The auditorium of St. Crescent Academy was built for spectacle. Columns of white stone soared into arched ceilings, banners of each discipline unfurling like rivers of color. Hundreds of seats curved toward the central stage, a circle of polished wood where destiny itself was meant to be discussed, not questioned.
On this night, every seat was filled. Students buzzed with anticipation, their voices layering into a restless hum. Professors lined the back wall, arms folded, eyes sharp. At the center, a lectern gleamed under the chandeliers.
The Academy's tradition of open debate had always been ceremonial, a chance for Transfers to voice perspectives about what their glimpses demanded of them. But tonight was no tradition. Tonight was judgment.
Anaya sat near the front, hands clenched on her lap. Rafael on one side, Leila on the other, Kato just behind. She could feel eyes burning her from all directions.
The Headmistress entered, silver hair catching the light. The hall hushed instantly.
"Students," she said, voice carrying without effort, "tonight we gather to discuss the principles upon which this Academy stands: destiny, duty, and the integrity of glimpses. Recent events"—her gaze swept deliberately over Anaya—"have unsettled those principles. This forum is for clarity, not chaos. Speak your minds, and remember: the future is listening."
She stepped aside. The first speaker mounted the stage.
It was Mira.
Of course it was.
Her bandaged wrist gleamed white against her black uniform, a beacon of her supposed wound. She stood straight, chin lifted, voice ringing.
"Destiny," she began, "is what binds us. Without glimpses, we are ordinary. With them, we are extraordinary. But what happens when someone"—her eyes flicked like knives toward Anaya—"destroys those glimpses? What happens when one mistake threatens to unravel the futures of us all?"
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Mira's voice rose, steady and commanding.
"I lost my glimpse because of her. What if you're next? Will you laugh when your future shatters in your hands? Or will you realize too late that danger was allowed to walk among us unchecked?"
She placed her hand dramatically over her chest. "I ask only this: should one anomaly outweigh the safety of hundreds? Should her presence be tolerated when the cost is so high?"
Applause erupted from half the hall. The sound pressed on Anaya's ears like thunder.
Rafael was already on his feet. "Permission to respond."
The Headmistress inclined her head. "Granted."
Rafael strode to the stage, his dark hair falling into his eyes, his grin sharp as a blade. He leaned on the lectern casually, as though Mira's speech had been a mere warm-up act.
"Let me tell you something," he said, voice lazy but loud. "Mira calls it destruction. I call it possibility. If a glimpse can change, maybe it was never as fixed as we thought. Maybe Anaya showed us something bigger than destiny—choice."
The word echoed, startling in its boldness.
"Sure, it's scary. But isn't it scarier to think our lives are locked on rails forever? I'd rather live in a world where one decision can rewrite everything."
He stepped down to scattered applause and nervous laughter. Mira's glare could have set fire to stone.
Leila raised her hand next. "I'd like to add."
She ascended the stage, books tucked under her arm, hair slipping from its bun. Her voice was quiet but insistent.
"I study records," she said. "Hundreds of years of glimpses archived. Patterns emerge. Fates repeat, as though we're trapped in loops. Perhaps Anaya didn't break anything. Perhaps she freed us from repetition."
More murmurs. Students leaned forward now, listening.
Then Kato's booming voice: "And maybe we need danger. Without it, comfort turns to stagnation. If glimpses can bend, then so can we. That's not weakness—it's strength."
A swell of approval rose from unexpected corners.
Mira returned to the stage, her smile brittle. "So we celebrate chaos now? We let one girl dismantle the foundation of this Academy?"
Anaya felt the air thicken. Dozens of eyes drilled into her. The expectation was unbearable.
She stood before she could stop herself. Her legs trembled as she walked to the stage, each step echoing too loudly. When she faced the hall, her voice almost failed.
"I didn't ask for this," she said softly. "I didn't even ask to be here. But I won't be your villain, and I won't be your miracle either. I'm just—me."
Her breath shook. She searched for words, and they spilled out raw.
"You talk about destiny like it's everything. But destiny didn't save me when I was invisible. Destiny didn't notice me at all. And maybe… maybe that's the point. Maybe glimpses aren't the future—they're just one possibility. Maybe what matters is what we choose."
The silence was total.
Then, like a crack of thunder, her power surged.
She didn't mean to trigger it. Emotion spilled too wide, too deep, and suddenly the air shimmered with visions.
Dozens of students gasped as their glimpses flickered before their eyes—then warped. A healer saw themselves wielding a blade. A future diplomat stood in rags, feeding the hungry. A scientist glimpsed only ashes where their invention once gleamed.
The hall erupted. Screams, laughter, panic. Some clutched their heads as if struck. Others stared in awe, tears streaming.
Anaya staggered back, horrified. She hadn't touched anyone. She had simply spoken, and the world had bent.
Professors rushed forward, shouting commands. The Headmistress raised her staff, striking it once against the floor. A shockwave silenced the chaos, though the echoes of altered glimpses still hung heavy in the air.
Her voice was like iron. "Enough."
Students froze, breathing ragged.
Anaya stood trembling in the center, the stage floor glowing faintly where she had stood.
Headmistress Veyra's gaze burned into her. "Miss Sharma," she said, voice soft and dangerous. "We will speak. Alone."
And with that, the debate ended—not with resolution, but with rupture.
Fault lines had split the Academy, and Anaya was standing at the epicenter.