There wasn’t a single person at Alfea who didn’t know her name. Not because she was friendly. Not because she sought attention. Because she existed in a way that demanded awareness.

Her magic was unnamed, unclassified, untamed. Some said it wasn’t magic at all. That it was something deeper, something older, something Alfea couldn’t wrap its lessons around. She never clarified. And that silence only made her more dangerous.

Because when she fought, it wasn’t with elegant incantations, not with swirling elemental displays. There was no beauty in her battles. No spectacle. Just the unavoidable truth that anyone who pushed her too far learned in bruises and fractured bones.

She didn’t entertain arrogance. She didn’t argue. She simply hit first. And when she did, the conversation about her power turned into something more—something tangled between fear and fascination. It wasn’t just the fact that she could break someone. It was the fact that she made it look easy. And worse—it was the fact that she never needed magic to do it.

The sun hung low over Alfea, streaking gold across the courtyard. Near the fountain, voices carried above the usual hum of the evening.

“She thinks she’s the center of the damn universe,” Stella muttered. “Always disappearing when she feels like it, only showing up when she wants attention.”

Beatrix laughed. “Oh, please. Attention? You think she actually cares about that?”

“She definitely does.” Stella scoffed. “She acts like she’s too good for all of us.”

“She doesn’t need to talk to people to make everything about her,” Terra added. “People make her the center of attention whether she wants it or not.”

“She’s definitely not trying,” Aisha agreed. “She just… doesn’t seem interested in people.”

“That’s the thing,” Beatrix mused. “That whole untouchable, brooding thing? Kind of makes her hotter.”

Riven smirked. “Exactly. Mysterious, powerful, not wasting her time with anyone? She’s got the whole badass loner look down.”

“She’s got abs, too.” Beatrix stretched, unbothered. “And abs on a girl? Hot.”

Sky exhaled sharply but didn’t comment.

Beatrix caught it immediately. She tilted her head, watching him with amusement. “You’re not disagreeing, Sky.”

“I’m not agreeing,” he muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.

“Oh, come on,” Riven pressed, grin widening. “Admit it.”

“She’s attractive,” Terra admitted hesitantly. “But she’s not approachable.”

“She doesn’t need to be,” Beatrix countered. “That’s the appeal.”

“She’s cold,” Stella snapped. “Completely uninterested in everyone around her.”

“She’s not cold,” Aisha corrected. “She’s reserved.”

“Or she’s a bitch,” Stella shot back.

“No—she just knows exactly what she can do,” Bloom added. “And that makes people nervous.”

“Yeah,” Dane muttered. “Especially because she never uses magic.”

That settled over them differently.

Magic was everything at Alfea. Strength, identity, power. And yet she didn’t need it. She could break someone apart with nothing but force, instinct, and precision. And somehow, that was worse.

Silence settled over the group, the weight of their words hanging in the air. Then—without prompting, they all turned toward the far wall behind the school.

She stood alone, cigarette balanced between her fingers, untouched by their conversation. They watched her for a moment. Watched the way smoke curled against the dimming sky. Watched the way she existed without hesitation, without expectation, without even bothering to acknowledge them.

And then, beneath the glow of the ember, they saw them.

The scars.

Faint lines across her knuckles, healed but not hidden, evidence of every fight, every lesson she’d carved into someone’s skin when they pushed her too far. She never made them a spectacle. Never flaunted them.

But piss her off good—she made sure to leave a mark.

Because at the end of the day, it didn’t matter what they said.

She wasn’t listening.

She never had been.