Friday arrived with the brittle tension of unspoken things.
The Sparkle Room felt different. Children who usually greeted each other with cheerful sparkle-touches did so more quietly. Chloe held court at the art table with renewed vigor, having retreated to safer social territory. Marcus, back with his own age group, occasionally glanced through the connecting door with a confused frown.
Astraea moved through the morning routines with careful neutrality. She made her sparkles perfectly average. She spoke only when spoken to. She became, as much as possible, background.
It didn't work.
During "Morning Sparkle Share," when each child was supposed to demonstrate something new they'd practiced, Chloe went first. She made her six blue sparkles form a rotating star pattern—complex for her age, showy.
"Wonderful, Chloe!" Teacher Milly clapped. "Such improvement!"
Chloe beamed, shooting a triumphant look at Astraea.
When Astraea's turn came, she made her three silver sparkles do a simple, slow orbit. Basic. Uninspired.
"Lovely control, Raea," Milly said, but her smile was puzzled. "Is that… all you practiced?"
"I've been tired," Astraea said, which was true. Maintaining constant control was exhausting.
"Growing takes energy!" Milly said, accepting the explanation. But Chloe's smirk said she saw through it.
The real test came during outdoor time. The CYAP courtyard had a "luminary obstacle course"—hoops to jump through while maintaining sparkles, balance beams to cross while keeping lights steady, tunnels to crawl through with glow-sticks.
Usually, children went through individually, cheered on by others. Today, Marcus (visiting again for "cross-age mentoring") suggested teams. "More fun that way!"
Teacher Milly, always eager for cooperative play, agreed. "What a wonderful idea!"
The teams were, of course, manipulated. Marcus made sure he was team captain for one group, with Chloe and her friends. Astraea, Leo, and Mia ended up on the opposing team with two quieter children.
"First team to get all members through with sparkles still lit wins!" Milly announced. "Remember—cooperation and sparkle safety!"
The course began well enough. Leo, despite his single green finger, was surprisingly agile. Mia's water orbs floated alongside her, unaffected by motion. The quiet children struggled but tried earnestly.
Astraea moved with deliberate clumsiness, letting her sparkles flicker realistically when she "stumbled." Performing incompetence was harder than performing competence.
Then came the tunnel—a long, fabric-covered tube that children had to crawl through. Dark inside. Sparkles provided the only light.
Marcus's team went first, cheering each other on. Chloe emerged from the far end with her sparkles bright and perfect.
Astraea's team's turn. Leo went, his green finger a steady beacon in the dark. Mia followed, her orbs glowing softly. Then the quiet children.
Astraea entered last. The tunnel was close, fabric brushing her back. Dark. She let her sparkles glow just enough to see.
Halfway through, something changed.
The tunnel wasn't just fabric—it was lined with faintly luminescent thread that reacted to sparkle energy. Usually, it just glowed. But with Astraea's dragon-mana…
The threads didn't just glow. They activated like circuits, patterns emerging that shouldn't have been there. Geometric shapes. Fractal designs. Silver light bleeding through the fabric from the inside.
From outside, it looked like the tunnel was suddenly illuminated with intricate, beautiful patterns. Children oohed.
Marcus's eyes narrowed. "See? Weird. I told you."
Astraea emerged quickly, damping her sparkles. The tunnel's glow faded.
"How did you do that?" one of the quiet children asked, amazed.
"The tunnel's special," Astraea said. "It reacts to everyone."
"Not like that," Marcus muttered.
The game continued, but the mood had shifted. When they reached the final obstacle—a series of hoops to jump through while keeping sparkles above head height—Marcus saw his chance.
The hoops were set up in pairs for the team relay. As Astraea prepared to jump, Marcus "accidentally" bumped the hoop stand on his side. It wobbled, tilted, and began to fall toward her.
Not enough to cause injury—just enough to make her stumble, to break her sparkle concentration, to humiliate.
Time seemed to slow.
Astraea saw the hoop falling. She could catch it easily. She could step aside gracefully. She could do a dozen things that would reveal her unnatural reflexes.
Or she could let it hit her, take the minor pain, maintain the disguise.
She chose the latter, bracing for impact.
But Leo moved.
He wasn't where he was supposed to be in the relay order. He'd positioned himself nearby, watching Marcus. As the hoop fell, Leo didn't try to catch it—he was too small. Instead, he did something clever.
He shoved the base of the neighboring hoop stand.
It fell against Marcus's wobbling stand, propping it up at the last second. The hoop that would have hit Astraea instead swung harmlessly to the side, brushing her shoulder.
The entire maneuver looked like an accident—one child bumping into equipment, causing a chain reaction that prevented an accident. But Astraea saw the calculation in Leo's eyes. The precise angle. The timing.
"Oops," Leo said, in perfect imitation of Chloe's trademark apology. "Clumsy me."
Marcus stared, open-mouthed. He'd been outmaneuvered by a smaller, younger child. And in a way that looked entirely accidental.
