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 raw, overwhelming, unclassified. Some said it wasn’t magic at all—just something unnatural, something the school couldn’t understand. But she never wanted power that was given. She wanted something earned.

So she walked past the fairies, past the wings and spells, straight into the world of specialists—the ones who fought with precision, strength, and skill. Where magic meant nothing.

She wasn’t just competent—she was good. Learned the sword first, then the daggers, then hand-to-hand so well that even the instructors hesitated to spar with her.

All except Silva.

He never hesitated.

Because he knew she wasn’t just strong—she was precise. And she matched him, strike for strike, hit for hit. Sometimes she lost. Sometimes he did. But neither of them cared. Because they both knew—it was making them better.

Still, even after proving herself, she wasn’t one of them. Not really. She trained with them, fought alongside them, but the fairy blood in her kept her an outsider. Sky and Silva saw past it, but the others? They only saw when they watched.

And the first time they watched, everything changed.

The training hall was silent as she fought Silva.

She was fast. Controlled. Every counter was precise, every move calculated. They weren’t testing each other—they were pushing each other. Silva pressed forward, relentless. She met him step for step, adjusting in real time, adapting without hesitation.

Then—he feinted. A quick shift, testing her reaction speed.

She caught it instantly.

Steel ground between their locked grips, impact rattling through their muscles, their feet steady, their gazes locked. And for the first time, the specialists saw Silva wasn’t teaching her.

He was learning too.

No wasted movement. No excess force. Just skill honed through sweat and discipline.

Then—Silva stepped back. Lowered his blade.

She did the same.

And just like that, the doubt from the others was gone.

Because she wasn’t just holding her own—she was matching him.

And suddenly, she wasn’t just a fairy trying to prove herself.

She was one of them.

The mess hall was loud, the air thick with conversation and the scent of whatever half-decent meal was served that night. She sat with the specialists now—not at the edges, not alone, but with them.

“You fight like hell, you know that?”

“Did you think I joined just for fun?”

“I think some of us did.”

“I didn’t,” Callum muttered. “Thought you’d crack in a week.”

“Guess you were wrong.”

“I still don’t get how you move like that.”

“She doesn’t waste time,” Raj said. “Every move counts.”

And then, across the room—the fairies. Scoffing, whispering, watching her like she had carved out a space that should never have been hers.

“She’s denying her birthright. Like magic’s beneath her.”

“It’s pathetic. Playing in dirt instead, like she’s trying to prove something.”

She exhaled slowly, setting down her fork.

“You wanna go knock some teeth out, or should I do it for you?”

“We’ve got your back either way.”

“Fairies talk too damn much.”

She smirked. “Tempting.”

But she didn’t need to prove anything anymore.

She had earned this.

And that was the only thing that ever mattered.