The corridors of the Academy felt colder after the debate, as though the walls themselves recoiled from what had happened. Candles guttered in their sconces, shadows leaning longer than they should. Anaya followed the prefect in silence, the echo of her own words still ringing in her ears.
Maybe glimpses aren't the future—they're just one possibility.
But what had followed wasn't possibility. It was chaos. Faces she couldn't erase: the boy who wept after seeing himself on a battlefield; the girl who smiled through tears at the sight of a child she hadn't thought she'd have. Futures unraveled, rewoven, distorted by her presence.
The prefect stopped before the Headmistress's office. Heavy oak doors towered above them, carved with constellations. "She's waiting," the prefect murmured, bowing slightly before retreating.
Anaya pressed her palms against her skirt to steady them, then knocked.
"Enter," came the voice—smooth, unyielding.
The office was vast, a cathedral of books and firelight. Shelves climbed into darkness, stuffed with volumes whose spines glimmered faintly as if alive. A fire snapped in the hearth, shadows flaring.
Headmistress Veyra stood at the center, her silver hair cascading down her cloak like spun starlight. Her hands rested lightly on her staff, carved with runes that seemed to pulse with faint light.
"Sit."
Anaya obeyed, lowering herself into the chair before the desk. Her heart hammered in her throat.
For a long moment, Veyra only studied her. The silence was worse than shouting. Finally, she spoke.
"You have changed everything."
Anaya flinched. "I didn't mean—"
"Intent again," Veyra interrupted, voice sharp. "You cling to it as though it excuses consequence. But history does not care for intent, Miss Sharma. Only for what is done."
Anaya swallowed. "Am I—expelled?"
Veyra's mouth curved faintly, though it was not a smile. "No. Too dangerous to cast you out. The world beyond these walls is not ready for you. And perhaps… neither are you."
Anaya stared at her hands, words tangling in her throat.
"You altered glimpses without touch," Veyra continued, pacing slowly. "That is unprecedented. Even in the oldest records, no anomaly has manifested in this form. You do not fracture glimpses—you rewrite them."
The word lodged in Anaya's chest like a stone. Rewrite.
"You stand at a crossroads," Veyra said softly, almost to herself. "You may remain as you are—untamed, reactive, driven by fear. In that case, we will contain you. Observation. Restriction. No public exercises. No contact beyond necessity."
Anaya's stomach twisted. A cage, dressed in polite words.
"Or," Veyra went on, and her gaze sharpened, "you can learn. I will allow you access to knowledge forbidden to Transfers—codices locked in these shelves, methods too volatile for most. But training has its price. To embrace this power is to walk a path apart. Few will trust you. Fewer still will stand by you. And the Academy itself may turn."
Anaya's lips parted. "Why would you… help me?"
Veyra paused at the hearth, firelight gilding her profile. For a moment, her expression flickered—regret, longing, something Anaya couldn't name.
"Because power wasted is power lost," she said finally. "And because you remind me of someone I once knew."
The fire cracked.
Anaya leaned forward. "Who?"
But Veyra only shook her head. "Irrelevant. What matters is choice. Suppress or embrace. Safety or danger. Tell me, Miss Sharma—what do you want?"
Anaya's throat tightened. She wanted to scream that she wanted none of it, that she wanted her life back, small and invisible. But the memory of Mira's smirk, of the whispers in the hall, of Rafael's steady presence beside her—all collided inside her.
"I don't know," she whispered.
Veyra's eyes gleamed, sharp as glass. "Then decide soon. Indecision is the most dangerous choice of all."
She dismissed Anaya with a flick of her hand. The door seemed to close heavier than before, sealing the words inside.
The corridors were empty when Anaya stepped out, but the weight in her chest was heavier than the silence. Her mind replayed the options again and again: cage or chaos, suppression or power.
Rafael found her near the stairwell. "You look like you fought a ghost and lost," he said lightly.
She almost laughed. Almost. Instead, she told him everything in a low, urgent rush—the offer, the warning, the impossible choice.
He listened without interruption, his expression tightening only when she said "containment."
"So they want to box you up or turn you into a weapon," he said flatly. "Classic."
"It's not that simple."
"Sure it is." His dark eyes softened. "You're afraid of what you can do. But cages don't make fear smaller. They make it bigger."
Leila appeared at the landing, hugging her books. "And training?" she asked. "Training could make it worse. If she becomes too strong, they'll fear her more."
Kato leaned against the rail, silent until now. "Fear is already here. At least strength lets you choose how to face it."
The three of them looked at her, waiting. The decision hung heavy, but Anaya realized no one could make it for her.
She closed her eyes, letting the memory of the debate flood back: Mira's venom, the gasps of students, the surge of power she hadn't chosen but had unleashed anyway.
Suppress or embrace. Safety or danger.
When she opened her eyes, her voice was steady, though quiet.
"I need to know what I am," she said. "I'll take the training."
Her friends exchanged glances—fear, pride, worry all mingled.
And somewhere deep in the Academy, where shadows moved too deliberately, the walls seemed to sigh in response.