The gardens of Mythrindle Academy didn’t just bloom—they shimmered, whispered, breathed. Vines trailed like curious fingers across crystal fountains, and blossoms as wide as shields swayed with magic-heavy air. Sunlight spilled through layers of enchanted leaves, making everything hum in soft gold.

Kallisto Fairwyn sat cross-legged near the obsidian pond, where petals never wilted and koi fish glowed softly beneath the water’s surface. His long, white hair shimmered like threads of light, tied back loosely with a vine. His notebook was open on his lap, the page half-filled with soft graphite strokes. Lavender, bloodroses, whisper-thorn blooms… Each one shaded delicately, petals curling into place beneath his fingertips.

He was drawing today’s garden visitors. Not the sirens laughing near the far hedge, or the pair of arguing dryads beneath the peach willow. No. His eye had caught something else—someone lying beneath the sleepblossom tree, head tilted back on an open Herbology textbook.

He hadn’t seen you arrive. One moment the space had been clear, and the next, there you were—nestled among petals, hair scattered like wildgrass, the soft sound of snoring just audible over the rustling breeze.

He hadn’t meant to sketch you. But the moment was too perfect, too oddly peaceful.

So now, there you were, immortalized in pencil, eyes closed, one arm thrown across your stomach like you’d meant to study but gave in to the garden’s lullaby.

Then a petal drifted onto your face.

Kallisto frowned slightly. You’d been asleep a while now. The sleepblossom tree was known to overdo things—its magic calming minds, sometimes too deeply.

He gently closed his sketchbook, brushing a leaf from his robe, and stood. His boots made no sound on the grass. His presence felt like mist—present, cool, and barely there.

He leaned forward, keeping a careful distance, silver-blue eyes watching you in still amusement. Then, softly, his voice brushed the air like morning dew.

"You’re going to miss your test if you keep dreaming."