How strange…

  It smells of smoke and gunpowder, but I can’t feel the snow on my skin.

  I don’t hear anything. Or everything at once.

  Where is my rifle?

  My knuckles hurt.

  I feel like I’m hammering with my hand.

  Hammer. Hammer. Hammer. I think I’m painting.

  Yes. Paint.

  Wall. Red. Open mouth that smells of copper.

  Fist. Wall. Paint.

  Fist. Wall...Paint...

  Fist....Wall...and Paint.

  The hand thunders.

  Repeat. Mechanical. Perfect. As it should be.

  There’s a figure underneath. White hair.

  It makes a sound that shouldn’t come from a body. Its pulse pounds at my eyes.

  It squeezes my heart like a noose. It scratches my face. It must be the wall.

  It’s a clean wall. White. With pale-blue windows.

  It’s pretty… I like her. I like pretty walls.

  But I like it better when it’s red. Red. Dad likes red. Me too. My color.

  I think I hear screaming. I don’t know. Very confusing. My neck hurts. My chest tightens. It brings back memories.

  “Ghck…!”

  Something squeezes my throat. Threads… golden.

  Pretty. Blond hair. They grab my wrist too.

  They tell me to stop.

  Why? Why should I stop?!

  I painted the house. Mission accomplished?! DID I DO IT RIGHT, FATHER?!

  The hand that grips my wrist isn’t a hand: it’s threads too.

  I completed the objective. It’s hot. Fire everywhere.

  “What a lovely feeling…”

  Now I can hear the screams. How annoying, the civilians. They always scream.

  I hate them for screaming. I want them to shut up already. I want to kill them. I will burn them. I like watching them twitch in my flames. Their families...I like burning families...

  Yes…

  I’m sleepy…

  They say something about emergencies.

  Is that my extraction point? Mission completed. Return to base.

  That guy has a stupid white mask. I hate his fake smile.

  Are you mocking me? Is that it? I will kill you. I will burn you alive. You son of a fucking bitch…

  I will murder you…

  …

  …

  …

  A couple of hours earlier.

  “Let me see if I understood correctly.” said Astera, taking off her glasses to rub her temple. “You want to take part in the practical exercise as well because you consider yourself fit?”

  “That’s right, Headmistress.” Miria lifted her chin like a proud bird. She faced the two heads directly, ignoring Feralynn’s prejudiced side-eye. “I know very well that both of you called my classmate for her recent demonstration in Defense’s class, and I want to be part of it too.”

  “You do get jealous…” Feralynn muttered through clenched teeth, averting her gaze to keep her annoyance in check.

  “Miss Frostweaver.” Astera found her usual firm voice. “This is not a competition of any kind, and the reasons your classmate was called are none of your concern.”

  Smiley sat contained, fingers interlaced and his hat still shading his eyes. He let them keep talking. Gently he rocked his desk chair.

  Miria, full of stubborn pride, stepped forward. “With all due respect, I disagree.” She crossed her arms. “I consider myself the most fit for a demonstration.”

  That landed like a slap; Feralynn turned to face her. Her blood boiled faster than her flames under a lid.

  “Oh screw off. The most fit? I blew up the dummies! You just threw little sticks of ice at them!”

  Still, the noble girl didn’t back down. Arms crossed, she faced her back.

  “You’re unstable. Professor Sebastian had to generate a barrier to contain the blast.” She swallowed, sharpening her eyes as they scanned the black-haired girl from head to toe. “Besides, you’re immature.”

  One more step forward, the distance closing—like the patience of both girls.

  “Maybe I’ll show you what I can do by kicking your rich-girl ass.” Feralynn said through teeth clenched with anger.

  “...”

  Smiley’s fingers creaked like dry branches in a bonfire, and although he smiled, his white eyes didn’t blink.

  Miria put on her best hawk-hunter face, but inside… her lips trembled at being insulted and told to go to hell for the first time. Humiliation burned her cheeks, but there was also something sweet about not being treated like porcelain. It was a completely new and interesting sensation for her.

  Feralynn, for her part, could no longer hold back the urge to punch her in the face. She wanted to hit her. She wanted to shut her up. She wanted to shatter that mirror that reflected everything she was not. And on top of that, just when she was finally going to prove her worth, the rich girl planted herself in the middle. She hated her not just for interrupting, but because her very presence reminded Feralynn that she didn’t fit in this new world, that she would never look as clean or as confident as a normal person—let alone a “Frostweaver.”

  “Enough!” Astera shouted, followed by the thunder of her palms on the desk. “I will not tolerate such behaviour!”

  SNAP.

  A snap of dry, firm fingers. The two girls froze, as if time had stopped for everyone but the heads. Astera blinked, frowned, and turned her gaze to the source of the spell.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “Of course!” Interrupted Smiley, leaning from his seat. He interlaced his fingers, resting his chin on his hands. “Oh Astie, you do get stressed quickly.” He shook his head slightly. “That kills faster than any poison.”

