"Your desk is dusty again, Miss Shadowmere," the girl says, leaning against the doorframe of the Magical History cssroom. She smiles, trying way too hard to look innocent. "Maybe it's demonic soot. I hear that happens with your kind."

  I look at my desk, which is covered in a fine yer of what appears to be chalk dust, arranged in an oddly even coating. This is the third time this week that someone has done this. Honestly, the creativity is starting to wear thin.

  "How observant of you," I say, pulling out my handkerchief to wipe it down.

  "We're just concerned about the air quality. Breathing in demon particles can't be healthy for the rest of us."

  I pause mid-wipe and look at her, really look at her. She's maybe sixteen, wearing robes and with hair in an eborate style that probably took an hour to arrange. Yet here she is, spending her time before css spreading dust on furniture and rehearsing mean-girl dialogue as if she's auditioning for a teen drama.

  It's kind of hirious, in a pathetic way.

  "You know what?" I say. "You should probably see the Academy healer about that concern. Paranoid delusions about airborne demon particles sound serious."

  Her smile falters. "I'm not—"

  "Or maybe it's the stress of maintaining that hairstyle. All that pulling on the scalp can affect cognitive function."

  "My hair is perfectly—"

  "Is it though? Because it's listing about three degrees to the left and the structural integrity looks compromised."

  She reaches up reflexively to check, and I go back to cleaning my desk. Behind her, I can hear one of her friends snickering, and her face goes red.

  "You think you're so clever," she hisses.

  "I think I'm smart enough for the situation right now. You, on the other hand, are putting way too much effort into what amounts to eborate vandalism."

  She storms off, and I finish wiping down the desk. I examine the dust residue on my handkerchief with serious interest. It's most likely chalk, probably mixed with something to make it stick better. They're really getting more sophisticated with their harassment tactics, which would be impressive if it wasn't so immature.

  Professor Aldwin comes in for css, and I sit down and get my notes from st session. The dead zone around me is in full effect today; three empty seats in every direction, like I'm radioactive. It's actually pretty handy for spreading out my materials.

  The css usually goes until about halfway through, and then I feel something wet hit the back of my neck.

  I reach up and my fingers come away sticky with what looks like ink. My nice white colr, the one that took me twenty minutes to get properly pressed this morning, now has a dark blue stain spreading across it.

  Behind me I hear a gasp of fake concern. "Oh no, I'm so sorry! My inkwell must have tipped over!"

  I turn around, and it's a different girl from Penelope's circle. This one has red hair and a look of exaggerated distress that would make a soap opera actress proud. Her inkwell is tipped over, and ink is spreading across her desk. It looks like it's intentional, but it's also designed to look accidental.

  "How clumsy of you," I say.

  "I know! I'm really feeling terrible. Your colr is totally ruined."

  "It's washable."

  "But the stain might be permanent! Magical ink is so difficult to remove."

  "Then I guess I'll have a souvenir of your incredible coordination skills."

  Professor Aldwin has noticed the commotion. "Is there a problem, dies?"

  "Just an accident, professor," the redhead says sweetly. "I knocked over my inkwell, and some of the ink got on Miss Shadowmere. I was apologizing."

  "Accidents happen. Miss Shadowmere, you may be excused to clean up if needed."

  "I'm fine, professor. The lesson is more important than undry."

  I turn around and keep taking notes, even though the wet stain is soaking through my colr and dripping down my back. It's an uncomfortable and annoying situation, but leaving would just give them the satisfaction of disrupting my education. So I sit through the remaining thirty minutes of css with ink slowly seeping into my uniform while the girl behind me whispers to her friends about how "some people have no standards for appearance."

  It's like being back in high school, but everyone's wearing fancy robes and has magic. The basic dynamics of teenage social warfare stay pretty much the same no matter what.

  After css, I head back to the dorms to change, and I'm walking through one of the quieter corridors when I spot Enid Fairfax ahead of me. She's alone, with books in her arms, and three of Penelope's group are "coincidentally" walking in the same direction.

