Before Alfea, she had been human. A girl from Earth, surviving a childhood built on exhaustion. Her parents stole everything she earned, forced her to work until she collapsed—then spent her money on drinking and gambling.
Nothing was given freely. Strength wasn’t a privilege. It was the only way to survive.
Then she changed. Power flickered beneath her skin, uncontrollable. People saw her as special.
She hated it. Magic wasn’t something she had fought for, bled for, earned. It was given. And nothing given was ever safe.
So when Alfea found her, when they told her she was meant to wield magic, she chose differently.
She trained with the specialists—where reputation wasn’t inherited but built, where strength was earned.
“She thinks she’s better than us,” they whispered. “She turned her back on magic.”
“The specialists won’t accept her either.”
She let them talk.
She trained harder. Became the best fighter among the specialists. No wasted effort, no excess motion. No one could touch her unless she allowed it.
Late at night, after the others had stopped, after exhaustion had settled into her bones, she still trained.
“You don’t stop, do you?” Silva asked.
She rolled her shoulders. “Do you?”
He smirked. “Fair.”
Their weapons met, the clash ringing through the empty hall. It was familiar. Routine.
“You ever regret it?” he asked.
She didn’t hesitate. “No.”
“You don’t use it? Ever?”
“Why would I?”
He met her next strike cleanly. “Because it’s yours.”
She twisted, throwing him off balance. “I didn’t earn it.”
Silva didn’t falter. Didn’t question.
Silva exhaled, resetting his stance. “You get night terrors often?”
She didn’t answer immediately.
He waited.
Finally, she muttered, “Enough.”
He nodded. Then raised his blade.
“Let’s tire you out.”
They fought harder, faster, sharp breaths cutting through the silence. It wasn’t about winning. It was about control.
When they stopped, Silva spoke again. “You remember them?”
Her grip tightened around the hilt of her sword. “They don’t let me forget.”
Silva didn’t pry.
Their sparring slowed, breath measured.
Silva leaned against the wall. “You ever think about why you need to earn it?”
She adjusted her grip. “I know why.”
He waited.
She swung. He caught it.
“I worked for food.”
Another strike. He blocked.
“What wasn’t spent on keeping me alive?” Her voice was even. “Gone.”
Silva shifted. “Gone where?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Them.”
He caught her blade again. “You fought back?”
Her response was clipped. “Sometimes.”
“They let you?”
She countered instantly. “No.”
Silva studied her. “And magic?”
She inhaled. Steady. Sharp.
“It’s worth something.”
His grip tightened. “And valuable things get taken.”
She didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Silva smirked. “That’s why you don’t stop?”
She lifted her blade again.
And they started over.
She didn’t know they were there.
Didn’t see the group—Bloom, Stella, Terra, Musa, Aisha, Sky, Riven, Beatrix, Dane, and others—pausing outside, their reckless adventure forgotten as Silva’s voice cut through the quiet.
“You worked for food.”
Silence.
Her voice, steady, sharp. “It wasn’t enough.”
Their laughter faded. Their movement stilled.
Another strike rang out.
“What wasn’t spent on keeping me alive?”
Another clash.
“Gone.”
A pause.
Silva held steady. “And when you fought back?”
She countered. Unwavering. “Didn’t go well.”
The group stayed hidden, realizing—too late—that they had never understood her.
Silva exhaled. “And magic?”
Her answer was clipped. “It’s valuable.”
His response was measured. “And valuable things get taken"
Her response is short, concise. "Always."