Eiswacht Nighttime

  The room was sealed. Matte-gray walls absorbed all reflection. At the center stood a single table with a closed file. At the back, a glowing screen displayed three-dimensional maps of Seravenn: civil routes, restricted zones, strategic infrastructures.

  General Ahlgrim spoke with calm intensity.

  —We confirm full insertion of Wei?spiegel into enemy territory. Assets have assumed their positions.

  One by one, faces appeared on the screen.

  —Violeta Raumer —the general said—. Systems specialist. Intelligence theft.

  —Elainne Voss. Structural and industrial sabotage.

  —And Silke Engel.

  The name hung in the air a second longer.

  —She’s already observed Shadows of the Crown —murmured another officer—. Even before direct contact.

  —I know —the general replied—. But she hasn’t said anything yet. She operates differently. She senses before she acts.

  —Should we activate the link protocol?

  —No. Not until she requests it herself.

  The screen displayed the three faces over Seravenn’s glowing silhouette. Silke smiled faintly, as if she already knew something no one else did.

  —Tomorrow’s a holiday there —the general finally said—. Let them enjoy it.

  —What if they cross paths? —asked another.

  —They won’t.

  —And if they do?

  The general just smiled.

  —Then Seravenn will have a problem.

  The operation had begun.

  Seravenn Night time...

  Night in Seravenn had a peculiar tone. It wasn’t dark like in other places. It was elegant, restrained, wrapped in a violet neon mist that shimmered on the puddles and cobblestones. The kind of night that hid secrets beneath layers of civility.

  Floating banners commemorated the Day of the Eternal Oath. Signs glowed with patriotic slogans: “For our goddesses, for our eternity.” White flags fluttered gently from enchanted posts.

  Everything was celebration. Hope. Light.

  Silke walked like a shadow among those symbols.

  Thin heels. A black satin dress, tight-fitting and backless, with strategic slits that suggested without revealing. Every movement was a choreography. Her hips swayed to a rhythm only she could hear. Her white hair, loose and slightly wavy, contrasted with the city’s muted tones. A lazy smile lingered on her lips, as if the city belonged to her and just didn’t know it yet.

  She wore no coat. She didn’t need one. Her magic kept her warm.

  Or perhaps it was power that kept her warm.

  As she passed a narrower corner, two figures emerged from the shadows.

  —Hey there, gorgeous —said one, tall and lanky, a cigarette hanging from his mouth—. You look real lonely tonight. Want some company?

  The other snickered, already stepping in too close.

  Silke didn’t stop. She simply turned her head toward them, like someone inspecting an unfinished painting.

  —You know… you remind me of someone —she said softly, her voice vibrating with a subtle sweetness—. A pair of fools who thought they had power over something they’d never understand.

  And without raising a finger, she activated her gift.

  Her voice seeped into their minds like a whisper forged from knives.

  In their eyes, she wasn’t there anymore. They saw something else.

  A room with no exit.

  A feminine shape made of spilled blood.

  A broken laugh.

  Whispers in their own voices, saying things they would never fully remember.

  The one who collapsed to his knees sobbed, mumbling:

  —She spoke from inside my tongue…

  The other ran, screaming something about “broken mirrors.”

  Silke, as if nothing had happened, brushed her hair back into place and kept walking.

  HIGH-END RESTAURANT

  She entered the restaurant like one steps into an opera: fully aware of every gaze, without granting them a shred of importance.

  —Reservation, miss? —asked the host, visibly thrown by her solitary entrance.

  —A glass of wine at the window table, please. I’m just waiting for someone… special —she said, flashing a charming smile that made the man forget every bit of protocol.

  From her seat by the window, she spotted other familiar faces. A logistics advisor from the Ministry of Resources. A director of internal communications. Names that would surface later. This city had too many open doors.

  The target arrived five minutes later.

  Marcus Thalren, deputy director of Seravenn’s central bank. Forties, well dressed, confident expression… until he saw her.

  And just as she’d predicted, he couldn’t resist.

  She let him approach. He offered her a drink. She smiled as if surprised. Told him she was new in town, fascinated by the architecture, and that real men were hard to find.

  He laughed.

  Thirty minutes later, he’d already told her about the key hours of fund transfers, restricted credentials, and his backup password —“just in case things got interesting.”

  Silke nodded, laughed, crossed her legs slowly.

  Not a single word out of place.

  Everything… calculated.

  BANKER’S APARTMENT, DAWN

  Marcus lay on his bed with a stupid grin, murmuring nonsense. In his mind, he was reliving a private moment.

  One that never actually happened.

  In reality, she had never touched him.

  Her spell didn’t require skin or whispers. Just access to the right memories.

  Silke sat at the edge of the window, back turned to him, wrapped in a silk robe that hadn’t been his the night before. Her magical communicator, subtly built into an earring, glowed faintly on her ear.

  —Target secured. Full infiltration into the Central Bank’s internal division —she whispered, devoid of emotion—. Phase two may begin upon command. I’ve planted three key memories to manage access without raising alerts.