  I slow down to watch because I've seen this setup before.

  One of them speeds up a bit and bumps into Enid as they pass, hard enough that her books go flying. Papers scatter across the floor in a dramatic spray that would be impressive if it wasn't so obviously choreographed.

  "Oh, how clumsy of me," the boy says, using the same script they all seem to work from. "I didn't see you there."

  Enid doesn't say anything, she just kneels down to get her stuff. The three of them stand there for a second, then the boy intentionally steps on one of her papers as he walks past, grinding his boot into it before moving on.

  They're not even being subtle about it.

  I'm thinking about stepping in, but Enid's already got her papers in order and is standing up, looking pretty calm about the whole thing. She catches me watching, and for a second we make eye contact. There's something in her eyes, not gratitude that I didn't join in, not a plea for help, it looks like acknowledgment. Then she keeps going down the hall, and I head to my room.

  This is what they do. It's like small-scale, targeted harassment that's hard to prove, and it's meant to be just below the level where faculty would step in. It's strategic and petty, and honestly kind of boring once you've seen the pattern.

  I change into a clean uniform and meet the others for lunch in the dining hall. The way everyone sits there is pretty interesting. Traditionalists are on one side, Meritocrats are on the other, and Independents are all over the pce, trying not to pick a side. We're sitting in our usual spot in the Independent zone, and I'm enjoying food that's still way better than anything I could afford in my old life.

  "Hey, your colr's a bit different," Vivienne points out.

  "Someone spilled ink on the other one. I'm sure it was completely accidental."

  "Third incident this week."

  "Fourth if you count the desk dust."

  "Are you going to report it?"

  "Report what exactly? Accidents and clumsy students? That'll get taken really seriously."

  Celine is pushing food around her pte without eating much. "This is getting worse. Father's political position is making us more visible and by extension you're becoming a better target."

  "I'm handling it."

  "You shouldn't have to handle it."

  "Welcome to the world of social hierarchy. Someone's gotta be at the bottom."

  "That's pessimistic.

  "That's realistic. I'm a half-demon transfer student sponsored by a politically active house. I'm sure I'll catch some fk for this. The question is whether I should let it bother me or just wait for them to get bored."

  "They won't get bored if you don't react," Mara says. "Bullies tend to escate when they're not getting the response they want."

  "Then I'll deal with escation when it happens. Right now, it's just a bit of a nuisance, not a huge safety concern."

  Maribel shows up with her lunch tray, which is set up just right. "The Traditionalist faction's harassment campaign has followed a pretty typical pattern of getting more aggressive over time. Based on behavioral modeling, I'd say there's a seventy-three percent chance of direct confrontation within the next forty-eight hours."

  "You're still tracking this?" I ask.

  "The data is fascinating. There's a clear link between how close you are to House Montcir activities and how often incidents happen."

  "I'm so gd my suffering is academically interesting."

  "All suffering is academically interesting if properly documented."

  "That's a pretty concerning way of looking at the world."

  "That's a solid methodology, based on real-world evidence."

  We finish lunch and head to afternoon csses. I've got Advanced Spell Construction, which means Professor Thorne, which means I'll be called on to demonstrate something and have to walk the tightrope of competent-but-not-exceptional. It's exhausting maintaining the performance, especially when I could just cast at full strength and be done with it.

  But that would defeat the entire purpose of being here, so I scale back my [Mage Hand] demonstration to make it look like I'm focusing hard on moving three objects at once when I could juggle thirty without breaking focus.

  Professor Thorne looks at me with that analytical expression I've come to dread. "Adequate control, Miss Shadowmere. Though I notice you maintain remarkable stability even under apparent strain."

  "It's all about meditation techniques, professor. I practice regurly."

  "So you've mentioned. I'm curious about these techniques. Maybe we could talk about them during office hours?"

