Dark Grove Academy

The corridors of Dark Grove Academy smelled of ancient parchment and the lingering hormones of a thousand teenagers, but near the Potion Labs, the air sharpened. There, the scent was a permanent bruise of singed rosemary and sulfur. Echo adjusted her captain’s pin, her thumb tracing the embossed silver owl until it sat perfectly level on the lapel of her charcoal blazer. Precision wasn't just a habit; it was her armor.

"I'm just saying, Echo," Willow murmured, her voice barely audible over the rush of students heading to Alchemical Theory. She tucked a lavender-scented strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes fixed on the hem of her pleated skirt. "It’s not like we are dating. But he was actually... sweet. Almost like his old self. Before highschool."

Echo’s jaw tightened, a small muscle jumping in her cheek. "That’s all you, Willow. He doesn't have an 'old self.' He has a 'defeated self' and a 'plotting self.' He despises me because I’m the constant reminder that he’s second best. He’s still vibrating with rage that my Draft of Living Death had better viscosity than his."

"Oh, look! There's my favorite 'Macaroni' now!"

The voice was like velvet dipped in acid. Dean sauntered toward them, his gait a choreographed display of pure, unearned confidence. He looked far too polished for a Tuesday morning; while other students had ink-stained fingers and rumpled cuffs, Dean’s blazer was lint-free and his tie was knotted with a precision that bordered on the offensive. It was disgusting how put together he looked.

He slung an arm around Willow’s shoulders, the casual intimacy of it making Echo’s eyes narrow. He didn't look at Willow, though. His gaze—pure, concentrated ego—was locked onto Echo.

"Careful, Macaroni," he smirked, gesturing with a manicured hand toward the heavy, iron-bound cauldron-bag slung over her shoulder. "Don't strain yourself. I'm still available to take over as Captain if the pressure gets to be too much for a girl of your... delicate constitution."

He lingered on the word delicate, letting it hang in the air like a foul odor.

Echo didn't argue. She didn't even grant him the satisfaction of eye contact. To Dean, silence was a vacuum he felt the need to fill with his own brilliance. She simply turned her back to him, spotting a trembling freshman nearby who was fumbling with a jar of pickled newt eyes.

"Excuse me," Echo said, her voice cool and professional. "Can I help you with that?"

As she spoke, her right hand dropped naturally to her side. Hidden from Dean’s sight by the stiff fabric of her blazer, her fingers danced, tracing a sharp, jagged sigil in the stagnant air—a Hydro-Impulse rune, modified with a bit of Echo’s own "delicate" flair.

Behind her, she heard the metallic clack of the silver water fountain. Dean, sensing that he had won the interaction by getting the last word, leaned over for a victory lap of a drink from the water fountain.

THWUMP.

It wasn't a gentle arc of water; it was a localized monsoon. The fountain let out a pressurized, mechanical roar. A column of freezing, magically-amplified water slammed into Dean’s face with the force of a fire hose.

He stumbled, his polished loafers squeaking on the stone floor, as the fountain continued to howl like a geyser. His expensive silk tie was instantly ruined, limp as a dead eel, and his carefully gelled hair was plastered to his forehead, making him look less like a campus prince and more like a very angry drowned rat. He stood staring at her back sputtering.

Echo didn't miss a beat. She didn't even turn around.

"And make sure you chop the valerian root against the grain," she told the wide-eyed freshman, who was now staring in horror at the dripping mess behind her. "Otherwise, the sleep will be restless, and the potion will smoke. We wouldn't want to have any... accidents."

A tiny, dangerous smile played on her lips that matched the glint in her eye.

Behind her, the fountain finally sputtered into a pathetic drip. Dean was gasping for air, the water soaking through his blazer and making his slacks cling to his legs. "Macfarland!" he wheezed, swiping frantically at his eyes. "I know that was you!"

Echo turned around on her heel, slowly. Her expression was a masterpiece of pure, clinical innocence. She tilted her head, her eyes roaming over his sodden sleeves and the pathetic remains of his hairstyle.

"I’m sorry, Dean. Were you saying something to me?” She pressed a hand to her heart, then moved it to cover her mouth in mock surprise. “My goodness. You look a little... washed up. Maybe the pressure of standing upright is becoming too much for a neanderthal of your... soggy constitution?" She smirked as she looked at his wet pants and blazer.