Above me stretched a Magentic purple sky, scattered with yellow stars that sometimes looked fake, like painted lights. Lush, pink-lavender clouds drifted lazily between the floating landmasses.
Mu.The flying archipelago—home to countless kinds of beings.
Like myself.
"Come on, I hardly did anything," I argued, my hand tightening subconsciously around my broom as one of the air-traffic officers flagged me down.
Again.
The fifth time this week.
"You can't stop me. I'm an official officer too," I said to Rowardo, who had been painfully diligent about his job lately.
He barely looked up before continuing to write my ticket.
"Still breaking the law, Miss Nelson," he scoffed, repeating the same line he'd used on me for weeks.
"Come on—we work in the same building."
He tore the slip from his notebook and handed it to me.
I glanced down. My eyes nearly fell out. "Eight hundred and fifty ner'ōs?! Are you insane?!" I raised my voice just above normal—enough to carry, not enough to count as shouting.
Rowardo lifted an eyebrow and tapped his pen against the notebook.
Last time I had properly yelled, I'd left with double the fine.
"Problem?"
I wanted to smack the old bastard.
"Yes," I said sweetly. "Stop fining me double the average ticket, Rowardo." The last word came out almost mocking as he slid the pen back into his pocket.
"You're on thin ice, Miss Nelson." He didn't sound like he meant it.
I really should start flying in the legal flight zones more often.
"Thin ice, my ass. I'll file a complaint," I shot back—just like I did every other day.
A promise that was never fulfilled.
"Good. Oh—and Nelson?"
He turned his broom and angled downward toward Mu.
"Hm?" I answered lazily, ready to fly towards the opposite direction. Happy to finally be going back home to earth.
"I heard you'll be teaching at Alker Academy. My daughter goes there." Pride practically dripped from his voice.
"Ah," I said lightly. "Then I guess I know who to give bad grades to." Before he could respond, I kicked off and shot upward. "Hey!" he shouted after me.
This time, I made a point not to stand on my broom—even though flying upright felt far better.
Especially when you stood on the handle and let your hair loose before diving straight down, free-falling without steering—Only to yank the broom up at the last possible second, skimming just above the ground.
The rush.
The thrill.
The weightless snap in your stomach.
Too bad it was illegal in Mu. With the speed and violence of the maneuver, it was Rowardo's worst nightmare.
Thankfully, he wouldn't see it—most broom races were held on Earth anyway.
I had won a few, over the past three consecutive years. With the added consequence of being fined every single time.
"Rowardo can go suck it," I muttered to myself above the candy-colored clouds.
A tiny twist of my wrist—barely more than a nerve twitch—and my broom veered left.
And I hade arrived to my destination. Hiding away behind a massive purplish-pink cloud drifted Cardamom: a single small island crowned by the Cardamom Guild.
White stone walls, blue rooftops, and slender pillars encircling the building like ribs.
It was nothing compared to Queen Luna's palace.
Still, it was magnificent.
I flexed a muscle in my left leg—like pressing down on an invisible accelerator—and surged forward.
Avoiding the clouds.
For all their softness, they weren't real.
The first time I'd slammed into one, it had taken three showers to get rid of the strawberry cotton-candy stench.
It had felt like crashing into freshly fluffed pillows stacked on a soft mattress.
Click.
My heels struck stone as I landed on the balcony.
In the same second, a pentagon-circle of sparking baby-blue light flared above my broom. The long handle shrank, folding into itself and reforming into a delicate golden earring.
A soft shimmer brushed my jaw as it hooked back onto my ear.
"Flora?" I called as I stepped inside.
Only my heels answered me.
Usually, pixies and fairies swarmed the hallways—darting left and right, never still long enough for you to cross the room without ducking.
Today, the building felt hollow. I walked deeper into the family corridor. My footsteps echoed between portraits of former guild heads lining the walls.
I doubted anyone ever looked at them.
"Flora?" I tried again. As if summoned by the sound, a tiny bell chimed—
—and I immediately collided with a flying fairy.
Without thinking, I lifted my hand, palm flat, letting the thimble-sized creature land safely before she could hit the floor.
"Oh dear—oh dear, I'm so sorry," she squeaked, her voice like glass bells. Her wings drooped as she sat up on my palm.
"No, my fault," I said quickly. "Are you okay?"
She nodded and straightened her wings.
"Oh—have you seen Flora?"
"Yes. She's in the moderation room, Miss Nelson."
She hesitated before adding primly,
"And may I remind you—again—that entering through the balcony is strictly forbidden?"
I nodded as if I cared.
"Yes, yes. A million times," I said, lifting both hands in surrender as I slipped past her.
"Sorry again, Plum."
She huffed and fluttered away, bell ringing faintly behind her.
The moderation room door was open.
As Plum had said, Flora was there—balanced effortlessly on her broom, hovering near the thirteenth shelf of the towering book wall.
"Good morrow," I greeted.
She barely acknowledged me. Only a distracted hum as she continued scanning spines.