  "I'm fairly busy with coursework—"

  "I insist. It's Thursday afternoon. My office."

  It's not a request. I nod and go back to my seat, thinking to myself, "Interrogation by suspicious professor" is another problem to add to my list.

  Csses end and I'm heading back to the dorms when I decide to take the quieter route through the east corridor. It's a bit longer, but it's less crowded, and I'm tired of dealing with the social minefield of the main halls.

  I'm maybe halfway there when three students step into the path ahead, blocking the way forward.

  I know all of them from Penelope's faction. The one in the center is a boy who looks like someone ordered "arrogant noble" from central casting and they delivered exactly what was requested; dark hair styled within an inch of its life, robes that probably cost more than a commoner makes in a year, that specific expression of entitled superiority that makes me think of every corporate executive who's ever talked down to me in client meetings.

  "Miss Shadowmere," he says, and his voice has that particur quality of someone who thinks using proper address makes threats sound civilized. "How convenient. We've been hoping to speak with you privately."

  I stop walking and evaluate the situation. There were three of them, and I was alone in an isoted corridor with hardly anyone passing by. This is the escation Maribel predicted.

  "I'm busy," I say.

  "Busy walking? Surely you can spare a moment for conversation."

  "I really can't."

  He moves closer, and the other two move out of the way, blocking any easy escape routes. They haven't drawn their wands yet, but the positioning is intentional. This is a confrontation they've pnned.

  "We've been watching you all week," he says, like he's expining something to a slow child. "House Montcir's little charity project. Tell me, do you really think their sponsorship makes you one of us?"

  This is so typical of a teenager. The posturing, the rehearsed lines, the whole performance of dominance. I dealt with worse when I was this age, and back then I didn't have magical powers to help me out.

  "I believe I have a right to attend csses without this kind of nonsense," I say.

  "Nonsense?" He looks legitimately offended. "We're maintaining social standards. Bloodlines matter, Miss Shadowmere. You can't just pretend to be something you're not."

  "I'm not pretending to be anything. I'm enrolled, I'm attending csses, and I'm following Academy rules. What you're doing is the pretending... pretending this is about standards when it's really just insecurity dressed up in expensive robes."

  His face gets all serious, and I know I've hit a nerve. "You have quite a mouth for someone in such a precarious position."

  "And you've got a lot of confidence for someone blocking a hallway. Are we all set? I have actual productive things to do."

  One of the others, a girl with red hair who might be the same one from the inkwell incident, steps closer. "We're trying to help you understand. The Academy has hierarchies. Your kind doesn't belong in spaces meant for real nobility."

  "My kind meaning?"

  "Demons. Half-demons. Whatever polluted bloodline—"

  "Yeah, I got it. You worked on this speech and everything, and it was very impressive." I look at all three, and I feel a mix of amusement and exhaustion. "You know what the funny thing is? You're putting so much time and effort into these eborate harassment campaigns and dramatic hallway showdowns, while I'm just trying to get through my csses and make it through the semester. You're so focused on bloodlines and purity and who belongs where, and I'm more concerned about whether the dining hall will have good bread tomorrow."

  "This isn't a joke," the boy says, and now there's fire magic sparking across his fingers. Small fmes dancing with obvious threat. "You need to learn your pce."

  "My pce is enrolled student. Same as you."

  "Not the same at all." He moves closer, and the fire gets stronger. "Maybe a small demonstration will help crify the difference."

  The girl reaches out toward my horns, calling them "grotesque disfigurement" in a voice that's trying so hard to sound cutting, and something inside me just snaps.

  Not snaps like breaks. It snaps like a rubber band that's been overstretched.

  I've been dealing with this for a week. The dust on my desk, the ink on my colr, the dead zone in every cssroom, the constant low-level harassment from people pying at intimidation like it's a game. I've been patient and restrained, pying the role of victim because that's what the political situation calls for.

  But I'm not actually a victim.

