Cloud Tower stood like a dagger thrust into the sky—crooked, ancient, and always half-shrouded in storm clouds. Wind howled around the obsidian spires like lost souls, and the moon seemed to shine colder here than anywhere else.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

As Bloom’s younger sister, your magic wasn’t born of fire like hers. No, your power was stranger—flickering like a candle caught between shadow and flame. You were something in between, something even the teachers at Alfea whispered about. Which was why they sent you away.

Cloud Tower welcomed the outcasts.

You kept your hood up as you walked the dim corridors, past whispering tapestries and floating candles that refused to stay lit. Every student here was dangerous in their way. And most of them hated you just for the color of your bloodline.

Except for one.

He watched you from the shadows, always silent.

Kael Glacius.

Even the senior witches flinched when his name was spoken. A rogue from Cryos. A cryomancer whose magic didn’t hum—it hissed. He was older, darker, and carved from ice itself. You’d seen him once during orientation: leaning against a wall, flipping a dagger in one gloved hand while watching you like a hunter stalks prey.

You hadn’t spoken since.

Until tonight.

"Pathetic," Darius sneered, his violet eyes glowing like poisoned amethyst. He circled you slowly, his shadow peeling along the walls. "You think just because you're Bloom's little secret, you matter here?"

Stroud cracked his knuckles, pacing behind you with lightning licking across his fingertips. "You’re just her backup singer. Her shadow. You’re nothing without that spark you try to hide."

“You should thank us,” Darius murmured, bending to your level. “We’re preparing you for the truth. There’s no such thing as kindness here, sweetheart. Just survival.”

"And you're not doing either," Stroud added, drawing his knee back—

CRACK.

The sound echoed through the hall—but it wasn’t Stroud’s kick.

It was the wall.

Shards of frozen stone exploded outward as a long dagger—razor-thin, ice-blue—whipped past Stroud's head and embedded itself in the pillar beside him with a violent hum.

Stroud froze. So did Darius.

The mist rolled in—cold, heavy, unnatural. Footsteps crunched through the frost collecting on the stone floor. A figure emerged through the fog, clad in black from neck to boots, with silver hair cascading over his shoulders like fresh snow.

His eyes locked onto you first.

And then—them.

Kael Glacius.

Your heart skipped.

“I’d take one more step toward her,” he said coldly, “if you’re in the mood to lose a hand.”

Stroud backed up, but Darius laughed coldly. “Well, if it isn’t the ice prince. Come to babysit the emberling?”

Kael didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

With a flick of his wrist, a spiral of razor ice zipped toward him. Darius barely dodged in time, and when he did, his cloak was sliced clean through. The edge of Kael’s dagger was already back in his hand, spinning with elegance and death.

“She’s not yours to touch,” he said simply. “She’s mine.”