I closed the door, leaving it open just a crack for my small companion to slip in later.
Something felt off.
No loose books.
No scattered papers.
A small group of fairies sat clustered around a table instead. Heidi—an older fairy, barely the height of my middle finger—was instructing them.
She certainly had their attention.
"Entering through the balcony is forbidden, Mira. How many times must I tell you?"
Flora finally spoke.
Her tone carried mild exhaustion rather than real anger.
Her long blond hair floated behind her like silk, and her elaborate witch's hat rested perfectly in place. A blue crystal gem dangled from its tip without touching anything at all. That crystal marked her rank. Only witches who had passed a certain magical threshold received one.
And I still couldn't even get a proper hat at my age.
"I… sorry?" I offered weakly.
She drifted down from her broom without a sound and raised one elegant eyebrow.
We both knew I didn't mean it.
"Of course," she said dryly, already pulling a sheet of blank paper from a drawer.
She always knew why I came.
"I heard you'll be teaching at Alker Academy," she added. "I didn't realize their standards had dropped."
It was sharp—but never truly cruel. I'd learned the difference.
"No need to sound so excited," I said.
"And how does everyone already know? It happened less than an hour ago."
I waved my hands around my body, checking for any tracking spells.
She absolutely would put one on me.
"Kim posted it."
Of course.
"You follow Kim's blog?"
She gave me a flat look.
"That's your main concern?"
Yes.
It was.
How many people were about to watch me fail?
She dipped her stick into black ink and began to draw: a half-circle, seven threes above and below, several looping eights.
"You'll be fine." The calm in her voice made it sound like a threat.
"Next year I'm supposed to teach in Álfheim. With elves," I groaned.
"My reputation is going to die."
Flora continued calmly, sketching a pentagon in the center of the circle and writing a single name inside it.
'New Bethlehem.'
Clearly, she was already preparing to send me away.
"Are you even listening?"
She folded the paper once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then tore it cleanly down the middle.
As the scrap drifted to the floor, light burst from it—soft and blue—and expanded into a portable portal.
"You'll be fine," she repeated.
This time, almost kindly.
"You're just saying that."
"I know."
I stepped through.
My apartment looked exactly the same as I'd left it.
Except for the warmth in the air.
And the unmistakable scent of a human.
In my apartment.
I moved silently, heels as quiet as an owl in flight, following the unfamiliar smell into the kitchen without turning on a single light.
A young man stood in the dark, gripping a kitchen knife.
Both hands wrapped around the handle.
Shaking.
From me?
He was in my home.
"Who are you?" I asked.
I didn't move closer.
"Who am I? Who are you?" he snapped back, voice brittle with panic.
Human.
"You're standing in my house," I said calmly.
"So I believe I'll be asking the questions."
I took one step forward.
Click.
My heel struck the floor loudly.
I heard his heartbeat stutter.
As I advanced, he stumbled back, teeth clenched, face twisted in fear. He raised the knife higher in a desperate attempt to frighten me.
From the way he stood, from the way his wrists trembled—He wouldn't use it.
He didn't have it in him.
"Who—" I stopped.
Breathed in again.
And noticed it.
Another human scent.
One I had ignored only because it was far too familiar.
"Daniel Yellow?" I murmured.
The lights flicked on.
Two steps away, a tall blond man with ice-blue eyes lounged comfortably on my couch.
The orange-haired boy froze between us.
"And what, exactly, are you doing?" I hissed.
"Breaking into my home—with a human, no less." I shot the boy a sharp sideways glance.
Daniel chuckled.
"Come now, Mira. Be nice to the boy," he sang lightly. "He's one of us now."
It took several seconds to process that.
A human?
One of us?
He's lost his mind.
"Very funny, Yellow," I said flatly. "Who is he?"
Daniel laughed again.
"I told you, little princess. He's one of us. New guy."
A headache bloomed behind my eyes.
The boy was still clutching the knife, eyes flicking between us like a trapped animal.
"Danny," I said tightly, "I beg you—be humourless for once."
Daniel placed a hand over his heart in mock injury.
I really should put a ward on my apartment just for him.
"And you," I said sharply, pointing at the boy.
"Who are you?" My voice hardened.
"Speak. Or I'll burn you with the old man."
I didn't soften the threat.
"…I—"
"Now don't go telling witches your name, boy," Daniel cut in lazily.
I raised an eyebrow.
Daniel giving a human good advice?
That was new.
"Especially this one," he added, grinning.
"She's evil."
He jerked his thumb toward me.
"I haven't struck either of you yet," I replied coolly.
"I'd say that makes me benevolent." My hand slid up, loosening my cloak.
"Make your excuses interesting, Danny," I said quietly, "and I may stay benevolent a little longer."
He smiled—and stood.
The boy's hands finally gave out. The knife slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a sharp clang.
I looked down.
That wasn't my kitchen knife.
The handle was cheap. Gray wood.—Mine was black.
Like the rest of the set I'd bought.