Teacher Milly rushed over. "Oh! Careful with the equipment, boys! Is everyone alright?"
"Fine," Astraea said, rubbing her shoulder where the hoop had brushed.
"Marcus was bumping his stand," Leo said, his voice clear and factual. "I observed it tilt 12 degrees off vertical. I attempted to stabilize the adjacent stand to prevent collapse, but my mass was insufficient for precise control."
The scientific explanation disarmed any accusation of intent. Marcus couldn't claim Leo had done it on purpose without admitting he'd been tilting his own stand.
"Marcus?" Milly asked, her tone hardening.
"It was an accident," Marcus muttered, glaring at Leo.
"Be more careful. Equipment safety is sparkle safety!"
The game resumed, but Marcus's aggression was deflated. Leo had protected Astraea not with confrontation, but with cleverness. With turning the bully's own tactics against him.
After the obstacle course, as children lined up for hand-washing, Leo fell into step beside Astraea.
"He was testing you," Leo said quietly. "Seeing how you'd react. If you'd do the… pressure thing again."
"You shouldn't have gotten involved," Astraea said, though she was grateful. "He might target you now."
Leo shrugged. "My grandpa says bullies go after what they don't understand. So I gave him something to understand: basic physics and leverage." He paused. "Also, I recorded the tilt with my tablet's accelerometer. In case we need evidence."
He'd not only acted in the moment—he'd collected data for future defense.
The afternoon brought another challenge. During "Quiet Reflection," when children were supposed to meditate on their sparkle's "inner color," Chloe passed a note to Astraea.
It wasn't on paper. It was a sparkle-message—a crude but effective trick where you encoded simple dots and dashes in sparkle flashes. Tier 2 skill. Chloe was showing off.
The message flashed in blue light only Astraea could see clearly: I KNOW YOURE NOT NORMAL
Astraea considered ignoring it. But that would be taken as admission.
She replied with her own silver sparkles, using an encoding system four centuries more sophisticated than Chloe's. Not showing off—just using what came naturally. EVERYONE IS DIFFERENT
Chloe's sparkles flickered in confusion. She hadn't expected a reply, let alone one in a code she couldn't fully decipher but recognized as advanced.
The exchange was silent, invisible to Teacher Milly, but Leo saw it. His eyes tracked the sparkle patterns, his mind doubtless analyzing the information density.
After reflection time, as they lined up for dismissal, Leo whispered, "She's using Association terminology. 'Not normal.' That's what her dad's security reports say about gate incidents."
So it was confirmed. Chloe was channeling adult suspicions through childish aggression.
On the walk to the pickup area, Marcus approached one last time. Not aggressively. Curiously.
"How did you do that? In the tunnel?"
"The tunnel did it," Astraea said. "Not me."
"My uncle works gate maintenance," Marcus said, his voice lower. "He says sometimes gates react weird to certain people. Like they're… tuned different."
Astraea kept her face neutral. "I don't know about gates."
"My uncle says those people usually get taken for special testing." Marcus looked at her, and for a moment, the bully was gone, replaced by a confused boy trying to understand something unsettling. "Are you going to get taken for testing?"
The question hung between them, heavy with implication.
"I hope not," Astraea said honestly.
Marcus nodded slowly, then walked away to his own pickup line.
That evening, Leo sent a message through the children's messaging app Mrs. Evans had reluctantly allowed. No words. Just a link to a medical journal article about "Awakened Acceleration Syndrome—a rare but documented condition causing rapid growth and atypical mana interactions in juvenile Awakened."
The article was perfect. It explained everything: the growth, the hunger, the unusual sparkle behavior. It even mentioned "temporary social adjustment difficulties" due to rapid development.
Leo had found her medical alibi. And he'd sent it without comment, without asking for anything.
[System Notification]
[Social Bond Strengthened: Leo]
[Action: Provided strategic defense against aggressor]
[Action: Researched plausible medical explanation]
[Motivation Analysis: Protective friendship]
[Reward: 'Loyal Ally' designation granted to Subject Leo]
[Note: Good friends watch your back! Remember to watch theirs too.]
The System was right. Leo had become more than a friend. He was an ally. A co-conspirator in the best sense.
Astraea looked at the article on her tablet. She could show it to Mrs. Evans. To Teacher Milly. To Dr. Evans. It would explain so much.
But it would also label her. Put her in another box: "Rare Medical Syndrome." Better than "Ancient Dragon," but still a simplification of the truth.
Still, it was a tool. And she was running out of those.
She measured her height before bed: 151.4 cm. Growth slowing to half a centimeter per day. Consolidation.
She looked at her reflection—taller, sharper, less childlike by the day. The dragon in the glass looked back, patient and tired.
Leo had stepped between her and the world, a small shield with a brilliant mind. But shields can't hold forever. Eventually, what's behind them must be revealed—or become strong enough to stand alone.