Memories are the worst type of torture. They have their ways of impacting our choices, silently guiding us through life ensuring we don’t repeat our past. The bad ones act like weeds in the sidewalk. They keep on growing no matter how many times we pluck them out, no matter how many times we want to rid them from our mind. They are forever seeded, ready to spring up at the most inoperative time. We can’t help but remember the actions of our past.

  It had been two weeks since the ward failure at Venefica.

  Mystic forced herself to carry on as if everything were normal. She kept up her routine, attended class, and even cracked jokes—but she never left her dorm without a protection charm around her neck.

  Claire, by contrast, had withdrawn into quiet contemplation. She didn’t speak about the incident, but the weight of her decisions lingered behind her eyes. She had helped save them that day, yet some part of her feared the consequences of standing out too soon.

  Elora seemed unaffected. She carried on with last-minute assignments, late-night hangouts in the Living Lobby, and the usual chaos of student life. If she ever thought about that day, she never let it show.

  To anyone watching, it would seem like life had gone back to normal.

  But for some of them, normal was just another illusion.

  Lily’s Saturday breakfast routine never changed. Two tall glasses of blood, always with her pink reusable silicone straw. It wasn’t that she liked the taste—she didn’t. If anything, she hated it. But drinking from a straw helped. It kept the metallic tang off her lips, let her pretend she was sipping a smoothie instead of something pulled from a vein. It felt normal. At least, as normal as things could be.

  She flipped a page in her Psychology of Magical Thinking textbook, her free hand absently twisting the straw in her fingers. The last gulp of blood lingered in her mouth a second too long, and she forced it down.

  It shouldn’t be this easy, she thought. Four years ago, she would have screamed at the thought of drinking blood. The sight of it, the smell of it, the very idea of it had made her stomach twist. It had taken her eighteen months to drink even half a glass without gagging. Now? She finished two without flinching. And the worst part was—she hated that it didn’t bother her anymore.

  Lily let out a slow breath and turned another page, pushing the thought away. Dwelling wouldn’t change anything. She was what she was. She heard a chair scrape against the floor beside her.

  Abelle slumped into the seat, yawning as she peeled an orange. She dug her fingers into the rind, and— "Ow—damn it." A jet of juice sprayed directly into her eye.

  Lily arched a brow. "You seem off."

  Abelle blinked rapidly, wiping at her face. "Didn’t sleep much."

  Lily hummed in understanding. "Yeah, I know how that feels. Kept waking up all night too. Perks of being undead."

  Abelle stilled. "But I’m not."

  Lily paused, straw still between her fingers.

  Abelle hadn’t meant it as an insult, but the words hit sharper than expected.

  She wanted to say something back—something lighthearted, something deflective—but the truth settled between them like a stone dropped in water.

  Instead, Lily just nodded. "Right. Fair enough."

  Abelle shifted uncomfortably, popping a slice of orange into her mouth. "I just… kept having this nightmare."

  Lily tilted her head. "What’s it about?"

  Abelle hesitated.

  "It starts out fine." Abelle set down her half-peeled orange, rolling it between her palms. "I’m at the circus—watching the acrobats, the jugglers, the clowns. Everything is… perfect."

  For a while, it is.

  The spotlights glow warm, bathing the ring in golden light. The clowns tumble in a flurry of color, their laughter bright and harmless. The acrobats twist effortlessly through the air, weightless, invincible. The crowd cheers, a rhythmic pulse of excitement that thrums beneath her skin.

  Then—something shifts.

  The music falters. The clowns’ painted grins stretch too wide. Their eyes darken, swallowing all trace of light. The acrobats teeter—then plummet, their bodies twisting midair before vanishing into the void beneath the ring.

  The crowd stops clapping. Then, as one—they turn. The clowns. The performers. The shadows. The entire audience. All of them, facing her.

  She runs. She always runs.

  Tearing through the tent, past unraveling banners and flickering lights. The ringmaster’s voice calls out behind her—but it isn’t his voice anymore. It’s hollow, warped, an echo inside her own skull.

  No matter where she turns, no matter how fast she moves, she always ends up at the center of the ring. Strapped against the knife-thrower’s target, her breath coming fast and ragged.

  The first blade gleams in the air, poised to strike.

  And just before it sinks into her skin—

  She wakes up.

  Abelle shuddered, pressing a slice of orange to her tongue. "It’s strange." She let the words settle between them, her fingers tightening around the fruit.

  "I usually love the circus."

  And she did. It wasn’t just the dazzling tricks or the supernatural feats that drew her in—it was the memories. The time spent with her brother.

  When they were little, they’d sneak out before dawn to watch the performers set up their tents. Abelle would pretend to be the ringmaster, showing off whatever spells she knew—minor smoke illusions, a poorly executed firefly charm—while her brother cheered from the audience, clapping after every ‘performance.’

  "The Amazing Abelle, Wizard of Wonder!"

  She’d beam at the imaginary crowd, soaking in the applause like it meant something.

