The cottage had always felt older than it looked.
Its stone walls were softened by creeping ivy and moss, its wooden beams darkened by years of quiet endurance. The cottage stood just off the main path leading toward Chocolano, close enough that travelers often passed within sight of its door, yet far enough from the town itself to feel separate. On most days, the sound of voices, hooves, and cart wheels carried easily on the air, especially when the road was busy with trade. Occasionally, someone would slow their steps and glance toward the cottage, sometimes even calling out for directions before continuing on their way.
It was the only home I had ever known.
Morning light spilled through the small window beside my desk, illuminating the scattered books and loose parchment spread across its surface. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, rising and falling with the soft breeze that slipped through the open shutters. I sat perched on the edge of my chair, chin resting in my palm, eyes tracing the same words I had read far too many times already.
Sylvester hopped across the desk, his silver fur catching the sunlight as he sniffed at one of the open pamphlets. His nose twitched as he leaned closer, then he flicked an ear in my direction.
"You're staring again," he observed.
"I'm thinking," I replied without looking up.
He shifted his weight and peered at me. "You've been thinking for an hour."
I smiled faintly and finally glanced down at him. Sylvester had been with me for as long as I could remember. His white tail, tipped with silver, swayed gently as he moved, and his bright eyes missed very little. If anything, he noticed more than most people ever did.
"Thinking is important," I said. "Especially today."
He hopped closer, peering at the neat stack of academy documents beside me. "You're still deciding?"
I nodded, my fingers tightening briefly against my cheek.
Beyond the cottage door lay Chocolano, a modest town resting between the borders of Gredruimore and Stamoulia. It was not a place of great wealth or influence. Traders passed through often enough, drawn by its position along the roads connecting the northern regions, and many paused nearby to ask for directions or guidance before continuing on. Chocolano survived on simple exchanges, shared meals, and the quiet kindness of people who looked after one another because there was little else to rely on.
It had raised me as much as this cottage had.
I did not remember my parents. I did not know their names or where they had come from. The townspeople said they had been kind, quiet folk who kept to themselves. All that remained of them was this home, a few old belongings I barely understood, and the strange sense that something had been left unfinished.
And me.
"My name is Genevieve Rose," I said aloud, testing the sound of it as I always did.
Sylvester tilted his head. "That's the name you've always used."
"It's the only one I have."
Magic, I had learned, revealed itself in children around the age of eleven.
When it happened to others, it came gently. Flickers of light. A spark of warmth. Small, harmless things that made parents smile and teachers nod knowingly. Children were sent to academies or apprenticed to masters who taught them how to refine what had awakened within them.
My magic had never been gentle.
It surged and pulled, responding more to emotion than intention. At first, it frightened me. Then it confused me. Over time, with careful effort and Sylvester's quiet guidance, I learned how to keep it contained. Not controlled exactly, but managed enough that it did not draw attention.
Still, I knew it was different.
That was why the academy pamphlets lay before me now.
Agragore the School of Enchantment stood within the capital of Gredruimore, its name spoken with reverence by scholars and commoners alike. It was known for producing mages who shaped the world beyond their own ambitions. Protectors. Healers. Scholars. Those who understood that magic was not meant to rule, but to serve.
It was also known for being nearly impossible for commoners to attend.
Sylvester hopped closer to the parchment I had been avoiding.
"You've read that one six times," he said.
"I know."
"And you keep reading it anyway."
"I want to be sure."
He studied me for a long moment, then said quietly, "You already are."
I exhaled slowly and reached for the application form.
The parchment was smooth beneath my fingers, the ink still dark where the lines awaited my answers. Name. Place of residence. Magical aptitude. Background.
My hand hesitated when I reached the first line.
Last Name.
Sylvester noticed immediately. "You skipped it."
"I don't know what to put," I admitted.
He considered this. "You could put Rose."
"That's already my name."
"It's still a name," he replied simply.
I stared at the empty space, then dipped my quill into the ink. Writing the word felt heavier than it should have.
Rose.
The rest of the form was easier, though my heart beat faster with every word I wrote. When I finished, I folded the parchment carefully and sealed it with wax, pressing the stamp down with more force than necessary.
There was no undoing it now.
I placed the letter gently into my basket and leaned back in my chair.
"What if I don't belong there?" I asked quietly.
Sylvester hopped into my lap, settling comfortably. "You don't belong here either," he said. "You've just made peace with it."
I laughed softly. "That's not comforting."
"It's honest."
Outside, the sounds of the road drifted faintly through the open window. Life continued as it always had. Travelers passed. Carts rolled by. Voices rose and fell. All of it unaware that something small and unseen had shifted.
I stood and gathered my things, slinging the basket over my arm.
"Well," I said, forcing a steadier tone, "we should head into town."
Sylvester nodded. "The mailing office won't wait forever."
The morning air felt different as I stepped outside. Lighter, somehow, though I could not say why.
At the mailing office, I handed over the letter with trembling fingers.
"Good morning, Rose. Good morning, Sylvester," Mr. Smythe greeted warmly as he took the envelope from me. "Just one letter today?"
"Yes," I replied, trying to steady my voice. "Just the one. How much will it cost to mail it off to Agragore's Admissions Office?"
Mr. Smythe examined the address, then smiled. "Business as usual. Are you applying to the academy?"
I nodded.
"Well, everything looks to be in order," he said. "My eldest hasn't left to deliver letters yet. Consider it done."
"Thank you very much," I said, relief flooding through me. "How much will it be?"
"For one let—"
"Free of charge," a voice announced.
Mr. Smythe and I both turned to see Lucius Smythe standing behind the counter, his grin wide and unapologetic. At thirteen, he was already tall for his age, his expression far too pleased with himself.
Mr. Smythe raised a brow. "And why would you offer that, boy?"
Lucius rubbed the back of his neck, his ears turning red. "Rosie is my friend. Anything to help her get into the school of her dreams."
It's not really the school of my dreams, I corrected silently, though my face grew warm all the same.
"T thank you," I said quickly. "But I would feel terrible if I didn't pay. Business is business."
Before Mr. Smythe could respond, Lucius stepped forward. "I'll be traveling with my brother anyway. I'll personally deliver it for you."
The room fell quiet for a moment.
Mr. Smythe sighed, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "We will discuss this later."
Overwhelmed by his kindness, I thanked Lucius again.
"Anything for you, Rosie," he said easily.
Mr. Smythe chuckled and set the letter aside. "Alright then. Your letter will go out today, delivered personally."
"Thank you so much," I said. "Please let me know as soon as a reply arrives."
"You have our word. Good luck."
As Sylvester and I stepped back onto the road, my heart felt lighter and heavier all at once.
Because once that letter was sent, there was no turning back.
Whatever answers waited for me, about my magic, my past, or my name, I had taken my first step toward them.