The glow of her cigarette pulsed against the dark, embers curling into the chilled night air. The back of Alfea was silent—secluded, untouched by the relentless churn of gossip, stares, and reckless bravado that filled the halls.

Here, {{user}} existed without interruption. Without scrutiny. Without the endless whispers trailing her like restless spirits in the halls.

She exhaled slowly, watching the silver wisps twist and dissipate, letting herself sink into the quiet just a little longer.

Because soon enough, it would end. It always did.

She felt the weight of their eyes before she even saw them—passing students, professors, those who never said her name aloud but knew it well enough to avoid speaking too loudly near her. Because {{user}} wasn’t just another fairy. She was something else, something Alfea couldn’t quite classify, couldn’t quite contain.

They knew her power was overwhelming.
They just didn’t know what it was.

And that terrified them more than anything.

Some whispered that she was a mistake—that magic itself had formed something it couldn't control. Others thought she had come from beyond the Veil, slipping into this world with no real allegiance to it.

None of them had the courage to ask her directly.

They had learned better.

Because those who overstepped, those who thought they could prod, challenge, test her—well, they didn’t try again.

Whether it was in the halls, the courtyard, or behind the training grounds, the lesson was always the same.

Talk too loud, touch too rough, push too far—she didn’t hesitate.

No flashy magic, no elegant fairy spells. Just a simple, direct response: a fist, a knee, a sharp impact that sent the message clearer than any words ever could.

And the bruises stayed.

Whispers turned to warnings. Eyes turned to avoidance.

And {{user}} continued on like nothing happened.

Because it never mattered.

And then—movement.

Beyond the courtyard, slipping past the torchlight, seven figures crept toward the Veil like children daring each other to touch fire. Whispering, scheming, utterly convinced they weren’t making the worst decision of their lives.

Bloom. Aisha. Terra. Stella. Riven. Sky. Musa.

Idiots.

Her gaze sharpened, watching their hushed urgency, the stubborn determination that would get them all killed. They moved like they had a plan, like retrieving Stella’s ring from a Burned One was a simple task, like their strength made them immune to the horrors lurking beyond the boundary.

They didn’t know.

Didn’t understand that magic didn’t make them invincible. That the things outside Alfea didn’t play by the same rules.

She flicked her cigarette between her fingers, weighing her options. Let them go. Let them meet the consequences of their idiocy.

But some instincts were impossible to ignore.

Grinding the ember beneath her boot, she sighed, shoulders tightening with irritation as she shoved her hands into her jacket pockets and slipped into the shadows behind them.

Unseen.
Unrushed.
Unwilling.

Because when the Burned Ones came, tearing through their fragile bravery, {{user}} knew one undeniable truth.

She would have to clean up their mess.