  Pause.

  —No, he suspects nothing. He sees me as the best decision he’s ever made.

  She ended the connection.

  Looked out over the city.

  And for the first time in hours, she smiled for real.

  A hollow smile. Perfect.

  Like her reflection.

  Industrial Zone — 00:17 hrs

  Toxic mist danced between sleeping chimneys. Rusted streetlamps flickered without rhythm. No one guarded the back doors of warehouse 39-B. No one… except her.

  Warehouse 39-B, a mixed-use civilian-military facility, served as a logistics node for automated supplies and magical microcomponents.

  Violeta Raumer emerged from the air like a whisper. Her shape matched that of an ordinary young worker: ash-gray hair tied in a ponytail, stained overalls, dull eyes. No one would recognize her as a Magical Girl. No one would notice that neither her scent nor her voice were real. It was all illusion.

  With deliberately clumsy steps, she slipped toward the supervisor’s office. As she passed the security cameras, her face shifted subtly, and what they captured was another woman—one who had exited the complex hours ago.

  Inside the office, her fingers danced over documents and hard drives. Microcrystals of poison were left in certain mugs, on doorknobs, on signed papers. They didn’t kill. They weakened. Distorted senses. Twisted judgment. A few poorly made decisions were enough to ruin an entire week of production.

  —Industrial zone secured —she murmured into the communicator hidden under her blouse—. The chaos will begin in a few days. No one will know why.

  She exited the same way she entered: invisible in the crowd, unrecognizable to the human eye.

  Military Office District — 00:17 hrs

  The light was white and sterile. Everything in order, in silence. A high-security administrative facility where Seravenn’s logistical plans were stored. Inaccessible. Or almost.

  Elainne Voss walked with a steady pace, her cane tapping the floor with a serene and ominous rhythm. She wore an elegant pearl-gray suit, light glasses, and a badge identifying her as an inspector from the Third Veil. Fake, but flawless.

  Two young officers stopped her.

  —Excuse me, ma’am... do you have clearance to be here at this hour?

  She observed them for a moment. Calculated.

  Two seconds later, one was apologizing and offering coffee, and the other was holding the door to the secure archive. Her power had processed their emotions instantly: the first was insecure; the second, ambitious. A well-placed phrase was all it took to turn them into unknowing collaborators.

  Inside the archive, Elainne inserted a thin magical crystal into the system’s core. It didn’t steal data—it distorted it. Altered the system’s internal logic. As if the archive had developed memory lapses, artificial confusion. A misled intelligence that began to operate with increasingly severe errors.

  —Interference complete. Exiting.

  And with the same calm with which she entered, Elainne left.

  No one suspected a thing.

  No one ever would.

  Both operations happened in parallel. No noise. No traces. No witnesses.

  Wei?spiegel didn’t need force to start unraveling Seravenn.

  Only precision. Only patience.

  And everything... had already begun.

  From above, Seravenn looked peacefully asleep.

  But the poison was already running through its arteries.

  I woke up without knowing why.

  There were no dreams. No sounds. Just… that feeling.

  Like something in the world had shifted without my permission.

  I opened my eyes sharply. The silence was thick, too perfect.

  The clock read 4:30 a.m.

  My hour.

  I sat slowly on the bed, letting the cold air remind me of where I was. I ran my hand over my face. Nothing unusual.

  And yet I felt like something invisible was floating in the air, hovering at the edge of my awareness.

  It wasn’t magic.

  Not the kind I could identify through sigils or patterns.

  It was something else.

  As if an invisible crack had opened in reality.

  I got up and went straight to the bathroom.

  Showering has always felt like rebooting everything.

  As if the water could wash away the resentment, the doubt, the weight of what I am.

  Even if only for a moment.

  Even if it’s a lie.

  Even if this body, this face in the mirror, doesn’t entirely belong to me either.

  The hot water hit my back, and I closed my eyes. Breathed deeply.

  After drying off, I walked in a towel to the kitchen, hair still dripping.

  The faint glow from the fridge light was enough. I turned on the coffee maker.

  A simple breakfast: toast, some fruit, strong coffee.

  I’ve never eaten for pleasure.

  Only for routine.

  Outside, the city was beginning to be dyed with the spectral blue of dawn.

  But inside the apartment, everything remained still.

  As if time itself was holding its breath.

  When I finished, I put on the fake uniform: formal, academic, proper.

  Lyria Wren, assistant professor of tactical bibliography.

  A mask that already felt like part of my skin.

  As I stepped out of my apartment, the elevator was already descending.

  Neyra —no, Synnara Heldewyn— was inside, dark circles under her eyes, hair tied back carelessly.

  Her uniform was creased at the edges. Not from sloppiness... but perhaps because she hadn’t slept at all.

  —Good morning —I said, keeping Lyria’s neutral tone.

  —Morning... —she replied without looking at me. She was biting her thumbnail hard.

  I noticed her leg trembling, an anxiety that seemed to seep into the air between us.

