"Now remember, Rhea," I said, kneeling to eye level, "no summoning, no smiting, and if anyone asks where you're from, you're an exchange student from a distant forest village with poor magical infrastructure and zero political history."
Rhea blinked at me. "Can I say I was raised by squirrels?"
"No—wait—actually... no."
It was the day of Magical Curriculum Observation Week at Aldelshire's community-run junior caster school—a week where guardians could observe magical dueling sessions to "gauge developmental growth in early-stage spell synthesis."
I had no idea what that meant. But I'd signed a form that said I did.
Rhea was technically too young to be officially enrolled, but the instructor, Miss Arlen, had taken pity on her "unique educational path" (read: my lies and frantic puppy eyes) and agreed to let her audit a few lessons.
I made her promise—out loud, twice—that she wouldn't vaporize anyone.
The arena was a wide circular hall behind the main school building, its floor made of enchanted marble and its walls lined with chalkboards, spell runes, and one very confused janitor sweeping up magical glitter.
Rhea's classmates were mostly human, elf, and beastkin children between eight and eleven. They wore basic caster robes and carried beginner wands that mostly glowed and occasionally exploded.
Rhea wore my oversized sweater and a tiny satchel full of cookies. She didn't need a wand. Her mere existence was a magical hazard.
"You excited?" I asked as we sat on the viewing bench above the field.
"I'm ready to observe," she said solemnly. "Observe and not explode."
"That's all I ask."
Miss Arlen, a brisk woman with tight braids and stress-induced eye twitches, stood in the arena's center with a clipboard and shouted, "Pair one: Lina and Jasper! Demonstrate a controlled burst spell!"
Two kids stepped forward. Jasper looked like a chubby mushroom in boots. Lina was Rhea's new elven friend—a quiet girl with too-big sleeves and anxiety-ridden posture.
They bowed, stepped back, and began casting.
"Sana vestra ignis!"
Jasper's wand sparked and fizzled.
"Control your core, Mr. Bellfin!"
"Trying, Miss Arlen!"
Lina raised her hands gently. A soft orange pulse spiraled from her palms and popped like a warm bubble.
The crowd of parents clapped politely.
Rhea did not.
"She's doing it all wrong," Rhea whispered, gripping the railing.
"Be nice."
"She's holding the flame like a toy. It should be alive. Like this—"
"Nope." I clamped a hand over her mouth. "No demonstrations. Just cheering. Quiet, non-scorching cheering."
She licked my palm.
"Ugh—why?!"
"It's how you stop forest foxes from biting," she said smugly.
"We are not foxes, Rhea!"
"You are very twitchy."
The next few pairs took their turns. Most were clumsy but harmless—flashes of light, minor wind gusts, one boy accidentally conjured a floating fish.
Then came Kira.
Kira was twelve, arrogant, and wore a custom silk robe with her name embroidered in fire thread. Her wand had dragonbone inlay. She marched into the arena like she owned the continent.
"Watch closely," Rhea said darkly. "She's a poser."
"You don't even know her."
"I can smell ego."
Kira cast a complex air slice spell that sent her opponent's hat flying.
The audience applauded wildly. Her mother, a noble-looking woman in red lace, gave a smug little nod.
Rhea's hands clenched the rail.
Her nose twitched.
And then...
Pop.
A red mist burst from her nostrils like a twin geyser.
"Oh no," I whispered, grabbing a napkin. "You're bleeding—why are you bleeding?!"
"I think my magic circuits flared," she said calmly, like someone explaining tea temperature. "Her spell was just so offensively mediocre it gave me a physiological reaction."
"Rhea, that's not a thing."
"It is now."
I was about to plug her nose with a cookie when her blood moved.
It twitched in mid-air.
And then—it sang.
Not melodically. More like... humming. Glowing. Gathering.
I dove for her just as the blood twisted into a rune.
"Duck!"
Too late.
BOOM.
The blood spell—later dubbed "Bloodburst of Mild Concern" by the faculty—detonated above the arena in a shower of red sparkles. Not lethal. Not even painful. But very loud.
Kira screamed. Her wand fried. The noble lady fainted.
More importantly: the class mascot, Mr. Toodles, a therapy hedgehog with anger issues, was caught in the blast radius.
He flipped end-over-end across the field and landed in a punch bowl meant for the after-duel snacks.
The arena fell silent.
I stood. Smiled weakly. And said, "She just has very bad allergies."
Chaos erupted.
Miss Arlen screamed something about unstable arcane nodes. Parents rushed the platform. A healer ran to resuscitate Mr. Toodles. The janitor dropped his mop and started baptizing himself in glitter.
I grabbed Rhea by the hand and bolted for the emergency exit.
"Am I in trouble?" she asked mid-sprint.
"Yes. So much trouble."
"Worth it."
"Why?!"
"She disrespected flame theory. Flame theory, Elias. It's sacred."
We hid in the school greenhouse for the next two hours.
Rhea sat on a bench, swinging her legs, holding a sleepy Mr. Toodles in a towel. He'd made a full recovery. And now liked her, for some reason. Probably trauma bonding.
I paced in front of her, trying to formulate a speech.
"You promised not to explode," I said finally.
"I didn't explode. I dripped."
"Your nose started a magical detonation."
"It was symbolic."
"Symbolism doesn't count in insurance claims!"
She looked at me. Seriously. Softly.
"I didn't mean to scare anyone," she whispered. "I just... I get so excited sometimes. It's hard to hold it in. My magic's always near the surface. Like... like a cup too full."
My anger deflated.
Of course it was hard. She wasn't just a kid. She was the reincarnated queen of infernal destruction with a magical core ten times the size of mine. Expecting her to behave like a normal child was like expecting a thunderstorm to politely sprinkle.
I sat beside her.
"You did good today," I said. "Mostly."
"Really?"
"You didn't vaporize Kira. That's progress."
"She's lucky I like hedgehogs."
Mr. Toodles sneezed.
I sighed.
"You're going to have to apologize."
"To the hedgehog?"
"To the school."
Rhea made a face. "Can I write it in blood?"
"No!"
"Cinnamon ink?"
"...fine."
That night, I filled out twenty forms, wrote an apology essay, and forged a certificate claiming Rhea had a rare blood-based magic allergy. The principal accepted it, probably because he was still coughing sparkles.
Miss Arlen gave Rhea a week-long suspension from Observation Week. But not a full ban.
"Her potential is too high," she muttered. "And her cookies were excellent."
We walked home in silence, side by side.
At the door, Rhea looked up at me.
"Still like me?"
I ruffled her hair.
"Even if you sneeze fire and bleed chaos," I said, "I like you best when you try."
She grinned.
Then tripped on the doormat and faceplanted into the bushes.
To be continued…