You will go to school

Two years have flown by since that fateful day in the magic room, where the black flames devoured everything in their path. I, now eight years old, have grown in both body and spirit. My once hesitant steps have been replaced by confident strides, and my eyes hold a spark of determination that refuses to be extinguished.

The house training grounds have become my second home. Under the watchful eye of my sword teacher, I hone my skills with relentless dedication. The blade feels like an extension of my arm, its weight familiar and comforting. I can parry, thrust, and strike with precision, each movement a dance of steel and willpower.

Magic, too, has become my ally. I can summon the black flames at will, though now I control them with practiced ease. The room where they once raged has been rebuilt, its walls reinforced to withstand the inferno I conjure. Louise, has taught me to channel the energy, to shape it into shields and bolts of darkness. I revel in the power, but I also fear it—the thin line between mastery and catastrophe.

My studies extend beyond combat. I devour books, my hunger for knowledge insatiable. I read about ancient civilizations, mythical creatures, and forgotten spells. The library, with its towering shelves and musty scent, becomes my sanctuary. Mrs. Hawthorne, the librarian ,  my favorite teacher. Her eyes twinkle with hidden secrets, and her voice carries the weight of countless stories.

Today is reading class, and my heart flutters with anticipation. Mrs. Hawthorne beckons me to a cozy corner, where a worn leather-bound book lies open. The text speaks of love—a concept both fascinating and perplexing. I trace the words with my finger, committing them to memory.

"What kind of text is it?" Mrs. Hawthorne asks, her spectacles perched on her nose.

"It's an extract from a book," I reply, my voice steady. "About love."

Mrs. Hawthorne smiles, revealing teeth stained with tea. "Ah, love—the most potent magic of all. It can heal or destroy, create or unravel."

I nod, eager to learn. "But what is love, really?"

The teacher's eyes soften. "Love is denying reason. It's the flutter in your chest when you see someone, the ache when they're absent. It's both a gentle breeze and a tempest."

I ponder this. "But how do you know when you've found it? Your perfect match?"

Mrs. Hawthorne chuckles. "Ah, my dear, that's the mystery. Some believe in soulmates, destined to find each other across lifetimes. Others scoff at such notions."

 Soulmates are really rare and with everything I've read I've learnt that the Queen of Demons Zephara created a machine that finds your perfect match but I don't really know much about it.

"But what if the machine gets it wrong?" I blurt out. "What if it pairs you with someone who isn't right?"

The teacher's eyes twinkle. "The machine has its limits. Only one chance in a thousand, they say. But sometimes, Aurelia, love defies logic. It whispers in the wind, dances in starlight. You'll understand when you find your match."

I frown. "I don't think I want a match. It sounds like a waste of time."

Before Mrs. Hawthorne can reply, the library door swings open. Louise storms in, her face flushed with anger. She see the bowl of cookies and take it away from me.

"I'm not paying you to have fun!" Louise snaps at Mrs. Hawthorne. "And stop making her eat cookies—she'll get fat!"

I crunch the last of my cookie, torn between amusement and annoyance. Louise's strictness has intensified over the years. She's no longer the gentle person who guided me through my early struggles.

"Aurelia," Louise says, her voice icy, "outside. Now."

I hesitate, then rise from my chair. I glance back at Mrs. Hawthorne, who mouths, "Courage."

Outside, the house courtyard stretches before me. The sun bathes the cobblestones in warmth. I waited a few minutes then Louise got ot of there.  Louise was standing infront of me, arms crossed, her expression unyielding.

"She's so mean now," I mutter, kicking a pebble.

Louise sighs. "I'm not mean, child. I'm preparing you for a world that won't be kind. Magic and swords won't shield you from life's trials."

I meet my her gaze. "I'll learn. But I won't lose myself."

Louise's stern facade wavers. "Good. Because you're destined for greatness, Aurelia. And greatness demands sacrifice." Louise sigh and then looked at me seriousely.

"Madame Hawthorne is going to be sacked," Louise's voice cut through my thoughts, dry as parchment left in the sun. I looked up, my anger rising like a tempest. How could they dismiss her? She was more than a teacher; she was my anchor in this sea of uncertainty.

"But if Madame Hawthorne isn't here," I said, my voice edged with frustration, "who's going to teach me how to read or write?"

Louise's gaze bore into mine. "You're eight, Aurelia. You can read and write. Besides, I've enrolled you in a school. You'll start on Monday."

My heart plummeted. School? The word hung in the air like a heavy tapestry. I'd heard tales of children gathering in classrooms, of chalk dust and wooden desks. But I'd never been among them. The house had been my world, its walls both fortress and sanctuary.

"But—" I began, my protest faltering.

Louise's expression remained unyielding. "You'll be going to school, and that's all."

She turned, her footsteps echoing down the corridor. I watched her go, my mind a whirlwind of emotions. Madame Hawthorne's face floated before me—the crinkles at the corners of her eyes when she smiled, the way she'd patiently corrected my clumsy handwriting.

Outside, the courtyard beckoned. Sunlight spilled over the cobblestones, and I imagined the other children—strangers—waiting for me. Would they be kind? Would they laugh at my sword calluses and ink-stained fingers?

I followed Louise, my steps reluctant. The house's grand archway framed the world beyond—a world of books and blades, of magic and mundane. I wondered if I could find a place where they all converged, where ink flowed like spells and swords whispered secrets.

Louise halted, her back to me. "Remember, Aurelia," she said, her voice softer now, "greatness demands sacrifice."

I nodded, my resolve firm. Perhaps school was a different kind of training ground—a place where words and friendships would shape me anew. As I stepped into the sunlight, I vowed to honor Madame Hawthorne's teachings, to wield my sword and my pen with equal grace.

And so, with hesitant steps, I crossed the threshold. The house shadow clung to my heels, but ahead lay a path uncharted—a symphony of ink and steel, waiting for its next verse.