  —Everything okay?

  —Yeah. I just... I think I picked up something. Still not sure. I’m checking connections, patterns. —She rubbed her arms, uncomfortable—. There’s interference... like something in the security net is breathing on its own.

  I nodded. Of course I knew that feeling.

  The elevator stopped.

  —And Mirelle?

  —Mirelle starts later today. She stopped by before leaving. She’s fine. Said we’ll have lunch together. Like before.

  —Perfect. —I lied.

  But nothing was like before.

  We went our separate ways. I toward the transit stop. She toward the military zone.

  On the way, something caught my eye.

  A woman.

  Long white hair, pale skin, dressed like someone just returning from an expensive party. Her walk was hypnotic. Not provocative, but confident. As if the world belonged to her.

  And that scent...

  Wilted lilies.

  She passed in front of me without looking. I couldn’t help but turn slightly to follow her with my gaze.

  It felt like her presence touched more than just the ground. As if she walked along a line the rest of us couldn’t see.

  Who walks like that at five in the morning?

  It wasn’t normal. But it wasn’t illegal.

  I let her go.

  The way one lets go of nightmares they can’t quite remember upon waking.

  I boarded the transport without further interruptions.

  The interior was more crowded than usual.

  At that hour, it was normally half-asleep workers, soldiers heading to their posts, an office clerk repeating a routine.

  But that day… it was different.

  Children wearing colorful capes and fake wands filled the seats with barely contained excitement. Mothers in white dresses fixed their bows, while fathers holding small flags discussed the best spot to watch the parade. A teenager wore a T-shirt with Reia’s silhouette in gold over a purple background, humming a song I recognized: “Guardian of the Unbreakable.”

  I stood near one of the windows, pretending to watch the city while I listened.

  —“Do you think a Magical Girl will show up?” a boy asked.

  —“I don’t know,” his mother replied. “Maybe someone from the Lumina squad. Or... maybe a new one.”

  The boy lit up.

  I looked down.

  A new one?

  The thought turned my stomach.

  They had no idea what “new” meant. What it cost.

  The transport passed a bridge decorated with silver ribbons and holographic flowers. Below, I saw an improvised altar with portraits of former Magical Girls, each surrounded by a digital candle and a heroic quote. One of the images showed a girl I recognized, even if only by name: Harper Glaive. They say she saved an entire city before she died, draining every last piece of herself. Her epitaph was projected below the image in floating text:

  “I wasn’t enough, but I was all I had.”

  I didn’t know if it was true.

  But there she was, surrounded by symbols of glory.

  Hypocrisy had the shape of an altar.

  I sighed.

  The transport stopped in front of the academy station.

  I stepped off.

  Today would be strange. Too public. Too symbolic.

  And yet, for me, it was just another mask.

  Lyria Wren, assistant professor, adjusted her bag over her shoulder and walked straight into her routine.

  The library still smelled of dry ink and paper preserved with minor enchantments. As I arrived, I did a quick check to make sure everything was in order. The panels responded correctly. No signs of tampering. The logs matched. But just as I sat down, I remembered the folder.

  The one from last night.

  The one that shouldn’t have been there.

  The one I wasn’t supposed to open.

  I stood up immediately and went to the shelf.

  Empty.

  I swallowed. It wasn’t unusual for certain files to be relocated, but... what if someone else had noticed it too?

  Before I could investigate further, a notification buzzed through my internal communicator.

  “Professor Wren. Urgent. Professor Tallen is out sick. You will teach his module at 09:00 in classroom 3-A. Subject: Applied History of Continental Warfare Doctrines.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  ...Perfect.

  Classroom 3-A was one of the largest in the East Building. Almost eighty students. All uniformed, attentive, in strict silence. Seravenn made sure even classrooms felt like military compounds.

  I stood at the control panel. Activated the holo screen.

  The first twenty minutes went smoothly. Technical material. Chronologies. Doctrinal principles. A review of the deterrence campaigns across the Khaar-Selva region and the Oesternhavn Demarcation Treaty. Names that weighed like stone. Troop movements charted like equations.

  But I couldn’t ignore the stares.

  Not many. But they were there. A couple of boys —maybe eighteen, nineteen years old— didn’t seem to be paying attention to the content, but rather to the cut of my blouse, the outline of my legs, the subtle shine of my lips.

  It wasn’t overt harassment. No words.

  Just eyes.

  I tried not to lose my rhythm. Kept my voice steady. Stayed on topic. A girl raised her hand to ask about urban pincer tactics during the Nine-Day War, and I silently thanked her for the break.

  Forty minutes later, class ended.

  I turned off the panel. Gathered my things.

  Some students came up to thank me. A couple asked for clarification. One just stared at me in silence... and then lowered his gaze, almost ashamed.

  I left without another word.

  It was already midday.

  I hadn’t eaten.

  And I still hadn’t found the folder.

  The day was just beginning.

  As I stepped out of the building, I felt the weight of the day settle on my shoulders like an invisible plate. The library, the class, the stares. Everything. I just wanted to melt into the noise of the city, disappear among the footsteps.

