Ashvale's School of Minor Arcana looked less like an esteemed center of magical learning and more like someone had taken an abandoned bakery, glued a barn to its side, and haphazardly scattered a few glowing runes on the walls in a last-ditch effort to convince passersby it was intentional.
The roof sagged in the middle, as though weighed down by its own existential despair. A weatherworn sign dangled above the entrance, barely clinging to its final nail. WELCOME, YOUNG MAGES! it read, the paint faded and hopeful. One of the glowing runes was sputtering like it had hay fever.
Elias stood at the school gate, hands in his coat pockets, with Rhea's tiny hand gripping his. He stared at the building and considered, not for the first time, whether he'd completely lost his mind.
Rhea, for her part, was practically bouncing. Her little boots—mud-stained from that morning's riverbank adventure—skipped in place as she adjusted her backpack, a hand-stitched thing shaped like a baby wyvern, complete with flappy wings and a tiny tongue that stuck out when you pulled the zipper.
"You sure you want to go in?" Elias asked, squinting up at the building like it might collapse just from his scrutiny.
"I'm sure!" she said, nodding with the kind of fierce determination only a child—or a former demon queen reborn into a child's body—could muster. "I wanna learn real spells! Like the one with lightning. And maybe the one that makes things explode!"
"Let's maybe start with basic levitation," Elias muttered under his breath. "Preferably not on livestock this time."
"I only made one cow float," Rhea said defensively.
"And then it exploded," he reminded her.
"She had a gassy tummy," Rhea said with a completely straight face. "I helped."
Elias covered his face with a hand. "Stars help me."
He crouched beside her, his expression softening. The morning light caught in her eyes—still a little too bright, a little too gold. He had managed to register her under the fabricated name Rhea Lightwood, with documentation forged by a local scribe named Inkbeard, who smelled like ink and guilt. Professor Albine, the school's head enchantress, had graciously accepted the story that Rhea was simply a very magically gifted half-demon.
Not entirely a lie. Just… selectively edited.
Now came the hard part.
He placed his hands on her small shoulders. "Okay. Just remember—no glowing eyes. No floating. No summoning ancient spirits. No infernal chanting. And absolutely no fire."
"Not even little fire?" she asked, hopeful.
"No."
She pouted. "Okay. I'll be… normal."
"Good. Good… Wait. Do you even know what normal means?"
Rhea tilted her head. "Not really."
Elias sighed. "Just copy the other kids."
With a solemn nod, Rhea turned and marched toward the school doors like a soldier going to battle. Her baby wyvern backpack wiggled with each step.
Elias watched her go, heart thudding harder than it had any right to. The door creaked open and swallowed her up. He stood there long after it closed, hands twitching, anxiety prickling the back of his neck like an itch he couldn't scratch.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Inside the schoolhouse, chaos had already set in like a cozy blanket.
The classroom, with its crooked bookshelves and stained-glass windows, radiated warmth. Not just from the tiny hearth in the corner, but from the palpable buzz of magic gone just slightly sideways.
A boy floated near the ceiling, flailing slowly like a forgotten balloon. Below him, a girl sobbed at her desk, her hair now replaced with uncooked spaghetti. Several frogs croaked rhythmically from the windowsill—some of them faintly glowing.
And in the middle of it all stood Professor Albine, a woman with kind eyes, soft gray curls pinned back with jeweled clips, and the unshakable calm of someone who had long since made peace with daily chaos. Her voice, as warm and steady as a cup of cinnamon tea, rose above the din.
"It's illumina, not ill-lunch-na, dear," she was saying, gently correcting a student who had just conjured a floating sandwich. "Words have power. Sometimes delicious power."
Rhea slipped in quietly, eyes wide as saucers. This was not what she expected. It was… better.
She found an empty seat near the back and lowered herself into it cautiously. Around her, whispers buzzed like flies.
"Is that a demon?"
"She's got weird eyes."
"She's kinda cool."
Rhea stiffened. She didn't look at anyone, didn't frown or smile. She just folded her hands over her notebook and stared forward.
Then a boy leaned in from the desk beside her.
"I'm Garret," he said. "Wanna see my frogs dance?"
She blinked at him. "Yes. Definitely."