  She never forgot how easy it had been back then. How effortless.

  Lily studied her for a long moment, then slid her textbook across the table. "Maybe you have some inner conflict."

  Abelle glanced down. "Inner Conflict & the Subconscious Mind.” Her lips pressed into a thin line.

  Across the room, Nick walked past the dining hall doors, a plate of eggs and toast balanced in one hand.

  Abelle’s gaze flicked to him—tracked him as he left. She swallowed. "Yeah. Maybe."Abelle watched as Nick disappeared through the dining hall doors, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

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  Lily didn’t push. If Abelle wanted to talk, she would. Or she wouldn’t. Instead, she tapped her straw against the rim of her glass, swirling the last drops of blood into a slow spiral.

  Maybe you have some inner conflict.

  The words—meant for Abelle—settled in her chest instead.

  Lily had been doing well. She had. She had learned to drink without hesitation, to blend in, to act like being dead didn’t mean she was different. But sitting there, surrounded by the buzz of the dining hall, she suddenly felt less like herself than ever.

  She pulled her gaze away from Abelle and her lingering silence. “You just need a spell."

  The midday sun slanted through the glass ceiling of the Living Lobby, heat pooling on Lily’s shoulders as she approached her brother’s dorm. She hesitated, fingers hovering over the wood.

  Then—she knocked.

  "Tommy."

  No answer.

  "Tommy, I know you’re in there."

  Still nothing.

  Lily huffed. "Thomas Emery Reed! Open your door!" She banged her fist against it, irritation coating the edges of her voice.

  I hate that I have to ask for this. I hate that I can’t just do it myself.

  She sighed. "Please."

  Still nothing.

  Inside, Thomas turned the volume up on his music, his knife sliding through a fresh tray of fudge. He knew why she was here and he didn’t want to deal with it.

  Unique to each door, only a certain combination of knocks made in precisely the right location and precisely the right rhythm would unlock any student dorm room. With one knock on the top right corner, two slow knocks in the center, and one rapid knock on the left of the door handle, Lily tried to unlock Thomas’ dorm room door.

  The lock clicked open, but not because Lily had cracked the pattern.

  Thomas snapped his fingers.

  The door flung open harder than intended, knocking her back a step. For a second, he almost apologized. The words curled up in his throat, but never came out. Instead, he crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe. "Privacy, sis."

  Lily scowled, rubbing her nose where the door had hit her. "Ow." She shoved past him into the room.

  "What do you want?" Thomas muttered.

  He saw it before she could speak—the red stain on her shirt. Not blood from an injury, but breakfast. Still, it made his stomach twist.

  He turned away from her, knife tapping lightly against the cutting board. "Make it quick, Lil’. I have other plans."

  "I need your help… with a spell."

  A spell. His fingers twitched around the knife handle. He hadn’t expected that. He set the knife down carefully, like if he moved too fast, something would break.

  "What spell?"

  "Araminta’s Resurrection of Intellect. Mom’s version."

  Thomas stared at her for a long second. Then—he nodded. He didn’t ask why. Didn’t ask what for. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t cast it herself anymore.

  So he would do it for her. After all, he should have been the one doing the spell all along.

  Thomas gathered a silver bowl and glass jars of dried herbs, his movements slow, methodical. This, he could control. Not the past. Not the fact that his sister was dead. But this? This, at least, he could do right.

  His hands moved on autopilot, but his mind was elsewhere.

  Blood on the floor. The color draining from Lily’s face. His own breath, coming too fast—his hands pressing down, trying to keep her here. But she was already gone.

  She should be the one doing this spell right now. Not me.

  Lily watched as Thomas measured turmeric into his palm, watching it sift through his fingers like golden sand.

  Her mouth opened—I’m sorry. But she didn’t say it.

  She had left the door unlocked that night. That was her mistake. And now, here they were. Her fingers clenched into her sleeves.

  You don’t deserve a sister as destructive as me. I’m an abomination. A heretic. No wonder you don’t want anything to do with me. She quickly wiped her eyes before he could see.

  Thomas didn’t look at her. Didn’t notice. Didn’t want to. He sat cross-legged on the floor, his voice low as he chanted over the metal bowl.

  A pink flame curled into the air before flickering out, leaving a pile of white ash.

  He emptied it into a jar and held it out without meeting her eyes.

  "Dissolve it in bathwater," he said simply, already looking back at his fudge.

  Lily took it. "I know how to use it.” She tried to sound casual. But her fingers were trembling.

  Then, it slipped.

  The jar shattered against the floor. The white ash exploded into the air, raining down like faint snow.

  For a second, neither of them spoke.

  Thomas just stared at her. "Lily."

  She took a step back, her breath shaking. "I’m sorry," she blurted. "I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—“ She was already backing toward the door.

  Her movement sent a gust of air through the room, knocking over the lamp near the door.

  And then she was gone. Lily didn’t stop running.

  By the time she reached the other side of the Living Lobby, she wasn’t sure if it was shame or sheer exhaustion keeping her from turning back.