  I'm a twenty-six-year-old woman in a twelve-year-old body, and I've dealt with worse than teenage social dynamics. I've made it through freence gigs with crazy deadlines and clients who were passive-aggressive and thought paying me meant owning me. I've dealt with anxiety and insomnia, and the heavy weight of adult responsibilities in a world that didn't care if I succeeded or failed.

  These are children pying dress-up in expensive robes, threatening me with party tricks.

  And I'm so over pretending their opinion matters.

  I don't reach for my scythe. I don't cast [Shadow Bolt] or any of the spells that could end this in seconds. I don't even move.

  I just stop holding back.

  Level 198. Eight months of grinding endgame content, perfecting builds, soloing raids. All that power I've been carefully compressing, constantly suppressing, hiding under yers of performance… I let it breathe.

  Just for a moment.

  The air in the corridor changes first. It gets intense, like the air pressure suddenly getting twice as heavy, and I watch their confident expressions shift when they start to show some uncertainty. The temperature drops, and you can see their breath. It's like little clouds of vapor in the air that was comfortably warm just seconds ago.

  Then the presence hits them.

  It's not something I'm casting. It's just what happens when I stop pretending to be small. The weight of actual power, the reality of standing in front of something that could obliterate them without effort, and the bone-deep understanding that they've made a terrible miscalcution.

  The boy's fire magic flickers and dies. The girl who tried to touch my horns stumbles backward, eyes going wide and unfocused. The third one, who'd been quiet until now, makes a sound that might be a whimper.

  My shadow's stretched out across the stone wall behind me, and it's not following the light anymore. It's doing its own thing, expanding into shapes that don't match my frame. Suggestions of something rger, something monstrous, something that this twelve-year-old appearance is containing rather than representing.

  They're backing up now, their legs shaking, and that arrogant superiority from thirty seconds ago is gone. The boy's face has gone pale. The girl looks like she might be about to throw up.

  I take one step forward.

  All three of them flinch like I hit them.

  "You wanted to crify my pce?" My voice has this unique quality where it's yered with harmonics that you can't normally produce with your vocal cords. It's a pretty intense sound that can actually make your bones ache. "Here's some crification. I'm being patient because it's politically convenient. Not because I'm weak. Not because I'm afraid. Choosing to restrain myself is different from being unable to defend myself."

  I let another second of pressure build, watching them crumble under the weight of it, then I pull it all back in. The temperature and pressure go back to normal, and my shadow goes back to the right size. I'm just a small girl in Academy robes again.

  But they felt it. They know what's underneath.

  "Next time you want to have a conversation," I say in my normal voice, which somehow sounds more threatening after the demonic resonance, "maybe try being less predictable about it. The corridor blocking thing is really overdone."

  I walk past them and they move out of my way quickly, pressing against the walls like I might accidentally touch them. I don't look back as I head towards the dorms, but I can hear them behind me, breathing heavily, panicking quietly, someone possibly crying.

  I make it to room 347 and close the door behind me before the shaking starts. It wasn't because I was scared, but because it was such an effort to control the power once I'd unleashed it. It wanted to expand further and show them exactly what a maxed-out demon character looks like when not compressed into a starter-zone appearance.

  But I got it back under control. Barely.

  The room's empty. Freya's probably at the library, and Maribel's probably doing whatever genius prodigies do in their free time. I sit on my bed and take a few deep breaths, pushing the power back down into manageable levels, squishing it back into the shape of a normal student.

  My hands are still shaking.

  That was a mistake. Reckless. This is the kind of thing that's going to cause political problems and raise questions I don't want to answer.

  But it felt so good to stop pretending for just a minute. I want them to see a little bit of what I'm really like and watch their smug superiority turn into fear.

  It was definitely worth it.

  Probably.

  I'll find out tomorrow when the consequences start rolling in.

  For now I just sit in the quiet of my room and try to remember how to be small again.