  And then I saw him.

  Silas was sitting on one of the outer benches, a stack of folders resting on his lap and a steaming cup of coffee in one hand. He wore the same simple shirt and gray vest, that usual focused expression. But when he saw me, he lifted his gaze… and smiled.

  Not the polite smile of someone recognizing a coworker. A real smile. Warm.

  —Professor… Professor Wren —he greeted, sitting up a little but still holding onto the papers.

  —Archivist Whitmore —I replied, unable to stop a faint smile from forming.

  —Survived the class?

  —Barely —I said, sitting next to him without asking—. There were more eyes on me than on the screen.

  —Well… not every day the students get a professor with tact, knowledge… and perfectly outlined lips.

  I shot him a look. He raised his hands.

  —Strictly academic compliment. I swear.

  I laughed, against my will. A small, but genuine gesture.

  We sat in silence for a few seconds. The kind that doesn’t feel awkward.

  —Sometimes I think —I said, not looking at him— that if I could freeze a moment in the day… it would be one like this.

  He nodded thoughtfully. Then looked down at the folders.

  —You could pick better. This one comes with excessive bureaucracy.

  —But it comes with coffee —I replied.

  —And me, of course —he added, with a teasing grin.

  —I thought it. Didn’t say it.

  —But you accepted it.

  We fell quiet again. This time longer.

  I… was fine there. Beside him. As if the weight of the uniform grew a little lighter.

  But then he glanced at his watch, sighed, and stood up reluctantly.

  —I have to deliver these to the digitization wing. And then reorganize the shared access archive. Apparently, no one else in the division knows the difference between “restricted” and “reserved.”

  —Shouldn’t they let you breathe a little? —I asked, not sarcastic, but with a genuine frustration I hadn’t realized I felt.

  He shrugged.

  —Being indispensable has its price.

  —Then they should learn to do without you for at least five minutes —I said, more seriously than I’d intended.

  Silas looked at me. He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then just lowered his head and nodded.

  —Take care, Lyria. See you tomorrow.

  —Tomorrow —I echoed.

  I watched him walk away. And I was left with the feeling that something inside me had shifted.

  I made my way to the transport station.

  It was time to go back to the apartment. To see Neyra and Velka.

  To pretend everything was normal… and start planning our “outing.”

  The transport dropped me off just a few meters from the complex. At that hour—neither late nor early, with the sun split halfway across the sky—the air smelled of reheated food and freshly trimmed flowers. Seravenn had that strange ability to feel both alive and dead at the same time.

  I took the elevator up in silence, my gaze still carrying the image of Silas walking away into the crowd.

  Velka’s apartment smelled of cinnamon and stale coffee. The three of us were finally there, reunited after a long, exhausting day. Outside, the sun was just beginning to set, tinting the windows with a soft, orange hue.

  —Alright, glamorous shadow squad —Velka said, dropping a folder onto the dining table—. Today is our day. How often does a covert operation line up with a national holiday? We have to celebrate it.

  Neyra snorted as she kicked off her shoes.

  —Celebrate with patrol routes and civilian behavior analysis?

  —Obviously —Velka replied, amused—. But in style.

  She spread a city map over the table, marking key points with lipstick instead of a marker.

  —We’ll split the sector into three main routes. First, a “casual” stroll through the commercial zone. Then lunch at a terrace with good pedestrian visibility. Finally, a walk through the outer galleries. All under the pretense of being model citizens enjoying their day off.

  Neyra nodded, though not fully convinced.

  —And what if we stumble onto something? A contact, a mistake, a lead?

  —We act like we didn’t see it —I said—. We report it later. We don’t risk our cover over a suspicion.

  —Exactly —Velka added, rummaging through her bag—. And if we’re going to be out for hours, we might as well smell good.

  She pulled out a long, pearl-glass bottle with a golden cap that looked like jewelry. She sprayed it onto her neck and closed her eyes with theatrical exaggeration.

  —Sinclair by Ahnna Lux —she said—. Commemorative edition. Found it at the New Althamerian export boutique. Smells like desire… and expensive sadness.

  —Isn’t that the perfume with the slogan “So they miss you before you’re gone”? —I asked, half joking.

  —The very same —she replied, delighted—. Don’t you love being missed?

  Neyra snorted.

  —I’d rather be feared.

  —That’s why you don’t have a boyfriend —I said.

  We all laughed, finally relaxed.

  And as we planned how to “celebrate” our first public outing, we knew that for a few hours, at least, we could pretend things were normal.

  The city had changed.

  The avenues usually resembled a choreography of order, but that day—for the first time since our arrival—Seravenn felt like a living city.

  Metallic balloons floated between buildings, projecting ancient footage of glorious battles, glowing female silhouettes, sequences recovered from war cameras. The holographic murals had swapped their usual ads for messages of gratitude: "To those who saved us. To those still fighting. Thank you, Goddesses."

