The Girl Who Sat Next to Darkness

Cecilia Blackwood's POV

The letter arrived while I was wrestling with a piece of toast.

Five in the morning, kitchen filled with the smell of burnt bread, me clutching a butter knife, trying to pry the charred thing out of the toaster.

Then the kitchen light flickered.

When it came back on, the glow had turned an eerie silver-blue, like the whole room had been submerged in an aquarium.

The butter knife clattered to the floor.

"Oh, come on. Not again."

Sure enough, there it was on the counter—a letter that hadn't been there before.

Dark gray envelope, sealed with silver wax stamped with a key wrapped in thorns.

No address, no name. Just sitting there like it had always belonged.

I didn't reach for it right away.

Not because I was scared. Well, maybe a little.

But mostly because this wasn't the first time something like this had happened.

For the past three years, weird things kept showing up around me.

Water boiling in my glass without heat. Books flying off library shelves at my head. Last month in chemistry lab, I sneezed at a beaker and the whole thing crystallized into purple glass.

Professor called it a miracle. I didn't correct him.

I took a deep breath and picked up the envelope.

The moment my fingers touched it, a sharp tingle shot up my arm.

Magic. I knew that feeling.

Because I'm a witch. Born that way. Been different for as long as I can remember.

But nobody can know.

Because in this world, witches get burned.

Not an exaggeration.

Three hundred years ago, the Church launched the Purge. Witch Hunters swept the streets hunting anyone born with innate magic—not the wizards who learned spells from books, those could be monitored and controlled. Us? The naturally gifted ones?

The Church said our power came from demons. Called us stains on the light.

Witches who got caught didn't get trials or lawyers. They got tied to stakes and burned alive.

Things aren't quite that obvious anymore, but the Church's Witch Hunters are still out there.

They walk the streets wearing Inquisition badges.

People disappear every year. Officials say they left voluntarily. Everyone knows better.

So I learned to control my emotions, keep the magic locked down, at least in public.

I kept myself average at school. Average grades, average sports, average social life. Bland as tap water.

But this letter found me anyway.

I tore open the wax seal. A silver badge fell out—same key design as the seal. The paper inside was thick, expensive, the handwriting elegant but somehow oppressive.

I unfolded it.

Cecilia Blackwood:

You have been accepted to Star Ring Academy of Magic. The new term begins September 1st. Please arrive before sunset at the stone pillar between Platforms Nine and Ten at King's Cross Station, bearing this letter and the enclosed badge.

We look forward to meeting you.

—Moira Starling, Headmistress

I stared at the words.

Star Ring Academy of Magic. I'd heard that name before. My birth mother's old diary mentioned it: Star Ring Academy is the last sanctuary. When you're old enough, go there. They'll protect you.

I'd always thought that was just her dying delusion.

But this letter was real.

My heart hammered.

I barely hesitated before deciding. I had to go.

But Arthur wouldn't agree.

Arthur Blackwood was my only family.

Retired antiques dealer. Quiet man. His greatest pleasures were tea and chess.

When he took me from the orphanage, he probably thought I was just a normal kid. Until I was eight and blew out every light in the house at once.

He never said the word "witch."

But from that day on, he gave me rules: Don't get angry. Don't get too happy. Don't touch anything when you're emotional.

I think he figured it out.

I didn't want to make things harder for him, so I hid it all these years.

But now? I was done hiding.

I shoved the letter and badge into my pocket and left the kitchen.

Arthur's room was upstairs. I swallowed my nerves and knocked.

"Come in."

He looked surprised to see me. "Why are you up so early? Isn't it Saturday?"

I handed him the letter.

He read it in silence for a long time.

"You opened it."

"Yes."

"You shouldn't have."

"Then what?" I clenched my fists. "Pretend it never came? Pretend I can hide forever?"

Arthur's expression was complicated. "You know the Church is looking for people like you. Last month, two Inquisition agents came to town. They went to the church, asked the priest questions."

My chest tightened. "What questions?"

"About unusual children." Arthur's voice was heavy. "The priest said no. But they won't stop."

"So what?" My voice shook. "I keep hiding? Keep pretending I'm not who I am? Keep waking up every morning checking if I set the house on fire in my sleep?"

"At least you're alive."

"Is that living?"

The words came out harsher than I meant.

Not because I was wrong, but because of the worry etched on Arthur's face.

I took a breath and softened my tone. "Grandpa, I'm not trying to fight with you. But if there's a place where I can learn to control this, where I don't have to be afraid anymore—why would you want me to say no?"

Arthur looked up at me.

"You want to go."

"I want to go."

He sighed and pulled an old wallet from his drawer.

Inside was a single yellowed photograph.

A young woman with dark hair and a bright smile, holding a baby.

My mother.

"She said if you grew up and got the letter like she did, I should give you this." Arthur's voice was quiet. "She said you would get it. She said Blackwood women—none of them can pretend to be something they're not."

I gripped the photograph.

Arthur reached out and ruffled my hair like he used to when I was little, gentle and warm.

"September first. I'll take you to the station."

That's when my eyes finally gave out.

I turned away, pretending to get water, scrubbing my face with my sleeve.

Behind me, Arthur's footsteps moved into the kitchen. He turned on the stove, tossed the burnt toast in the trash, and put two fresh slices in the toaster.

"What do you want for breakfast?" he asked.

"Eggs." My voice was muffled.

"With tomatoes?"

"With tomatoes."

I hung the silver key badge around my neck and tucked it under my sweater.

The metal pressed warm against my skin.

September first. Five days away.

I'd stand at that stone pillar between Platforms Nine and Ten at King's Cross Station and walk into a world where I didn't have to pretend anymore.

Whatever was waiting for me there, at least I wouldn't be alone.