The Hall of Weaving was built to humble. That was its purpose, its singular function. Every inch of its towering, crystalline structure spoke of a power that would outlast nations and lives, an implacable, eternal authority.

  The walls of the Hall shimmered like liquid sunlight, caught perpetually between the states of gold and white. At first glance, the patterns etched into them seemed beautiful, delicate even. But there was a hidden intimidation to their symmetry, their perfection. The golden glyphs snaked along the walls in intricate designs that an untrained eye might mistake for decoration, but for students at Dominion Academy, those glyphs were alive. They pulsed in time with the threads of magic the students struggled to control. And the glyphs knew when someone was failing. They always did.

  There was no room for imperfection here. Or humor. Or, as Ami had learned over the years, her. She hated the oppressive symmetry that seemed to mock her own unruly mind, hated the way the golden lattice gleamed unnaturally like it was watching her. Most of all, she hated the sound—the soft, delicate thrumming that suffused the air, a sound she could only describe as judgmental. It was like trying to study while standing in the middle of a disapproving choir.

  She was seated at the very back of the Hall—not by choice, but by necessity. The last time she’d been allowed to sit closer to the middle of the room, her artistic differences with Dominion magic had resulted in a magical explosion that left all nearby students covered in violet glitter for three days. (That was anna’s fault, Ami still insisted. “darling,” anna had whispered in response back then, “chaos is merely glitter’s elocution. why would you stop me, when their hair has never looked better?”)

  The Hall was full of students now, each seated at identical desks positioned with military precision. Even their chairs looked disciplined—high-backed, straight-edged, and as uncomfortable as possible. Everything about Dominion’s teaching philosophy screamed that comfort was inefficient, that progress could only rise from discomfort and struggle. Ami couldn’t argue with that assessment because she felt like she was failing at progress and drowning in discomfort.

  The students murmured softly to one another as they prepared their threads. They all looked so calm, so confident. Their robes of pristine white and gold shimmered faintly as the energy of their threads reflected off them. Even the air here felt like it demanded perfection—sharp and crisp, like winter mornings.

  At the far end of the Hall, Eria stood. The bright light of the Weaving Focus above caught her golden hair and the soft glow of her skin, making her look like a statue of some ancient hero. Eria’s threads floated in perfect harmony, forming a glowing sphere in her hands so symmetrical, so flawless, that it might as well have been a miniature sun. The sphere pulsed faintly, radiating a warmth that reached even Ami’s desk at the back of the class.

  “Of course it’s flawless,” Ami muttered under her breath. “It’s Eria.”

  Ami, darling, jealousy will wrinkle you, anna whispered, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. just let her have her perfect little sun. we’ll make a starburst instead.

  “Quiet,” Ami hissed, curling her hands into fists on the desk. Unfortunately, she’d underestimated just how loudly she’d said that, because several students seated near her turned to snicker. One of them—a lanky boy with hair so blond it looked frosted—leaned toward his desk partner and whispered something that sent both of them laughing into their hands.

  Eria’s sphere was beautiful. Of course it was. Everything Eria did was beautiful. It gleamed in golden light—as warm, controlled, and infuriating as its creator. The sight of it made Ami’s stomach churn with equal parts envy and frustration. She hated how easily it seemed to come to Eria. Standing there, weaving her flawless spell like she was born to do it. Maybe she was. Maybe, Ami thought bitterly, Eria’s threads loved her as much as hers hated her.

  Ami’s own threads weren’t even golden. They were an unnerving silvery-white, like the color of lightning just before it strikes—or worse, the color of chaos. The threads lay limp on her desk, quivering faintly in what she was sure was rebellion. She had been practicing this weave for days now. No matter how many times she tried, the blasted threads refused to cooperate. They shuddered and danced and twisted into wild, meaningless shapes, as though they were mocking her.

  “Amarantha.” The sharp voice of Amariel, her mother and the instructor of the weaving class, cut through Ami’s spiraling thoughts like a blade.

  Ami winced at the sound of her name—her full name. No one called her that except for her mother. It wasn’t a name, not really. It was a correction, a reminder of every way she was failing to live up to someone else’s expectations. The name Amarantha belonged to the daughter Amariel had wanted, the one who would have mastered Dominion magic by now, who wouldn’t still be struggling with first-level weaves at the age of sixteen. Amarantha would have been perfect.

  Ami was not perfect.