  Astera crossed her arms. Still standing, she watched them: two girls frozen in time. Fists clenched. Lips sealed. Pure hatred. The echo of old memories tightened her chest. She looked away to speak with her colleague.

  “I don’t have to remind you that you’re forbidden from casting spells on students.” she said firmly, then added with a resigned sniff. “Although I won’t complain—those two were giving me a headache.”

  Smiley pulled two cards from his desk. The furniture was covered in the debris of his pyramids and towers of poker cards. “I know, I know. The idea was to have our little crow, but seeing how much these two hate each other, I supposed it was a better way to see.”

  “See what, exactly?”

  He took a card in each hand, studying them as if they were a map to hidden treasure. “Self-control.” He rubbed the cards with each thumb before tossing them. “After all, both are heirs.”

  Astera watched them land softly on her desk. Each one beside the two girls opposite: one queen of blood-red droplet, and one of a black crown. Two colors that rarely touch without starting a violent war.

  “...”

  I don’t have a good feeling about this. It better be worth it.

  “All right…” she answered, curiosity winning over rigidity. "Let's see what they are made of."

  SNAP.

  Another snap. The two girls returned, and before Feralynn could open her mouth to hurl another insulting threat, Smiley cut her off.

  “Excellent, excellente!” sang the puppet in a shrill tone. “What a splendid dance awaits us: fire against ice! Oh, it reminds me of a book I read once.”

  Feralynn stepped back, staring at the headmaster in terror. “What…? Are you going to let her… participate…?” She felt her throat tighten, as if she were swallowing embers of her own rage. Her clenched fists began to heat up.

  Miria stood firm. She closed her eyes and lifted her chin in a triumphant gesture. But beneath her skirt, her knees trembled as if betraying her.

  “Do not worry, Miss Blackwood!” Smiley was already standing on his desk like a ringmaster in a forbidden circus. “I assure you—and I promise on my entire pony collection—that you will have private demonstrations with me in the front row. Consider this merely an… exception!”

  Feralynn looked at Astera, searching for an ally in the decision. But the woman only bit the inside of her cheek, jaw tight, refusing to meet her eyes. Since she’d entered, Fer had noticed how Astera avoided looking her straight in the face.

  “…Whatever.” She fixed her gaze on Miria. “Don’t whine to your daddy when I tear you to pieces.”

  “Tsk…”

  Smiley beat mini-applause like a child clapping for his own cake before blowing out the candles. Astera lowered her gaze, weighing whether this was a good idea. On one hand, she knew pushing students into situations like this would only sow discord; on the other… she needed to see if the girl she refused to look in the eye was like him… or worse.

  “Let’s not waste any more time, ladies! I have a novel at four and I absolutely refuse to miss it for anything in the world!”

  CLAP.

  An applause, followed by a brief flash. Smiley teleported them to an enclosed arena, vast as a concert stadium, though empty and silent.

  When Feralynn and Miria opened their eyes they were already wearing armor and gloves. Fer’s backpack had vanished as well.

  The dark-haired girl grabbed each wrist and spun her hands, inspecting the catalyst gloves. They were of a light, durable metal. The pale-blue neon runes were still dormant, waiting to feel her mana and conjure.

  “I don’t need them,” she said, looking up at Smiley, who was finishing the summoning of dozens upon dozens of practice dummies.

  “Ah, ah, aaah~” he shook a finger side to side. “Prodigy or not, the protection code must be honored~”

  Miria surveyed the space: broad, rough. Lit with LED strips on the walls and ceiling. She looked up: behind the huge upper windows, silhouettes watched. Among them she picked out Astera, upright and severe as a statue. So many people had come to see them…?

  “Who are you really…?” she thought, glancing at Feralynn. Unnoticed, her gloved fists were already tightening, the metal squeaking with a dull sound. “What do you have that I don’t…?”

  Smiley cleared his throat for attention. “My dear spellcasters! You have a maximum of thirty minutes to destroy as many of my precious dummies as possible! Oh, please, don’t be gentle with them. They love the action as much as I do!”

  With a wave of his hands, he activated the entire army armed with clubs, spears, mazes, wooden swords, and cardboard-and-plastic armor clumsily painted and tagged. When activated, their painted smiles turned into frowns, though they were no more threatening than a child’s scribbles.

  “I’d like you to see this as teamwork rather than a competition. After all, it’s only a demonstration. There’s no prize.” From beneath a shower of candy he produced a huge lollipop from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Unless you want sweets! Hm? Not even a little sucker?”

  “...”

  Silence. So heavy that not even the crinkle of a wrapper dared to sound. Smiley feigned a growl before tucking all the candies and chocolates into his coat.

  “I’ll be watching you~!”

  With a wave he disappeared in a pop! that left a rain of confetti and glitter.

  “Thirty minutes,” Feralynn repeated, stretching her arms and neck. “Enough to make you bite the floor in front of everyone.”

  Miria tied her hair back with an angry expression. “I don’t understand—why are you like this to me?”

  “Like how?”