  She wasn’t ready to face Thomas. Not today. Not after ruining one more thing.

  The Living Lobby was loud, the kind of weekend loud that Elora usually loved. Routine. Comfortable. Something she could count on.

  Elora weaved through the students, following the warm scent of sugar and cinnamon. It led her straight to the Casting Club’s bake sale.

  Every fall, they held one right here, in the same spot. And every fall, Elora bought the same thing—a yellow cupcake with chocolate icing and those popping crystal sprinkles.

  It was predictable. It was hers. It was one of the many things that Elora prided over never being changed.

  She handed a crumpled bill to the girl behind the table. "You got the ones from last year?"

  A cupcake was passed into her hand, and just like that, the day felt a little better. Then she turned and froze.

  Claire. Standing at the table. Holding a bag of sugar cookies. Looking at her like she wanted to talk.

  Elora’s stomach twisted before Claire even opened her mouth.

  "Elora, can—"

  "Hey, Claire, right?" Elora cut in. "Sorry, I gotta go. Big test review thing…"

  She started to walk away, but Claire didn’t let her.

  "Look, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. After what happened, I—"

  Elora exhaled sharply. Not this. Not another conversation about what happened that day. She knew Mystic was shaken. She knew she should probably talk about it. But she didn’t want to. Didn’t want to relive it, dissect it, or even acknowledge it. She just wanted things to go back to how they were. She set her cupcake down, rubbing her thumb over the ridges of the paper liner.

  "We’re fine. Honestly. Mystic and I could not be handling it any better than we already are."

  It wasn’t technically a lie. They were handling it, but that didn’t mean they were fine.

  "You say that, Elora, but I don’t think I believe you."

  Elora turned, brows knitting together. Ms. Stewart. The teacher stood just behind Claire, watching Elora with that unreadable look she always had.

  Elora forced a smile. "Well, I’d hate to disappoint, but I’m good."

  Ms. Stewart tilted her head, eyes sharp. "You’re always ‘good,’ aren’t you?"

  Elora’s fingers curled around the edge of the table.

  Ms. Stewart picked up a tray of fudge slices, examining them absently.

  "You remind me a lot of someone I used to know."

  Elora bristled. She hated when adults did that. Like they had some great insight into her life. Like they knew her. "Must’ve been a cool person, then," Elora quipped, reaching for her cupcake.

  Ms. Stewart hummed. "Not exactly. She was a lot like you. Kept everything surface-level, always had a joke ready. She was great at pretending nothing bothered her.” She turned the tray of fudge over in her hands, inspecting the edges like she was talking about the candy instead of Elora. "And then one day, she woke up and realized she had no real friends left."

  Elora’s stomach twisted. She grabbed her cupcake and forced a grin.

  "That’s a real heartwarming story, Ms. Stewart. But don’t worry, I have plenty of friends."

  Ms. Stewart smiled—but it wasn’t a comforting one. "Then why are you standing here alone?"

  Elora’s grip tightened around her cupcake. Before she could come up with a witty reply, Ms. Stewart turned to the bake sale girl.

  "I’ll take the whole tray of fudge.” As she walked away, she left Elora with the words she didn’t want to think about.

  She wasn’t alone. She wasn’t. Was she? She turned back to Claire. And instead of acknowledging anything, she shut down.

  "We’re fine. Really. We all are big girls, I think we can handle ourselves from now on. Thanks for the concern."

  Claire blinked.

  Elora walked away before she could say anything else. It wasn’t her problem.

  She would never admit it aloud, but Elora was envious of Claire. It wasn’t the usual kind of jealousy, the petty or obvious kind. It was quieter than that. Meaner than that.

  The way Claire spoke with confidence, like the words just came to her. The way she always knew what to do, instinct taking over before she could hesitate.

  Elora had to fight for those things—learn them, sharpen them like dull knives. But Claire? Claire just was. And if Claire—who could do all the things Elora had painstakingly built into herself—became part of her group, then what was the point? What was the point of saving that ‘best friend’ space in her soul?

  What was the point of Elora?

  She exhaled sharply, pushing the thought away. No. It wasn’t like that. Right?

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out her dorm key. She didn’t trust herself with combination locks—her rhythm was terrible, and she could never keep a beat.

  The key clicked, the door swung open, and she stepped inside.

  The contrast hit her immediately. One side chaotic, lived-in, real—Elora’s world of crumpled papers, half-zipped backpacks, and scattered clothes draped over chairs. The other side? Empty. Silent. A ghost of a space that had never quite faded. A perfectly made bed that no one slept in. A dresser wiped clean of dust, like it was waiting for someone to return.

  But no one ever did.

  Elora hated looking at it.

  She set her cupcake down on her desk, but the sight of that untouched half of the room made something turn in her stomach.

  That’s the problem with the past. You can’t change it. You just look back and try not to make the same mistake twice.

  She could never figure out why that side of the room still unsettled her. Maybe because it had always been empty. Or maybe…maybe because it hadn’t.