  And the people… laughed. Sang. Whole families strolled by wearing T-shirts with embroidered names: Harper, Elowen, Marrit. Children wore cardboard tiaras or toy staffs with flickering lights. Some had makeshift capes made from old blankets, pretending to be their favorite Magical Girl.

  —Never thought I’d see this —Neyra murmured, arms crossed as she observed from the shopping center terrace—. A day where we’re not just tolerated… but celebrated.

  —Not us —Velka corrected—. The cleaned-up versions. The dead icons. The legends.

  —It’s still more than we’ve ever had —I added.

  We moved through the crowd naturally, though each of us was on alert. In disguise, yes—but not blind.

  One store projected the latest album cover of Mirabelle "Corazón" Sterling above its entrance. She stood in a pose nearly priestly, clad in ivory-white, surrounded by floating crystals and pale blue smoke.

  —The voice of the nation —I said, dryly.

  —And the patron saint of impulse shopping —Velka added—. There's an entire clothing line based on her latest video. If you can’t shine like her, at least you can try to look the part.

  —I wonder if anyone’s actually seen her. Not in concert. In real life —Neyra said—. They say hearing her sing in private makes people cry.

  —From sadness? —I asked.

  —No. From beauty.

  The tone softened. There was something reverent in how people spoke of the Magical Girls. As if they were already living saints. Or worshipped ghosts.

  After watching an impromptu parade and refusing wand-shaped candies, Velka led us toward the edge of the cultural district. There, surrounded by white marble walls and symmetrical gardens, stood the mausoleum of previous generations.

  The crowd’s pace slowed at that point. Laughter faded. No one cried, but everyone spoke in hushed tones.

  At the entrance, a sculpture of Karinne, the first confirmed martyr, raised her spear skyward. Her face had been modeled from battle records. Beside her, other figures: Sylvia with her broken bow, Branwen floating with open arms, Reia carved with a serenity that hurt to look at.

  —Let’s go inside —I said quietly.

  The mausoleum smelled of incense and damp stone. Floating lanterns cast a golden glow, soft and respectful. Each tomb had offerings: enchanted flowers that never wilted, messages etched in living ink, small amulets.

  We walked through the aisles without speaking much. Until Neyra frowned.

  —Do you feel that?

  I stopped.

  Yes.

  A subtle trace, barely perceptible. Not fresh magic—but not ancient either. Like a trail someone left behind unknowingly. And it didn’t come from the tombs.

  —It’s like… an echo —Velka murmured.

  We said nothing more. It wasn’t the time to raise alarms. Not yet.

  —After this, we’re getting lunch —Velka announced as we exited—. Even goddesses deserve to eat.

  I nodded, though I couldn’t stop glancing back at the white walls behind us.

  They looked like they were watching.

  The mausoleum smelled of incense and damp stone. Floating lanterns cast a golden glow, soft and respectful. Each tomb stood apart, dignified, protected by magical barriers that shimmered faintly in the dim light.

  They weren’t just graves.

  They were monuments.

  Each one merged the essence of the girl it honored—her weapon, her emotion, her legacy—into something unique.

  Elowen’s tomb rose like a fractured obsidian spear piercing through pale marble, a crimson veil encased inside the glass tip.

  Harper’s was shaped like a floating cascade of wings, with glowing feathers gently falling in slow motion, suspended by a spell that never ended.

  Marrit’s monument resembled a shattered bow, wrapped in ivy that bloomed with blue flame instead of flowers.

  And then there was Sylvia, the Empress of Silence.

  Her tomb was different.

  A mirror. Perfect, untouched. Its surface shimmered with a silvery hue, and within it, one could almost see a reflection that didn’t belong. Her sigil—a rose carved from onyx, suspended just beneath the glass—hovered without touching anything. Her weapon, a pair of gauntlets forged from obsidian and dream-stone, rested beneath her nameplate in an eternal guard.

  Unlike the others, her presence whispered nothing.

  It simply waited.

  We walked slowly, unsure of how close we were allowed to approach. The barriers weren’t aggressive, but they pulsed with soft warnings.

  The silence grew heavier.

  That was when we felt it.

  Not fear. Not dread.

  But something softer. Sharper.

  Melancholy.

  It crept into the lungs, curled around the chest, made the air thicker.

  I noticed Velka pause, her arms loosely crossed. Her eyes unfocused. Neyra… Neyra wiped her cheek with the back of her hand before the tear could even fall.

  —It’s… strange —she whispered, trying to laugh it off. But her voice cracked slightly—. Like… I don’t know. Like they’re still here.

  I said nothing. Because I felt it too.

  Something in the room pulsed with memory. As if these resting places didn’t just hold remains—but echoes. Emotions fossilized in magic.

  Whatever it was… it wasn’t threatening.

  But it wasn’t gone either.

  We said no more.

  Only when we exited did we breathe freely again.

  —After this —Velka announced, forcing a smile— we’re getting lunch. Even goddesses deserve to eat.

  I nodded, though I couldn’t stop glancing back at the white walls behind us.