  She glanced up at Amariel, who was watching her from the far end of the Hall with the detached scrutiny of a sculptor examining a particularly stubborn block of marble. Amariel was a striking woman, with sharp features and a commanding presence that seemed to fill the room. Her robes of white and gold shimmered faintly with the light of the glyphs around her, making her look less like a professor and more like a statue of a goddess. She was everything Dominion valued—poised, powerful, and utterly in control.

  “Are you prepared to demonstrate your weave?” Amariel asked, her tone cool and controlled.

  Ami hesitated. She glanced down at her threads again. They lay still now, but she knew it was a lie. The moment she tried to weave them, they would start rebelling again. The threads always seemed to know when someone was watching.

  The class wasn’t just waiting—they were watching. Dozens of eyes were on her now, including Eria’s. Ami didn’t have to look to know the prodigy’s expression would be one of smug amusement. She could feel it radiating from the front of the room.

  Swallowing hard, Ami reached out and touched the threads with trembling fingers. They felt alive under her hands—alive and angry. She tried to focus, to steady her breathing and remember the steps of the weave. In her mind, she pictured the golden sphere Eria had created, using it as a guide.

  Behind Ami's shoulder Eria snuck up. Invisible to everyone, a perfectly diagonal thread connected from Eria's lips to Ami's ear.

  Hot if you fail, Ami heard. "our love would be full of hate and I am a fan of this."

  Ami sighed. This was it. Her moment to shine. Or, realistically, to fizzle.

  anna purred in her mind. “focus, harder. it will make your failure so much more spectacular.”

  “I will gag you,” Ami muttered back, though she knew it was an empty threat. She hadn’t silenced anna in sixteen years; she wasn’t going to start now.

  “Amarantha,” Amariel said again, her tone clipped. “Begin.”

  The threads flickered rebelliously under Ami’s fingers. She tried to breathe deeply, tried to remember the instructions Amariel had hammered into her over the years. Weaving Dominion magic was about structure, about control. The threads responded only to absolute precision. No doubt, no hesitation, no flare of creativity. It was like trying to hum a lullaby while walking a tightrope blindfolded—not impossible, technically, but certainly designed to weed out those who lacked innate perfection.

  Like her.

  She began weaving. Slowly. Carefully. The threads didn’t quite obey, but they didn’t fully rebel either, and for a few moments, Ami dared to hope. Maybe—just maybe—she could hold it together this time. Maybe the sphere wouldn’t collapse.

  And then, of course, anna decided to help.

  “they want a show, darling,” anna murmured, her voice lilting with glee. “let’s give them something with style.”

  “No,” Ami whispered, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to tighten her grip on the threads. “No, no, no.”

  The threads quivered violently—and then they snapped.

  The sphere didn’t just collapse; it exploded. Blinding light burst outward, ricocheting off the walls and scattering sparks like fireworks. Students ducked under their desks, shrieking. Someone screamed. A particularly unlucky spark struck Eria’s perfect sphere dead-on, shattering it into glittering shards.

  When the dust settled, silence filled the room. For a moment, Ami thought maybe—just maybe—she could slink off the platform without anyone saying a word.

  Then Eria spoke.

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

  “Well,” said Eria, brushing a stray spark off her immaculate robes. “I suppose there are worse things than failure.” Her gaze slid to Ami, and her smile sharpened into something pointed. “But I can’t think of one right now.”

  The laughter that followed was louder than any explosion.

  Amariel said nothing at first. She stepped onto the platform, surveyed the damage with her icy, calculating gaze, and finally turned to Ami with a look that could cut glass.

  “Amarantha,” she said coldly. “After class. My office.”

  well, that could have gone better, anna remarked cheerfully as Ami trudged back to her seat, her cheeks burning with shame. but don’t worry, darling. i give that explosion a solid eight out of ten.

  The Hall of Weaving, once the paragon of Dominion grandeur, now shimmered uncertainly beneath a thin veil of glitter and crackling violet energy. The glyph-lined walls—normally pulsing in synchronized harmony—hiccupped erratically like an embarrassed symphony. Students shuffled awkwardly back to their desks, brushing off sparkles as though they’d been assaulted by a festive rogue cloud. And yet, despite the swirling haze of magical residue, all eyes were fixed on the source of the calamity.

  Ami.