Two minutes later, the frogs on the windowsill had formed a coordinated chorus line. Professor Albine didn't even flinch—just calmly plucked them off the blackboard with a levitation spell and continued the lesson like nothing had happened.
Outside, Elias paced.
He'd made it fifteen minutes before losing the battle against his nerves. Now he walked circles around the tiny patch of lawn outside the school, muttering increasingly elaborate contingency plans.
"If she burns anything, it's an illusion spell gone wrong. If she levitates, I faint. If the teacher asks about her birth records, I pretend to choke and flee…"
"Elias."
He jolted, spinning around to find Guildmaster Tyrin standing behind him with a hand on his hip and an eyebrow raised.
"Oh. Uh. Morning," Elias mumbled.
Tyrin gave him a once-over. "Shouldn't you be working?"
"I'm… emotionally supporting my extremely volatile, possibly world-ending ward."
"You look like a worried chicken."
"That's because I'm about to lay an anxiety egg."
Tyrin didn't laugh. He simply nodded like that made perfect sense.
"She'll be fine," he said. "Probably."
"You don't know her like I do."
"I know you. And honestly, you're the bigger hazard."
Elias frowned. "That's not comforting."
"Wasn't meant to be."
Back inside, Rhea excelled.
She performed basic levitation with alarming ease, crafted a flawless barrier shield within seconds, and accidentally lit ten candles when asked to light one.
Professor Albine blinked at the minor indoor bonfire now flickering across her desk. "That's… quite the spark."
"I was excited," Rhea explained, fidgeting with her sleeves.
"I can see that."
But despite her magical skill, lunch break brought something far trickier.
She sat alone at the end of a wooden table, staring at her bread and jam. Around her, students chattered in clusters. Some stole glances her way. None approached.
She'd done everything Elias said. She smiled. She hadn't summoned anything. She even shared her enchanted lollipop earlier—grudgingly, but still.
And yet.
The distance between her and the others felt like a chasm.
She stared at her plate. Her shoulders drooped.
Then she heard it—a scraping chair. She glanced up.
Garret sat beside her, grinning. "Wanna see what happens if a frog tries to sing and burp?"
Rhea blinked, then smiled. "Yes, please."
Another child joined. Then another. Someone offered her a half-cookie. She offered them half a story about how she and Elias once "accidentally robbed a cabbage cart," a tale that grew increasingly exaggerated with each telling.
They laughed.
And just like that, the gap began to close.
When Elias returned at the end of the day, he braced for disaster. Smoke. Screams. A crater where the school once stood.
Instead, the door burst open and Rhea sprinted into the sunlight, trailing glitter and leaves in her wake.
"UNCLE ELIAS!"
He bent down instinctively, arms wide. "Hey, firebug. You survive?"
She barreled into him. "It was awesome! We did spell games! Garret has frogs! The juice floated! It was chaos and I LOVED it!"
Elias grinned and ruffled her hair. "Proud of you."
She beamed. Her eyes glowed faintly, but only a little.
Professor Albine stepped out behind her, gently brushing ash from her scorched sleeve. "She's… very bright," she said. "And very enthusiastic. We may need to discuss spell boundaries tomorrow."
"Did she summon anything?"
"Just a frog parade. And possibly a sentient sparkler."
"Right. I'll… write a note."
"Please do."
That night, after dinner and a brief battle over brushing her fangs—"But they shine better if I don't!"—Elias tucked Rhea into bed.
She curled up with her glowing frog plushie, blanket pulled to her chin.
"Uncle Elias?"
"Yeah?"
She stared up at him. "Do you think I can be… not scary?"
The question caught him off-guard. He sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her bangs aside.
"I think you're clever. And strong. And way too sparkly to be scary."
She hesitated. "Even when I melted your cup?"
"That was actually kind of impressive."
She smiled, soft and sleepy. "Okay."
"Night, firebug."
"Night."
Elias turned out the lights. The room dimmed, but the faint glow from his pact mark pulsed gently beneath his sleeve.
Stable.
She was stable.
And maybe, just maybe, she belonged here.
He stepped out into the hallway and exhaled.
Normal.
For now.
And with their luck, that meant absolute chaos was just around the corner.
To be continued…