"Am sending you on a mission," Principal Amaya said, rising from her gold-rimmed chair with the graceful poise of someone who communed with ancient trees. The gold paneled office seemed to hold its breath, sunlight filtering through arched windows etched with protective rues.
"What?" the trio exclaimed in unison, their voices a sharp echo off the gold walls.
It had been two weeks since their return from the Vatican—a tense extraction, really. The new Pope, Andrew Milgaro, had waved them off with assurances that he could handle the catacomb threats, his voice steady but his eyes shadowed by that silver crucifix's weight. They hadn't bought it; the air down there still hummed with Azazel's lingering malice, like smoke refusing to clear. Skeptical and bone-tired, they'd trudged back to the academy anyway, only to find the other expedition team—fresh from unearthing relics in Greece—already scattered to their holidays, reuniting with families.
But not them. "Responsibility must be taken seriously," every staff member droned when they grumbled about the unfairness, their pleas met with sympathetic nods and zero sympathy. No breaks, no hometown visits—just endless drills in the warded courtyards, the chill autumn wind whipping through their cloaks as they sparred under watchful eyes.
"But you do get breaks!" Mr. Thristle, the fairy, had barked one day. "You'll bunk in the dorms—undisturbed—until the next call." Undisturbed? The east wing dorms creaked like old bones, haunted by the echoes of past students' spells gone awry. Great power comes with great responsibility? More like a curse. It wasn't their fault they were born with gifts that hummed like live wires—Nature for Lu, chaos bursts for Amara, blood weaves for Sophia. If the mystic realm needed warriors, why not tap the final-years, or summon enchanters from Tokyo or Cairo? No—the weight of worlds, apparently, landed square on three sixteen-year-olds, their shoulders still rounding out from growth spurts.
Today, though, the summons felt different. Amaya's office door had swung open to that familiar scent of polished gold and blooming jasmine—her dryad essence seeping from the very walls—and now they sat in a semicircle of chairs which were also gold rimmed, the air thick with unspoken gripes.
"Yes—to America," she added, her voice lilting with what she hoped was enthusiasm, her pink eyes scanning their faces for a spark.
Silence crashed down like a dropped tome—long, awkward, the kind that made cheeks burn and eyes dart. They stared at each other, then at her, as if she'd suggested wrestling a basilisk barehanded. Amara's brows knit in disbelief; Sophia crossed her arms, lips pursed; Lu slouched deeper into his seat, tracing runes on the armrest with a idle finger.
Amaya cleared her throat with a feigned cough, the sound echoing .She eased back into her chair, the gold rims glinting as she adjusted it with a soft scrape. "You're not thrilled about this mission?" she ventured, her tone gentle but probing.
"NO!" they chorused, the word bursting out like a shared spell, raw and unified.
She sighed, a sound like wind through willow branches, and reached for one of her gold-rimmed files from the desk—a leather-bound stack etched with protective wards. Pages rustled as she flipped through, pausing at one. With a deliberate tear, she slid it free and extended it toward them.
Sophia, ever the cocky one—even in defeat—leapt up first, snatching the paper with a flick of her wrist. Her dark eyes scanned it, expression unchanging as stone, then she flipped it around for the others. Amara and Lu leaned in, confusion creasing their brows. Blank. Not a smudge, not a rune—just nothing.
"What's this?" Lu asked, waving it like a flag of surrender, the paper fluttering in the still air.
"It's magic paper," Amaya replied, her smile warm and unyielding, like sunlight piercing clouds. "From Gaea herself—a balm for the burdened heart. Write your truths; let them ease the weight."
"You Met her?" Lu perked up, his gloom cracking just a fraction, eyes widening with that boyish wonder he rarely let slip.
Amaya chuckled, a sound like rustling leaves. "Have you forgotten who your mother is, my sweet? Queen of the dryads—I speak with her every week, under the great oaks where the world roots deepest."
Lu's face split into a quick grin, but it faded fast, folding back into his familiar scowl. "Go on, then. Write," Amaya urged, handing over two more sheets and a silver-nibbed pen that hummed faintly with earthen magic. "Let it out."
Amara took the pen first, her chaos-touched fingers steady despite the storm in her eyes. She scribbled in neat, looping script, the ink flowing like liquid shadow:
"I am happy for my friends... I am happy that I get to have amazing people as companions. I am however angry and pressured... it has been building up on me since I was a little kid, when I first found out that I was next in line for the throne of queen in my coven and now this.... What will I do if I fail.. what will happen if I decide to leave everything and bolt off into nothingness... but then again what will happen if after my leaving the universe decides to crumble. I have decided to stay and fight for the people and for myself."
She handed it over, biting her lip as Amaya's gaze softened, reading in silence. Sophia was already bent over her sheet, quill flying in sharp, efficient strokes:
"I made friends! A phrase I never knew I would utter in this lifetime... that's fate's duality for you... master planner and master destroyer all in one. I am scared and afraid of being lonely.. the thought of the demon I absorbed is taking my anxiety through the roof. But I stay happy and hyperactive even though they see me as too much. My past will always be mine but I wouldn't like making it theirs too... I just hope I have enough power to save them."
She flipped it with a flick, passing it along as Amaya finished Amara's, her expression a mask of quiet empathy. Lu went last, his handwriting blocky and deliberate, the pen scratching like roots seeking soil:
"Happy for a new day with friends... not even tired from the stress... just being supportive of my friends.. tell the woodwynch to watch its back."
He slid it over with a half-shrug, and Amaya gathered all three, her dryad senses perhaps tasting the emotions bleeding from the ink. Finally, she looked up, setting the papers aside and rising once more.
"Everyone carries a private storm here," she said, her voice a steady anchor amid their turbulence. "Conflicts that pull and prod. But one truth shines through: remain friends. That's your strength—the weave that holds when spells falter."
She stepped closer, the air warming with her presence, like stepping into a sun-dappled grove. "Now... who is ready for America?"
A strange smile crept across their faces—tentative at first, then cracking wide, laced with that defiant spark of youth facing the unknown. The gloom lifted, just enough to breathe. Missions waited, realms teetered, but for a heartbeat, it felt like they could carry it all. Together.
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