  She sat motionless at the back of the hall, her robes speckled with shimmering dust, her head bowed low in mortification. The threads of Dominion magic still buzzed faintly in the air around her fingertips, frayed and defiant as ever. She could feel the weight of their gazes, each glance like a shard of judgement digging into her skin. Not for the first time, Ami wished Dominion’s rules of magic allowed for invisibility spells—or maybe a convenient, dignity-saving sinkhole.

  well, came anna’s low, lilting voice, a thread of amusement weaving through her words, if you’re trying to make an impression, darling, you’re succeeding splendidly. though i must say, it’s a bit... sparkly for my tastes.

  Ami flinched imperceptibly. Her fingers clenched around the edges of her desk. “Please don’t,” she hissed under her breath.

  don’t what, exactly? observe? laugh? revel in our collective brilliance? anna’s soft chuckle reverberated through her like a mischievous cat purring into her mind. oh, come now, it was exciting! more exciting than... what was it again? ah, yes. the ‘containment’ of volatile threads. boring.

  Ami bit down hard on her lip, willing her heart to slow its erratic pounding. She didn’t trust herself to reply—not with the sting of Eria’s mock applause still ringing in her ears.

  At the front of the hall, Eria—a vision of golden elegance wrapped in painfully perfect symmetry—took a measured step forward, her voice slicing through the haze like the chime of Dominion’s polished cathedral bells.

  “Amarantha,” she said, pronouncing Ami’s full name with the kind of practiced care reserved for fragile artifacts or poorly behaved pets, “I must commend you. It’s no small feat to transform a simple weave into a... spectacle.”

  The room rippled with restrained amusement. Eria’s smile, maddening in its composure, was the kind that spoke of magnanimity wrapped around steely precision. “One might even argue that your approach has... creative merit. Were we not in Dominion, of course.”

  Ami winced, her name—her real name—hanging in the air like a shard of broken glass. She hated the sound of it, how rigid and cold it felt. Worse still was how Eria said it, not with malice, but with the soft, calculated detachment of someone absolutely certain of their superiority.

  oh, she’s good, murmured anna, her voice trailing like a whisper of smoke. did you hear that? just the right touch of pity. almost makes me want to applaud her sharpness. almost.

  “Please stop,” Ami hissed through gritted teeth, though whether the plea was for anna or herself, she wasn’t entirely sure.

  Eria, oblivious—or perhaps simply indifferent—to Ami’s turmoil, continued with the grace of someone narrating a well-rehearsed performance. “Perhaps, with time and dedication, you’ll begin to understand what Dominion magic requires. Structure, Amarantha. Intention. Isn’t that worth striving for?”

  The smattering of murmurs that followed felt like a subdued round of applause. Eria stepped back elegantly, brushing a faint speck of glitter from her robes with the disdainful delicacy of someone swatting away an errant raindrop.

  Ami followed her mother down the pristine corridor of the Dominion Academy, her boots making a faint, uneven echo against the smooth, glimmering tiles. Every step Amariel took seemed deliberate, calming, as though she had rehearsed them to match the rhythmic hum of the magical glyphs that adorned the towering walls. The corridor stretched ahead like a river frozen in time, its golden light casting no shadows, as if even light itself obeyed Dominion’s obsession with perfection.

  Ami’s stomach churned with an uncomfortable blend of unease and resentment. She glanced at the perfectly placed windows lining the corridor, each one revealing a slice of the snow-white city bathed in ever-constant morning light. Dominion’s buildings were monuments to symmetry, elegant yet severe, their shapes as precise as the spells that powered them. She hated them a little—no, she hated what they symbolized. Control. Precision. The cold edges that left no room for error, or for her.

  it’s beautiful, whispered anna inside her mind, her voice a breath of smoke curling through her thoughts, but it’s also a bit... much, don’t you think? all these walls, these lines—they’re just scared of anything that doesn’t fit.

  Ami didn’t reply, but her fingers twitched against the folds of her robes. She felt like one of the endless threads Dominion wove—stretched too thin, pulled too tight, and ready to snap.

  Amariel walked with the calm authority of someone who knew they were never questioned. Her back was straight, her gaze unbroken as she led Ami through another set of gilded doors. With every step, the subtle tension in the air seemed to grow. The hum of the glyphs, soft and hypnotic, felt louder now. Ami swore she could feel them in her head, matching the rhythm of her pulse.

  you know she’s doing this on purpose, anna added, her tone laced with amusement. this whole corridor thing? a performance. subtle intimidation. the big, scary ruler taking her time, making you squirm. classic power move.