  They looked like they were watching.

  They didn’t leave the mausoleum right away.

  It took a few seconds to feel the sounds of the city again—the filtered warmth of the sun between buildings, the distant voices of vendors, and the lights of storefronts. The world hadn’t followed them inside… but it waited outside. As if it knew something had to be left behind before returning.

  They walked for a while in silence.

  Then, without warning, Neyra let out a short, almost nervous laugh as she pointed to a store window displaying mannequins dressed in magical girl–inspired fashion.

  —Look at that… do they seriously think Thessia would’ve worn that skirt?

  Velka followed with a mocking gesture.

  —No. But she’d buy it just to scandalize the reporters.

  We laughed. Just a little. But it was enough to breathe again.

  We kept walking until we reached the restaurant Velka had reserved. An elegant place with a casual charm. Dark linen tablecloths, walls of polished stone, and warm light glowing from floating orbs. The space was almost full, yet not noisy. In Seravenn, even restaurants knew how to restrain themselves.

  They led us to a table by the window. We sat down, still carrying some of the mausoleum’s weight, but ready to let it go.

  The menu sparkled with names that sounded exquisite, though some were just modern reinterpretations of simpler dishes.

  —What are you going to order? —Neyra asked, scanning the menu with genuine curiosity.

  —I need something fried. And no judgment —Velka declared.

  —Then go with the Silverscale & Rootsticks —I said, recalling the description—. It’s the midday classic: silver fish filets with rock-butter sautéed potatoes, served with swamp-herb sauce.

  —That sounds perfect —Velka grinned, closing the menu.

  There were other dishes too:

  Steamed Iris Petals: a light starter of edible flowers infused with northern spices.

  Miroclassic Cerna Cut: smoked meat aged in lunar wine barrels, served with sweet root purée.

  Lavellen Sweet Mist: a melting dessert made from airy meringue with black honey and a hint of starlit salt.

  As we ordered, the mood grew lighter.

  Velka played with her napkin between her fingers.

  —Did you ever think we’d end up here? Walking among statues, eating at restaurants, talking like we’re… normal?

  —Everyone wants to feel normal sometimes —I said.

  —Not you —Neyra pointed out with a smirk.

  —Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it.

  Our drinks arrived: a chilled infusion of sour fruits and black tea.

  The conversation wandered from topic to topic. From fashion to soldier behavior in their assigned districts. None of us mentioned the mission. Or the mausoleum. Or the strange lingering magic still clinging to the air.

  Not because we had forgotten.

  But because, for a moment, we chose to live… as if we weren’t what we are.

  And in Seravenn, that alone was an act of resistance.

  High District of Seravenn – 16:11 hrs

  The breeze had shifted. The sun, still warm, bathed the plazas in golden light, and the buzz of voices had softened, as if the entire city had slowed down to admire its own reflection. Between vendor stalls, gardens, and polished marble corridors, the three of us —Neyra, Velka, and Me— walked like any other group of citizens. Simple clothes, calm steps, alert eyes.

  They said some celebrations faded over time. But this one… this one seemed to grow stronger with each generation.

  The main parade was over, but the fervor lingered in the streets: little girls wearing shiny capes, adults bowing to floating portraits, animated figures of old magical heroines projected onto digital walls. The entire city was a shrine, and magical girls its saints.

  That’s when we felt it.

  An imperceptible change in the air. Not hostile, but impossible to ignore. A subtle magnetism, like static brushing against the skin. A feeling you could only understand if you had felt it before… if you were one of them.

  Velka tilted her head, uneasy.

  —Do you feel that? —she asked in a low voice.

  Neyra nodded immediately, her eyes scanning the crowd.

  —Magic… but different. Strong. Refined. It’s like… something inside me says “you’re near your kind.” But this… —she looked at me— it’s not you.

  —No —I murmured. Nothing more needed to be said.

  The silence of the crowd was our next clue.

  Ahead of us, civilians began to part like water before something sacred. Not pushed. Not forced. It was pure reverence.

  Then we saw them.

  Blood of the Throne.

  Five figures moving in perfect formation. They didn’t look at anyone. They didn’t smile. They didn’t react to the cheers or gestures of devotion.

  Velka whispered:

  —Irhena Draeven. The one in front. First of the Blood of the Throne. Battlefield commander. Fire follows her like a loyal beast.

  —To her left, the one with the crystals… Thessia Korr —added Neyra—. Cuts the mind before the flesh.

  —The one in the center is Maren Duskveil. No one knows what happens in her head… only that it hurts.

  —That one, with the mirror plates… Vaelyn Sahr. She copies what she sees, improves it, then breaks it.

  —And the one at the end is Lureya Tharn. Pure devotion. No one outmatches her faith—or her strength.

  I couldn’t look away. They weren’t just a squad—they were a statement. A procession of power, unleashed but controlled.

  Then Irhena turned her head.

  She looked at me. Directly.

  And the world paused.

  Her expression twisted for a moment—not mockery, not threat. More like recognition… discomfort… and something I couldn’t name.

