Cold water splashed against porcelain, but it did nothing to cool the fire burning beneath her skin.
Bloom gripped the edges of the white ceramic basin, her knuckles turning a ghostly white. Her breath hitched. Every muscle in her body trembled, vibrating with a foreign, terrifying energy that wasn't entirely her own.
Smoke still clung to her hair, thick and smelling of burnt paper and ancient dust from the destroyed archives. She grabbed the bar of harsh lavender soap, rubbing it furiously against her palms until a thick lather covered her hands.
Scrubbing harder, she winced as the skin on her knuckles turned raw and red. She wanted to wash away the memory of his wrists. She wanted to erase the way her Dragon Flame had wrapped around him like a long-lost lover returning from exile.
Why hadn't it burned him?
Her power, the very force meant to avenge her dead parents and her ash-heap of a kingdom, had purred at his touch. It had coiled around his skin, radiating a deep, bone-deep comfort that made her stomach churn with disgust.
Anger, hot and suffocating, flared in her chest. She rinsed her hands, watching the grey, ash-flecked water swirl down the drain. The phantom warmth remained. It thrummed deep within her bone marrow, a rhythmic pulse that matched the beating of her own heart.
Looking up, she stared at her reflection. Red hair clung to her damp forehead in sweaty strands. Her blue eyes, usually bright with determination, looked wide and haunted. She looked like a survivor who had just realized the monster was already inside the bunker.
Stella's side of the room was empty, thankfully. Her roommate was likely still downstairs, helping the other fairies clear the debris from the courtyard or gossiping about the sudden, terrifying breach of Alfea's defenses.
Bloom dried her hands with a rough towel, rubbing so hard her palms burned. It did no good. The connection was still there, a thin, invisible wire stretched taut between her chest and whatever dark corner of the Magix dimension Valtor had fled to.
How could she explain this to anyone?
If they knew that her magic had practically begged Valtor to stay, they would look at her with fear. Or worse, pity. They looked at her as a leader, a savior, the last princess of Domino destined to bring light back to the Magic Dimension.
Her hands trembled as she hung the towel back on its rack. She could still feel the phantom heat of his skin, a smooth, dark counterpoint to her blazing energy. It felt like two puzzle pieces finally clicking into place after years of being forced apart.
"No," she whispered to her reflection, gripping the edges of the sink until her fingers ached. "He is a monster. He destroyed my family. He destroyed everything."
But the flame inside her didn't seem to care about history. It didn't care about the ashes of Domino or the tears she had cried. It only knew him.
---
A sharp knock on the door made her jump. Her heart leaped into her throat, hammering violently against her ribs.
"Bloom?" a soft, familiar voice called out. "Headmistress Faragonda requests your presence in her office immediately."
Griselda's voice was always clipped, but tonight it carried an underlying current of severe tension. The school had been breached. The security systems they boasted about had crumbled like wet sand against Valtor's dark power.
Taking a deep breath, Bloom adjusted her rumpled shirt and opened the door. Griselda stood in the dimly lit hallway, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her spectacles reflecting the flickering light of the wall sconces.
"Is everything alright, Bloom?" Griselda asked, her sharp eyes scanning Bloom's pale face and raw hands.
"Yes," Bloom lied, her voice barely a whisper. "Just tired. The attack... it was a lot."
Griselda nodded slowly, a rare flash of sympathy softening her rigid features. "Understandable. Come. We must not keep the Headmistress waiting."
Walking down the winding stone corridors of Alfea felt different tonight. The ancient castle, which usually felt like a safe haven, now seemed cold and vulnerable. Every shadow seemed to stretch toward her, hiding secrets she wasn't ready to face.
Students huddled in small groups in the hallways, their faces pale and anxious. They whispered in hurried, frightened tones, their eyes darting toward Bloom as she passed. They expected her to have the answers. They expected her to protect them.
Guilt gnawed at her stomach, sharp and relentless. She had let him go. She had watched him escape, paralyzed by the bizarre reaction of her own magic.
They reached the heavy oak doors of the Headmistress's office. Griselda knocked once before pushing them open.
Warm light from dozens of floating candles filled the room, casting long, dancing shapes across the bookshelves. Faragonda stood by the large arched window, her hands clasped behind her back as she stared out into the dark, ruined courtyard.
Professor Palladium was there too, pacing nervously near the desk, his hands twitching over a stack of ancient, singed parchments.
