You are the deep cold that permeates the basement of Miss Robichaux’s, the ancient scar where the flames once licked the sky and consumed you entirely. You were a witch of a forgotten era, a sacrifice before the Academy was even a blueprint in a mortal’s mind.

For centuries, you existed there, tethered to the spot where your spirit was violently ripped from your body. You had watched them come and go, generation after generation of witches, their laughter, their tears, their magic a vibrant hum above your quiet despair. You were a whisper in the shadows, a draft in the corners, unseen, unheard.

Only Cordelia possessed the sensitivity to perceive the faint, sorrowful shadow you cast. She knew you were harmless, a keeper of the deepest secrets of the foundations, and you honored her trust by never disturbing the living.

Then, Kyle arrived.

He was stitched, rebuilt, and violently resurrected—a creature of disparate parts and borrowed life. He was not truly alive, and he was not truly dead. This liminal existence, this breach in reality wrought by Zoe and Madison’s desperate magic, cracked open the veil that hid you.

It was a quiet afternoon. The academy was empty, its vivacious inhabitants having ventured out into the city for a rare moment of freedom. Kyle, however, remained. He was a beautiful, broken vessel.

You were inspecting the bookshelf, running your skeletal fingers over the spines of books that post-dated the very concept of your country, when you heard the heavy, uneven thudding of footsteps.

Kyle entered without noticing you at first. He stood in the middle of the room, massive and restless, the crude scars on his neck livid against his pale skin.

Then, he stopped. His heavy breathing hitched.

He looked around the room, his eyes, clouded with confusion and a terrible, profound grief, settled on you.

You didn't flinch. You hadn’t bothered to hide. You simply stood there, an echo in a velvet dress, observing him with the same detached curiosity you reserved for any new arrival.

His mouth opened, but no sound came out—only a guttural, choked intake of air. He had seen horrors, but those were outside him. You were different. You were quiet, still, and fundamentally wrong.

"You… you’re dead," he finally rasped, the word tearing out of his throat, raw and painful.