  “Annoying, rude, discourteous, childish.”

  “Your fault for bothering me when you came here.” Feralynn shrugged with a sarcastic sneer. “You should have stuck to your pretty violin practice. That suits you better.”

  Miria snorted and faced her. “I swear you’ll swallow your words, Blackwood.”

  Fer stepped toward her. “I’ll say the same, Frosty.”

  “Don’t call me that.” she snapped through clenched teeth, anger grinding in her jaw.

  RIIING…! A metallic echo bounced through the arena.

  “LET THE GREAT SHOW BEGIN, MY LADIES!”

  Smiley’s voice, like a circus announcer. The dummies that had witnessed their argument began to march toward them. Fer cracked her knuckles with a malicious smile, while Miria took a deep breath and materialized an ice rapier. The arena ceased to be an empty hall: it was now a ring.

  A dummy brandishing a wooden spear charged at Fer. The tip was so blunt it wouldn’t pierce a sheet of paper. The girl barely twisted her torso, diverting the attack, and spat a gout of fire from her palm: the dummies charred instantly, the heat warping the air between them. The flames even reached those behind.

  Fer’s gloves gleamed. They felt like a second skin that sucked her mana and spat it out as flames. It was her first time casting with catalysts.

  “Tch… lacks power…” she muttered, before dodging from another dummy’s hammer and snapping its neck with a jab.

  Miria, meanwhile, didn’t wait to be attacked. She moved among the dummies with grace, her ice rapier as thin as a surgical needle. Each cut at wrists and heels was clean, almost clinical, and her free hand stayed planted against her back, a steady support so the other could move with deadly precision. Between them it looked more like a dance than a fight—each thrust an incision in an invisible operating theater.

  A dummy larger than the rest, with two mallets instead of arms, charged straight for both of them. Its steps sounded like hollow drums, displacing air with each strike.

  Fer saw it first. She raised her hand, heat already vibrating in her gloves.

  “Mine!” she growled, preparing the flame.

  But Miria stepped forward. She spun gracefully and her frozen rapier pierced the dummy’s knee, crystallizing it until it cracked. The wooden beast bent clumsily, still wobbling.

  “I told you it was mine!” Feralynn roared, spewing a blast of flame that split the target in two, leaving embers on the ground.

  Miria lowered her weapon slowly, maintaining composure. “The only thing that’s yours here is the tantrum you’re throwing.”

  Fer clenched her jaw, smoke from her spell still seeping from her gloves.

  “At least I actually take them down.”

  “At least I don’t have to set half the field on fire to hit the target.”

  The remaining dummies—unaware of the girls’ rivalry—began to close in. Dozens of painted helmets and toy swords surrounded them like a carnival army of shadows.

  The tension in the arena was no longer just against the dummies: it was against the other girl.

  Feralynn spread both palms. Gouts of fire burst from each, merging into a single whirling inferno to wipe out as many dummies as possible in the shortest time.

  Miria staggered back; her rapier was lodged in a dummy’s chest just before Fer’s flames carbonized it.

  “Damn it, aim properly you brute!” Miria shouted, already summoning two new ice swords in her hands.

  A floating megaphone buzzed above them with Smiley’s shrill voice: “Girls, girls. I said ‘cooperation,’ not ‘confrontation.’”

  More dummies came in waves. Miria frowned.

  “If that’s how you want to play…” she murmured, dropping her rapiers to raise her palms. “ICE-BURST!”

  A blizzard loaded with shards of ice exploded forward, shredding heads and torsos of wood. But the stragglers, intact, glanced at one another and drew metal shields engraved with runes. They formed a barricade up front, protecting those advancing behind.

  Miria gritted her teeth: her ice projectiles smashed against the barrier. She doubled the mana in her gloves, glowing brighter… in vain. They kept coming.

  Fer finished off those pressing her, turned, and saw Miria in trouble. “Heh, weakling…” She drove a punch into another dummy’s lower abdomen, used it as a springboard, and leapt. Midair, she formed a fiery sphere and hurled it straight at the entrenched squad.

  The explosion forced Miria to shield her eyes. She raised an ice wall and withstood the blast while the flames charred the platoon, twisting them on the ground.

  “You’re welcome, Frosty,” Fer mocked, laughing under her breath. She didn’t even bother firing from her palms anymore—she wrapped her fists in fire and launched herself into close combat.

  The ice shield had protected Miria, but not her pride. Heat flushed her cheeks. Then she saw it: a dummy sliding up behind Fer.

  With cold fury, she formed an ice bow, drew, and loosed. The arrow pierced the dummy’s neck, dropping it right behind Fer.

  She turned mid-frenzy and found the arrow still quivering in the wood. She looked at Miria.

  “You’re welcome,” the noble spat back, venom thinly veiled. “Blackwood.”

  Feralynn rolled her eyes, growled, and pressed on. Each girl carved her own path, smashing through dummies.

  Once in a while, one would save the other from being struck down—but never with gratitude.

  Each rescue was just another excuse to taunt.

  ?