  “I know,” Ami muttered under her breath, though the admission didn’t make the knot in her stomach feel any smaller.

  The grand hallway finally opened into a circular atrium where marble columns spiraled upward toward an impossibly high ceiling. The magic flowing through the glyphs here was stronger, and Ami could feel it prickling against her skin like an invisible breeze. They passed towering statues of Dominion’s past leaders, all carved from the same flawless alabaster stone. Each statue held a single thread of glowing golden magic—seamless and unbroken. It was supposed to inspire awe and reverence.

  It made her want to puke.

  aren’t they lovely? such gentle smiles, anna said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. just one problem, darling—every single one of them looks exactly the same. i mean, wouldn’t a little variety kill them?

  Ami almost snorted but bit back the sound. She didn’t need Amariel taking that as a reason to lecture her—or worse, to stop walking. She wanted this over with.

  Finally, Amariel stopped before an ornate double door at the far end of the atrium. It was carved with impossibly intricate designs—each a perfect geometric representation of Dominion’s magic, from its simplest weaves to its most complex constructs. The doors pulsed faintly, resonating with the same melodic hum as everything else in the building. It was Amariel’s private office, perhaps the only place in Dominion where the golden walls didn’t feel like they were watching you.

  Without turning to look at her, Amariel raised a hand. The glyphs embedded in the door shimmered and shifted, their light bending like strings being plucked by an unseen hand. The doors slid open in perfect silence.

  Ami hesitated—not because she didn’t want to go in, but because the gravity of the moment hit her like a wave. Her mother’s office was more than just a room. It was her sanctuary, her fortress. Whatever Amariel was about to say, it would not be casual or unimportant. It would be the thing weighing on her, the thing Amariel had been building toward from the moment she demanded Ami stay after class.

  go on, darling, anna crooned, her voice quiet but steady. after all—it’s not a trap if you already know it’s one... right?

  Taking a deep breath, Ami stepped forward, and the doors closed behind her with a faint, final click.

  And just like that, the hum of the outside world disappeared, leaving only the steady, unrelenting stillness of the place where Amariel’s words would shape her fate.

  Amariel wasn’t angry. Not visibly, at least. Her expression was calm, her golden-threaded robes immaculate. And yet, the weight of her disapproval hung in the air like a storm cloud on the verge of breaking.

  “Amarantha,” Amariel said, her voice slicing like a clean blade.

  Ami flinched. There it was again—her name, heavy and unforgiving, laced with everything she wasn’t but was supposed to be.

  “Would you care to explain?” Amariel continued, her tone cool but edged with the kind of precision that left no room for argument. “Or shall I assume this was another... experiment?”

  oh, i like this part, anna purred, her voice brimming with lazy amusement. the ‘let’s all pile on amarantha’ routine. delightful. should i bring popcorn? no? fine. i’ll settle for watching her crack.

  Ami’s mouth felt dry, her voice a distant memory. She opened it, closed it, and finally managed, “It was—”

  “—a miscalculation,” she finished in a whisper, her face burning.

  Amariel’s gaze didn’t waver. Whatever flicker of vulnerability Ami might have hoped for was nowhere to be found. “Dominion magic,” she said, evenly, “does not allow for miscalculations. It demands focus. Discipline. Control. Or have you forgotten that already?”

  clearly, anna drawled, discipline doesn’t run in the family, does it? oh, don’t glare at me, darling. i’m just speaking my mind.

  Ami’s fists clenched against her robes. For a brief, searing moment, she wanted nothing more than to scream. But she didn’t. Because that wasn’t what Dominion magic demanded, either.

  Ami felt the weight of her mother’s gaze settle squarely upon her. It was heavier than any weave, more constricting than the tightest thread of magic. She waited for the silence to break, for some cutting remark or stern reprimand to lash against her already frayed nerves.

  Instead, Amariel simply said, “You will stay until you learn.”

  The words weren’t harsh. They didn’t need to be. They were a reminder, a warning. And in their quiet precision, they were far heavier than any shout could have been.

  you’d think she’d at least be creative with the lectures, anna murmured, her voice curling around Ami’s thoughts like a ribbon. but no, it’s the same song, the same dance. focus. discipline. control. honestly, darling, it’s a wonder you haven’t snapped.

  Ami didn’t respond. She couldn’t.

  Because anna was right.