ventured behind the Forbidden Wing, it wasn't on purpose. She'd meant to sneak out the south corridor, skip her mandated alchemy drills, and maybe steal a few sugarhexes from the first-years' stash. Instead, she stumbled into a hidden alcove buried beneath cobwebs and disrepair.
There it stood: the Witchglass.
A tall, fractured mirror mounted on a rotting wall, its surface fogged with old magic. Most students thought it was destroyed during the Great Shattering. But it was here—humming with whispers and waiting.
Nimbus circled cautiously. "That thing reeks of residual memory. Let's not poke it."
Rose poked it.
The glass shimmered, then erupted in vision.
She saw herself—older, cloaked in smoke, eyes wild with raw power. Spells crackled at her fingertips. Her enemies scattered like leaves in a gale.
The image shifted.
Belladoma, alone in her tower. She removed her gloves—revealing hands inscribed with ancient sigils, the kind drawn in blood, not ink. Her reflection cracked as she stared into it, whispering a name.
Rose.
A heartbeat later, the Witchglass shattered inward.
Rose stumbled back, gasping. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
"I saw her," she said. "She's hiding something. A curse, maybe. Or worse."
Nimbus hovered close. "You didn't just see her. You saw yourself too. You're changing."
Rose touched the space where the mirror had been. It felt cold, like winter after fire. "I didn't ask for any of this."
"Maybe not. But it's in you now. The bond, the storm, her…"
That night, Rose couldn't sleep. The vision of Belladoma's marked hands haunted her, as did the sadness behind her eyes.
She wasn't just Rose the misfit anymore.
She was part of something deeper.
Something dangerous.
And maybe—just maybe—something beautiful.