  Then she looked forward again, as if I wasn’t worth more than that single moment.

  A pulse struck my chest. Not fear. Not exactly. Something rawer. Like being undressed with a glance.

  Velka glanced at me but said nothing.

  Neyra did.

  —You okay?

  —Yeah… —I lied. But something inside me was trembling.

  Blood of the Throne continued forward. The crowd bowed before them.

  I stood still.

  Watching them walk away.

  Thinking… that look wasn’t an accident.

  It was a warning.

  We kept walking for a while longer.

  Neither Velka, Neyra, nor I said anything at first. The streets filled up again, but with a quieter hum. The crowd’s energy was no longer euphoric—just the afterglow of something important having happened.

  —Could it have been them? —Neyra asked softly— The magic we felt earlier…

  Velka shook her head slightly.

  —I don’t know. A girl’s magic shouldn’t feel that dim, even when restrained. What we felt before… it was different.

  —Maybe —I said— it's because there are too many close by. They interfere with each other. Like echoes.

  We didn’t reach any conclusion. We didn’t need to. It was just a theory to explain the lingering static under our skin.

  We passed in front of a digital fashion gallery. The screens displayed pre-recorded runway shows from New Althameria. One model strutted down a crimson catwalk wearing a tunic with asymmetric lines and razor-sharp cuts.

  —That’s from the “Arellano” line —Velka said, nodding toward the screen—. Camila Ximena dropped that collection a few months ago. Sold out in hours.

  The model vanished in a swirl of digital light, leaving behind the brand’s glowing logo: “Arellano: The Refined Untamed”.

  —Would you wear something like that? —I asked Neyra.

  She chuckled.

  —Only if I wanted to intimidate an entire room without saying a word.

  The sky had deepened into navy blue. Amber lights hung like garlands between buildings, and the city’s buzz turned domestic: couples strolling, kids running with floating magical balloons, voices rising from balconies.

  —Time to head back —Velka sighed.

  —Yeah. Tomorrow won’t be this gentle —I added.

  But just as we turned to find the way home, a scream tore through the air. Followed by a thick murmur, the wet shuffle of a crowd gathering fast.

  We froze. All three of us.

  Another scream. Closer this time.

  And then we felt it.

  It wasn’t a normal magical signature.

  It was a dissonant vibration, like someone about to burst from the inside. A raw aura, overflowing, driven by fear.

  We ran toward the source of the noise.

  A small crowd had gathered around a narrow alley. An older woman shouted that someone was armed. Another demanded the authorities. Voices mixed. Elbows collided. No one dared get close.

  Through the crowd, we saw the girl.

  She looked our age—maybe younger. Trembling, hunched against the wall, clutching some kind of makeshift blade. Her eyes were wide open—too wide for her face—rimmed with dark bruised circles that seemed to sink into her cheeks. Her hair, dark and tangled, hung in uneven clumps.

  Stained with ink, dirt, maybe chalk.

  And magic.

  Magic so thick it hurt.

  It clung to her like an invisible mist—jagged, unstable, ready to erupt. She was on the edge of collapse… or of collapsing everyone else.

  Velka, Neyra, and I locked eyes.

  We didn’t speak.

  We didn’t need to.

  We knew what this was. We knew what it meant.

  And we knew we couldn’t act like we did.

  We started pushing through the crowd slowly—not from instinct, but from a shared decision.

  A new magical girl had just appeared.

  And she was about to break.

  The crowd buzzed around us like hornets. People shouted contradictory things — “She’s dangerous!”, “Someone help her!”, “Call the authorities!” — but no one dared take a step closer.

  We did.

  Slowly. Calmly.

  Her body was curled against the wall, blade trembling in her grip. Her chest heaved with each breath, as if breathing itself hurt. Her eyes flicked between faces, pupils dilated, mouth quivering.

  —I didn’t mean to— I just— I was hungry —she stammered, her voice a raw whisper—. Since I woke up, no one… no one helped me. They all look at me like I’m nothing. Like I’m…

  She couldn’t finish the sentence. Her knuckles whitened around the blade.

  I felt it then —the almost exact ripple of magic we’d sensed before. Fragile. Chaotic. Not because it was weak, but because she was.

  She wasn’t a threat. She was a wound.

  —Let me try —Neyra murmured beside us.

  We nodded.

  She stepped forward. Each movement deliberate. Her arms stayed at her sides, open, relaxed. Her voice was soft —just loud enough to be heard over the crowd.

  —Hey. You’re okay. You’re not alone.

  The girl flinched.

  —You don’t know that.

  —No —Neyra agreed—. I don’t. But I want to help anyway.

  Step by step, she closed the distance. The girl’s hands shook. Her breath came faster. She muttered things under her breath—half-words, maybe names, maybe nothing at all.

  —I’m not going to hurt you. I promise —Neyra continued—. I know what this feels like. The noise. The panic. The way everything burns behind your eyes.

  That was actually true but it was disguised as a lie.

  For a moment, the girl seemed to hesitate.

