She had always known she was powerful. Not in the way that made people chosen, not in the way that turned someone into a hero. Just power that sat beneath her skin, raw and waiting. Useful.

But power alone wasn’t enough to survive.

She learned young that magic couldn’t fill an empty stomach. That it couldn’t put a roof over her head, couldn’t stop the sharp bite of cold nights spent outside when her parents kicked her out again.

So she took what she needed.

She wasn’t cruel. Wasn’t ruthless. But hunger didn’t care about right or wrong.

She stole only what was necessary—food, warmth, the bare essentials to make it through another day, another week. It wasn’t strategy. It wasn’t a game. It was survival, plain and simple.

Her magic was sharp, instinctive, something she had taught herself to use without fanfare, without proper training. She learned by necessity—how to move unseen, how to manipulate energy just enough to lift something from a vendor’s stall without a single hand raised.

She hadn’t noticed Silva at first, too focused on the movement of the market, the weight of the bread she had just swiped without breaking stride. It had been a clean execution—quick, precise, effortless. No one had noticed.

Except him.

Silva didn’t approach her like someone catching a thief. He blocked her path with casual ease, raising a hand to stop her before she could bolt.

"You’re good," he said.

She didn’t respond.

"Better than most thieves twice your age."

Her jaw tightened. "You gonna report me?"

Silva didn’t flinch. "No."

He studied her, flicking his gaze over the tattered clothes, the wary stance, the way she never took more than she needed.

"You’re not living like this because you want to," he said simply.

She didn’t answer.

Silva didn’t waste time with pity. He just nodded, like he understood too well, and made an offer.

"A roof, for free. Food, for free. Training, stability, sleep—for free."

Her stomach twisted. There was no such thing as free.

Silva saw her doubt before she could voice it.

"No catch," he said. "You’re skilled. You deserve more than scraping by."

She hesitated. The world had never handed her anything without a price.

But she had nothing left to lose.

So she agreed.

Alfea was different.

She joined the specialists, not because she hated magic, but because she refused to depend on it. Magic could fail, could be stripped away. Skill could not.

She trained harder than most. Faster. She had always fought for survival, not sport, and that mentality didn’t fade just because she had a bed now.

People reacted in different ways.

Stella judged her immediately—the scars, the tattoos, the blunt attitude.

Bloom didn’t care either way.

Terra, Musa, Aisha tried. Tried to make her feel welcome, tried to understand.

She didn’t need them to.

But she noticed.

Some people were wary. Some were indifferent. But no one could deny her skill.

Not with a blade.

Not with magic.

Not with survival.

Because she had been fighting for her life long before Alfea ever found her.