Okay, so here's the thing about wanting to be invisible: the universe apparently thinks that's hilarious and will do everything in its power to ruin your life.
I'm Amara Cole, seventeen years old, professional wallflower, and the proud owner of exactly zero ambitions beyond living a quiet, boring, absolutely average life. Is that too much to ask? Apparently, yes.
It's a Tuesday morning and I'm helping Mom at our bakery like I do every morning before school. The smell of fresh bread is literally the only good thing about waking up at 5 AM, and I'm kneading dough with the kind of aggressive energy that comes from being chronically sleep-deprived when the town square's announcement bell starts ringing.
Mom's head snaps up so fast I'm worried about her neck. "Amara! The scholarship results!"
I freeze. My hands are elbow-deep in dough, and my stomach drops like I just got pushed off a cliff.
No. No no no no no.
"I'm sure it's fine," I say, trying to sound casual while my heart is doing parkour in my chest. "Probably just another royal decree about land or whatever."
Mom's already untying her apron, flour everywhere, looking at me with those hopeful eyes that make me want to cry. "We have to go see! This could change everything for you, sweetheart!"
What you need to know about the Arethia University Scholarship: it's basically the golden ticket of the Kingdom of Astra. Every year, they pick twelve commoners... yes, just twelve out of the entire kingdom... to attend the most prestigious magical academy in existence. Full ride. Free housing. Instant status upgrade from "peasant" to "person nobles have to pretend to respect."
And I applied because Mom made me.
Let me be clear: I did NOT want to apply. I was perfectly happy being a baker's daughter with zero expectations and maximum invisibility. But Mom had this look in her eyes, the one that says "I'm not mad, just disappointed," which is somehow worse than actual anger, and she was like, "Amara, you're brilliant, you have to at least try."
So I filled out the application with the enthusiasm of someone doing taxes, wrote the most boring essay possible, and figured that would be the end of it. There are literally thousands of applicants. The chances of getting picked are basically zero.
Except the universe hates me, remember?
We rush to the town square, and it's already packed with people. Everyone's crowding around the announcement board where a royal messenger in way-too-fancy clothes is preparing to read the results. I'm trying to hide behind Mom, which is difficult because she's like five-foot-nothing and I'm five-foot-nine, but I'm doing my best.
The messenger clears his throat dramatically. Of course he does. Everything in this kingdom is dramatic.
"By order of His Majesty King Rumin Della and the esteemed faculty of Arethia University," he announces in that pompous voice all royal messengers seem to have, "the following twelve individuals have been selected for this year's Commoner Scholarship Program."
My palms are sweating. This is fine. I'm fine. There's no way—
"From the Northern Province: Desmond Chadwin and Pearl Weel."
Wait. Des and Pearl? My best friends Des and Pearl?
Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no.
If they got in, that means the selection committee actually looked at our town, which means...
"From the Eastern Province: Marcus Thorne, Isla Rivers, and Garrett Stone."
Mom grabs my hand. She's shaking. I'm shaking. Everyone's shaking. This is a nightmare.
"From the Southern Province: Helena Cross, James Wicker, and Sophie Lane."
Three more names. Just three more names and I'm safe. I can go back to the bakery and live my peaceful, invisible life and—
"From the Western Province: Thomas Gray, Lydia Moon..."
One more name. Just one more. Please be literally anyone else. I will personally bake bread for whoever gets picked instead of me. I will—
"...and Amara Cole."
The world stops.
Like, actually stops. Time freezes. My brain short-circuits. Someone nearby gasps. Mom makes this sound that's half-sob, half-squeal, and suddenly she's hugging me so tight I can't breathe, and people are congratulating us, and I'm just standing there like a malfunctioning robot.
This cannot be happening.
"My baby!" Mom's crying now, full-on tears streaming down her face. "My brilliant, talented baby is going to Arethia University!"
I am going to fake my own death. That's it. That's the only solution. I'll stage a tragic accident involving bread dough and disappear into the woods to live as a hermit. It's the only way.
"Mom," I manage to croak out, "I don't—"
"We have to celebrate!" She's already dragging me back toward the bakery, talking a mile a minute about how proud she is, how I deserve this, how this is going to open so many doors for me.
Doors. She said doors. I don't want doors to open. I want all the doors to stay firmly closed, thank you very much.
The thing nobody knows about me, including my own mother, is that I'm not normal. Like, really not normal. I have magic—god-class magic, to be specific, because apparently my absent father was an actual god who decided to have a fling with a mortal woman and then peaced out immediately I was born. Cool story, Dad. Really appreciate the abandonment issues and the cosmic power I can't tell anyone about.
I've spent my entire life hiding it. I have a magic restrainer spell on me that I maintain 24/7 to make sure nobody ever finds out that I'm basically a walking magical nuke. I just want to be average. Invisible. Forgettable.
And now I'm going to the most elite magical academy in the kingdom, where they're going to test my magic, and I'm going to have to pretend to be weak while surrounded by the most powerful young mages in Astra, including literal royalty.
This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm fine.
(I am not fine.)
Back at the bakery, Mom's already planning everything. "We'll need to get you new clothes! And books! Oh, Amara, you're going to do amazing things!"
I'm sitting at our kitchen table, staring at nothing, contemplating the logistics of faking amnesia.
There's a knock at the door, and Mom rushes to open it. It's Des and Pearl, both looking equally shell-shocked.
"Did you—" Pearl starts.
"Yeah," I say flatly.
"We're going to—" Des tries.
"Yep."
We all just stare at each other for a moment, the weight of what just happened settling over us like a heavy blanket.
Pearl breaks first. "This is either going to be the best thing that ever happened to us or a complete disaster."
"Definitely disaster," I mutter.
Des grins despite looking terrified. "At least we'll be disasters together?"
Mom brings out celebratory pastries she'd been saving for a special occasion, and my friends start getting excited, talking about what the academy will be like, what kind of magic they'll learn, whether the rumors about the campus are true.
I just sit there, eating a croissant, and mentally prepare for the most stressful year of my life.
I'm about to walk into an elite academy full of nobles, royalty, and powerful mages, and I have to pretend to be the weakest person there while actually being strong enough to level a city.
What could possibly go wrong?
(Everything. Literally everything is about to go wrong.)
The acceptance letter arrives that evening, sealed with actual magic and the royal crest. Inside, it lists the date I need to report to Arethia University: two weeks from today.
Two weeks until my peaceful life ends.
I look at my mom, who's still crying happy tears, and I can't bring myself to tell her the truth. That I'm terrified. That I don't want this.
So I just smile and say, "Thanks, Mom. I'll make you proud."
She hugs me again. "You already do, sweetheart. You already do."
Two weeks. I have two weeks to figure out how to survive an elite magical academy without revealingthat I'm basically a god in human form.
Yeah, I'm absolutely screwed.