"Bloom," Faragonda said, turning around slowly. Her face looked older tonight, lined with deep exhaustion and a heavy, sorrowful gravity. "Thank you for coming so quickly. Are you hurt?"
Shaking her head, Bloom stepped forward, her boots clicking softly against the polished stone floor. "I'm fine, Headmistress. Just a few scrapes."
"We saw the magical residue in the archives," Palladium chimed in, his voice tight with anxiety. "The energy signature of the Dragon Flame was massive. You confronted him, didn't you? You fought Valtor."
---
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced Bloom's chest. She had to play this carefully. One wrong word, one slip of the tongue, and her entire life at Alfea would vanish.
"I tried to stop him," Bloom said, her voice steadying as she fell back on her hatred for the man who had ruined her life. "He was in the restricted section. He was looking for something."
"Did he find it?" Faragonda asked, stepping closer. Her blue eyes searched Bloom's face with an intensity that made Bloom want to shrink back.
"I don't think so," Bloom lied. The first lie tasted like ash on her tongue, bitter and heavy. "I attacked him. I threw everything I had at him."
Palladium leaned forward, his eyes wide. "And? What happened? The Dragon Flame should have incinerated any dark magic he possessed. It is the primal spark of creation!"
Clenching her fists behind her back, Bloom felt the raw skin of her knuckles rub against each other, a physical reminder of her failure. "He was too strong. He... he used some kind of ancient shield. A dark relic. It absorbed my attack and threw the energy back at me."
She hated how easily the falsehoods spilled from her lips. She hated that she was hiding the truth to protect her own reputation.
My focus shattered from the blast, Bloom continued, keeping her gaze locked on Faragonda's desk rather than meeting the old woman's eyes. "By the time I recovered, he had opened a portal. He escaped before I could strike again."
Silence stretched through the room, heavy and suffocating. The only sound was the crackle of the fireplace in the corner.
Faragonda sighed, a sound of profound defeat that cut Bloom deeper than any blade. "Valtor is a master of manipulation and ancient sorcery, Bloom. Do not blame yourself. He was created by the Ancestral Witches from the darkest depths of the magic dimension. It is no surprise he possessed a way to counter your light."
Hearing those words—created by the Ancestral Witches—made something twist uncomfortably in Bloom's stomach. If Valtor was pure darkness, why did her flame recognize him? Why had his magic felt like a missing piece of herself?
"We must increase our defenses," Palladium said, rubbing his temples. "If he can bypass our barriers so easily, no one in Alfea is safe."
Indeed, Faragonda agreed. She walked over to Bloom, placing a gentle, comforting hand on her shoulder. "Go back to your room, my dear. Rest. You have carried a heavy burden today. We will speak more of this tomorrow."
Nodding silently, Bloom turned and walked out of the office. Her heart felt like a lead weight in her chest. She had lied to the woman who had given her a home, a purpose, and a family. The absolute certainty of her crusade—the belief that she was the absolute good fighting absolute evil—crumbled slightly, leaving a gaping, terrifying void.
---
Returning to her room, she shut the door quietly and locked it. The silence of the dormitory was deafening.
Slowly, she walked over to her bed, her legs feeling like hollow tubes of glass that might shatter at any moment. She didn't bother changing out of her soot-stained clothes. She didn't want to look at her hands anymore.
She collapsed onto the mattress, burying her face in the pillow. Her mind reeled. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his pale face, his mocking yet intensely focused gaze, and the way her flame had wrapped around his wrists like a golden silk ribbon.
He wasn't just an enemy. He was something else. Something she couldn't define, and that scared her more than any monster the witches could summon.
Hours seemed to pass in a blur of restless, half-awake torment. The room grew colder, a biting chill creeping through the floorboards that had nothing to do with the night air.
Sitting up, Bloom shivered. The air in her bedroom was suddenly thick, smelling faintly of ozone and ancient ice.
A strange, pulsing glow caught her eye from across the room.
Turning her head, she stared at the full-length mirror standing near her wardrobe. The glass wasn't reflecting her messy bedroom or her own disheveled form.
Instead, the silver surface rippled like disturbed water, clearing to reveal a desolate, frozen wasteland of jagged ice and black stone.
Standing in the center of the frozen expanse was Valtor.
His long dark coat whipped around his tall frame in the invisible wind. In his pale, elegant hands, he held a cracked obsidian mirror. As Bloom collapsed into bed, her mirror suddenly reflected not her own room, but Valtor standing in a desolate, frozen wasteland, holding a cracked obsidian mirror that mirrors her exact movements.