  Then her fear spiked again.

  She lunged.

  The blade barely grazed Neyra’s arm —a shallow cut, but enough to stain her sleeve. She didn’t flinch. Her hands moved quickly, precise, grabbing the girl’s wrist, twisting gently but firmly until the weapon clattered to the ground.

  And then she wrapped her arms around her.

  The girl collapsed into her.

  Sobbing.

  The tension bled from the crowd like air from a punctured balloon. Someone whispered “she’s just a kid.” Others began to back away.

  That’s when we heard them.

  The sirens.

  Two black transports hovered in. One bore the crest of Seravenn’s Civil Security Division. The other… was white, reinforced, and marked with the Division for Magical Containment and Recovery.

  My breath caught.

  A memory slammed into me, uninvited.

  The same white vehicle.

  The same emblem.

  The same cold light bathing me as I screamed, cornered, broken—

  Gone.

  I blinked it away. The moment passed.

  The agents surrounded the scene quickly and professionally. They asked the crowd to disperse, erected a containment barrier, and took the girl —gently, but without giving her a choice. She kicked once. Screamed.

  —Please! Don’t let them take me! Please help me!

  One of the handlers moved to sedate her.

  I made a move without realizing.

  A hand stopped me.

  Neyra.

  —No —she whispered—. She’s safer with them right now. If we try something, we’ll only make it worse. They’ll protect her. I promise.

  I looked at her. At the cloth wrapped around her bleeding arm. At the quiet pain in her face.

  I nodded.

  An officer approached us. Male, middle-aged, with a military posture and a tired look in his eyes.

  —Thank you —he said, clearly—. For stepping in. For showing courage, even as civilians. The Republic appreciates your service.

  We nodded politely.

  And just like that, they were gone.

  The girl, the crowd, the noise.

  Only the echoes remained.

  —I’ll treat that when we get back —Velka whispered, nodding toward Neyra’s arm.

  She nodded.

  We didn’t say much more.

  The streets were calm again.

  The magic was gone.

  And so, we walked home —three women wrapped in silence, each carrying her own weight.

  Velka's apartment smelled like disinfectant and magical salve — a mix of mint and damp ashes. Neyra sat at the dining table with her sleeve rolled up while Velka treated her wound with care.

  — It’s nothing — Neyra kept insisting, though I could see the way she frowned with every touch. — Just stings. A bit.

  — If it gets infected, don’t blame me — Velka said, focused, as she channeled a faint amber light between her fingers. — I’m not one to leave scars... unless I don’t like you.

  — I’ll take that as a compliment — Neyra muttered, not looking up.

  The wound slowly began to close, leaving behind a pale line, like a shaky chalk mark.

  — And now? — Velka asked, straightening a little.

  — Still stings — Neyra said. — But less.

  — That’s because my magic has character. Like me. It asserts itself.

  — Your ego leaves scars too — Neyra replied, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

  And for a moment, the three of us laughed. Not loudly, but with that soft kind of relief that comes after chaos. A breath. A pause.

  Then I said it, without thinking much:

  — Do you think she awakened on her own? She didn’t seem newly awakened… she looked lost. Like no one came for her.

  The silence that followed was heavy.

  Neyra was the first to speak:

  — Maybe she did. Maybe no one found her. Or someone... ignored her.

  — But that shouldn’t happen — I murmured.

  — No — Velka said, looking up at the ceiling, her voice low. — It shouldn’t.

  We sat in that silence for a few more seconds. Then she stood up abruptly, with that theatrical enthusiasm she used to chase the dark away.

  — Well, enough existential dread. I almost died twice today — once from magical emotional residue, and once from excessive patriotism. I think that gives me the right to a long bath, a cold drink, and an emotional nap.

  — An emotional nap? — I asked, smiling.

  — As of today, yes — she declared, disappearing down the hallway like a tired diva.

  I exchanged a glance with Neyra. Nothing needed to be said.

  I returned to my apartment alone.

  The hallway was quiet, but outside I could still hear laughter. Excited voices, distant music, even the sound of a bottle breaking on the street. The city was still celebrating. As if everything was fine.

  I stepped in and left my shoes by the door. Turned on a soft light.

  I stood in the middle of the room.

  I thought of that girl. How she trembled. Her eyes too wide. Her scream: help me. As if no one ever had. As if no one even tried.

  I thought of the last two days.

  Lyria’s mask.

  Velka’s jokes.

  Neyra’s steady hand.

  And without meaning to, I thought of Silas.

  The name rushed through me like a warm current. I wasn’t supposed to think of him. Not now.

  Outside, someone burst into laughter.

  The celebration hadn’t ended.

  But in my chest, everything was beginning to quiet.

  I went to my room.

  And turned off the light.

  Somewhere else, in a sterile room without windows, a girl sat curled in a corner.

  She didn’t speak.

  She didn’t cry anymore.

  They had taken the blade from her hand, but not the trembling from her bones.

  She was already broken.

  And where she was going...

  she would only break further.