Elias dreamed he was drowning in laundry.
Socks wrapped around his neck like constricting snakes. A button-up shirt tried to strangle him with one arm while the other pointed accusatorily at the laundry basket. Somewhere, a demonic sweater cackled as it grew five sleeves and declared itself king.
Then came the scream.
He bolted upright, tangled in his blanket, heart hammering.
"ELIAS!"
It was barely past dawn. Light filtered in through the crooked shutters of their shared apartment in the capital's student quarters. Outside, the street was mercifully quiet—save for a distant rooster already regretting its life choices.
Inside, chaos.
More specifically: a fourteen-year-old girl having a full-blown identity crisis.
Revantra burst out of the small bathroom in a swirl of towel, flailing arms, and pure existential horror.
"I HAVE HIPS!"
Elias squinted, still bleary. "What?"
"My pants don't fit!" she shrieked. "I think I GREW AGAIN! I—LOOK!"
She gestured wildly, spinning in place, towel barely clinging to her shoulders. "These are NOT child proportions! I woke up and—everything's all…longer! And different! And my voice—do I sound older!? I FEEL OLDER! And also my pajama shorts ripped!"
Elias's brain short-circuited.
Revantra stood in their tiny shared space looking—well, definitely not like the twelve-year-old who had flopped on the couch the night before, mumbling about midterm exams and raspberry tarts. She was taller. Nearly shoulder height now. Her features had subtly shifted—less round, more defined. Her voice had dropped a fraction of an octave. Her hair was longer too, brushing her mid-back in loose waves. And—
He turned so fast he gave himself whiplash.
"GAH—NOPE—NOPE—I'M LOOKING AT THE FLOOR NOW—EYES ON FLOOR—TOWEL—YOU'RE WEARING A TOWEL—WHY ARE YOU JUST WEARING A TOWEL—"
"Because my CLOTHES SHRUNK—I mean, I grew—but it's the same problem!!"
"I'M GOING TO STAND OUTSIDE!"
"You didn't answer! Do I look different?"
"DO NOT ASK ME THAT WHILE YOU'RE IN A TOWEL!"
He fled the room.
The front door slammed behind him. A neighbor's cat, curled on the stairwell banister, gave him a judgmental meow.
Elias exhaled slowly, pressing his face against the wall.
This was fine.
Everything was fine.
Just another day with a former Demon Queen turned magical schoolgirl turned panicking teenager who might be aging faster than a reality show timeline.
After a full minute, he knocked.
"You decent?"
"Yes!" she shouted back. "I found the oversized sweater you hate!"
"…The one that says 'Witch, Please'?"
"Better than no pants!"
Fair.
He stepped inside cautiously. The room looked like a whirlwind had hit the laundry pile. Clothes everywhere. Half the closet dumped onto the floor. A pair of singed shorts lay discarded like a fallen soldier of puberty.
Revantra stood in front of the cracked mirror, tugging the hem of the cursed oversized sweater over her thighs.
He carefully kept his eyes above the shoulders.
"So," he said, voice deliberately calm, "you aged again?"
"Yes. And don't say it like I'm a magical pumpkin."
He raised both hands. "Noted."
She sat down on the edge of the bed, scowling at her knees. "This is happening faster."
He nodded.
"When I first got here, I looked maybe six. Then eight. Then ten. Now this."
"Fourteen-ish?" he guessed.
She shrugged. "Old enough to be emotionally confused and tragically fashionable."
Her voice cracked slightly at the end of the sentence.
She winced. "Voice squeak. Fantastic."
Elias hesitated, then sat down beside her, leaving a safe half-foot of awkward space.
"I guess it makes sense," he said. "Your soul's catching up to your power. Or your power's catching up to your soul. Either way, you're growing. Fast."
"Too fast," she whispered.
Her fingers curled into the edge of the bedspread.
"I keep thinking I'll stop," she admitted. "That one day I'll wake up and just…stay that age. But it keeps going. I'm changing. And I don't even know what age I'm supposed to be."
He looked at her profile. The high cheekbones were starting to show. Her eyes, once too big for her face, now glinted with teenage sharpness. She looked like someone halfway through a transformation. Someone who didn't know whether to slay dragons or cry over algebra.
"I don't even know who I'm going to be tomorrow," she said.
Elias was quiet for a beat.
"Tomorrow," he said slowly, "you're still going to yell at me about using your comb on the cat."
She blinked.
"And you're still going to hog the left side of the couch," he added.
"That's the good side."
"And you'll still try to sneak hot sauce into your tea."
"I regret nothing."
He turned to her. "My point is, no matter how you look, or how tall you get, or how much your towel situation stresses me out—you're still you. You're Rea. You're the girl who used to threaten squirrels and who now owns more notebooks than any sane person should."
"They're organized chaos," she muttered.
"You're allowed to grow," he said. "Just…don't forget you don't have to do it alone."
The silence between them softened.
Then—
"…I still can't fit my pants," she grumbled.
He snorted.
And just like that, the tension broke.
That afternoon, they hit the capital market for emergency clothes shopping.
The market was loud and colorful, with fabric stalls, tailors yelling prices, and enchantments gone rogue flapping in the breeze like sentient scarves. Elias held a large cup of fried potato spirals while Revantra stalked through the racks like a suspicious cat.
"No. No. Ew. No. Absolutely not."
"That one looks practical," Elias offered, holding up a sturdy gray skirt.
"I'm not a math teacher named Mrs. Bruteface."
"This one's got—uh—glitter?"
"I will end you."
They finally found a decent compromise: a charcoal black skirt with leather buckles ("very apocalyptic librarian"), a pair of dark leggings, and a blood-red tunic with enchanted buttons that automatically adjusted size ("Thank you, capitalism," Elias whispered).
At checkout, the sales clerk looked at Revantra and said, "My, growing into a young lady, aren't we?"
Revantra blanched.
Elias dragged her out before she could summon a fireball.
That night, after dinner, Revantra sat on the apartment windowsill in her new clothes, looking down at the lantern-lit streets.
Elias approached with two mugs of hot chocolate. He handed one over.
She sipped. Then sighed.
"This isn't going to stop, is it?"
He didn't answer right away.
"I don't know," he said finally. "But you're handling it."
She looked down at her hands—longer now, more delicate than childish. Her knuckles still bore faint calluses from spellwork.
"I don't feel ready," she said.
"Me neither."
She glanced sideways.
"At least you didn't scream this time," she teased.
"I ran screaming. It's different."
She smiled faintly.
Then—
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For being here. For not freaking out. For looking away."
He reddened. "Yeah, well. The towel was...a situation."
"Would've been funny if you tripped on your way out."
"I nearly did! The doorknob tried to betray me!"
She laughed.
And that sound—half new, half familiar—made his chest ache in a way he wasn't ready to examine.
"You're allowed to change," he said softly. "Just don't disappear."
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
"I won't."
Across the city, in a chamber of shadows, a robed figure marked another line in their book.
"The Queen grows stronger. The time draws near."
To be continued…