The room they brought her to looked like the kind you'd see in cheap TV dramas about special boarding schools. Not scary—just… too clean. Too proper. Grey walls, a high ceiling, light that was steady and never flickered. As if you were a piece of evidence placed under a lamp for inspection.
In front of her was a desk. Behind it, three people. In the center, a gray-haired man in a black suit, as if he'd drunk up all the patience in the world. On the right, a woman sitting upright, writing not with a pen, but with an actual quill (seriously, what is this, theater?). On the left, a guy about thirty, like he'd been pulled out of an interrogation room: rolled-up sleeves, muscles, steady gaze. One had a folder. The second, some cards. The third kept reading as she sat down.
Aya sat down and… almost stopped breathing.
— Aya Li, the man in the center began. This isn't a court. Or a commission. It's a basic assessment.
— Assessment of what? Aya snorted. I've already passed biology, thanks.
— Your… adaptive structure, the woman replied. She didn't look up, just wrote something down.
"Well great. Another 'structure.' As if I don't have enough of those."
— We need to understand how your perception reacts to anomalous phenomena, he continued.
— Still sounds like something out of a medical journal, not a conversation with a real person, Aya said calmly, though inside she was starting to quietly panic.
— Alright, let's put it simply. The last time you were angry… really angry… did you feel like it got warmer around you?
— Are you sure you're not from some kind of cult? she asked dryly. Or is this just diagnosis by way of disconnection from reality?
— It's not religion, the third, the guy with the rolled sleeves, cut in. His voice was low and muffled, like from inside a wall. We're not checking what you believe in. We're checking what happens to you.
— Let's say I accept that. So what's happening to me? I get expelled from schools. And always in style. The chemistry lab catches fire, the gym cracks like it's an earthquake. And yes, I get angry. Like anyone.
— But not everyone leaves sinkholes in the foundation, the woman pointed out.
Aya stared at her.
— Do you have an engineer on your team? Or do all "anomalies" now get blamed on teenagers? Maybe it's just bad architecture?
— When you look in the mirror, the man in the center continued, do you ever feel like your reflection… is a little faster? Or out of sync?
She froze. Her fingers twitched slightly.
— That's… an illusion. Eye effect. Glare. Those things can be explained.
— Of course. Like fire bursting from the floor, the guy on the left said dryly. Static electricity. Or a gas leak.
— Thanks, Aya shot back. Glad to know you're as funny as I am.
The woman wrote something down again.
— You really don't believe, she said quietly. Not because you're stubborn. But because you've never faced it head-on. Everything you remember is an accident. Everything you fear is just coincidence. But it keeps happening.
— I'm seventeen. What am I even supposed to remember? Aya snapped.
— And yet you're here, the man replied. Because what happens around you can't be explained by regular parameters. Not by police. Not by psychology. Not even by architecture, as you suggested.
He stood up. Walked slowly behind her chair.
— We're not going to say, "You're a witch." We're not going to say, "You're special." Because until you believe it yourself, it's pointless.
Aya lifted her head. Looked the man straight in the eye.
— And what if I'm nobody? Just… a person who has disasters orbiting her?
— Then, he said gently, we'll figure out why the disasters happen.
He gestured. The others stood.
— The assessment is over. We're not giving you any labels. No gods. No demons. No diagnoses. But you're not hopeless, Aya. Just… lost.
She left.
Her head was empty. Not buzzing—just ringing silence.
Lost? Thanks. And what if that wasn't a compliment, but a diagnosis?
She walked down the hallway. Slowly. Her fingers shook. She was cold. So cold, as if everything inside had suddenly turned… fragile.
She left the office, closing the door a little softer than she would have liked. She wanted to slam it. She wanted to shout, to laugh, to walk out dramatically like they do in movies, but…No strength. Just an exhale.
The hallway stretched out ahead of her, long and empty. Silence clung to her skin like a sheet after a nightmare. Aya didn't go to her room. Didn't go to the cafeteria. She turned left, just… randomly. And soon she found herself on stairs leading down, into a half-dark space with an arched passage.
A garden. Apparently, they had a garden.
It was out back—a small inner courtyard with benches, trees winding along the walls, and lanterns glowing dimly even during the day. The air smelled of earth and iron. Nice. Almost cozy.
Aya sat down on the first bench she saw, shoved her hands in her pockets, and stared into nothing. Everything inside was trembling. Not from cold.
They'd asked how she feels when she's angry.If she notices the smell of burning when she cries.If anyone was around when the chandelier fell in the auditorium.If she ever feels like herself.WHAT kind of question is "do you feel like yourself?"
She pulled out her phone. Opened her messenger. Typed:
"mom, I'm fineI passed some dumb testit's… weird hereI'm tired, really"
The cursor blinked.No signal.Zero bars.Nothing.
Aya stared at the screen.Then… quietly pressed the lock button. Put the phone away.And started crying.
Not hysterically. Not out loud.Just quietly, like those who've needed to for a long time.Her shoulders shook. Her lips were bitten hard enough to hurt.The tears ran and she didn't wipe them away.
She wasn't afraid of monsters. Wasn't afraid of burned-down schools. Not even of principals with their empty speeches.She was afraid of being alone. Truly alone. Without a mom who made pancakes in the morning. Without a dad who wrote her grades in a notebook and lied, "even if you became a mechanic, I'd still be proud of you."
Aya was "difficult." Aya was "troubled."But not sinister. Not cursed. Not someone to be feared.That's what she thought.And now…
— Sorry, she whispered to the air. I really am trying. I just… don't know how else to be.
Someone walked by on the gravel behind her. Very quietly.She didn't even lift her head. Too tired.
Only later, maybe ten minutes later, when her breathing had evened out, did she sit up straight. She took a thin black hair tie off her wrist and tied her hair back. Not because she wanted to, but because she always did when she needed to pull herself together.
You wanted to sort things out? So sort them out.
She stood up. Slowly walked back inside.
On the stairs, she almost bumped into someone in a weird cloak and rainbow-colored hair—apparently a senior student. He looked up, started to say something, then thought better of it.
Aya wasn't even surprised.
Back in her room, she passed the mirror—still covered—sat on the bed, buried her face in the pillow, and let out a muffled sigh:
— Well then, Raven Academy. Let's see who's tougher.
Personal Archive: Entry No. 1.5 "They Don't Even Know They're Already in Love."
Author: mirabelle_blackwing
Platform: Academy Internal Blog Network
Mirael sat in her room, surrounded by blankets, notebooks, and two charged tablets—one of which was always overheating from the number of open fanart tabs. The room smelled of cherry fruit leather and baked ideas. She burrowed into her pillow, then suddenly sat up, twisting her long ink-violet hair into a messy bun, as if she was about to expose a conspiracy. Or write another chapter with a "strictly after curfew" rating.
– It's official, – she whispered aloud, tapping at her keyboard. – I didn't even last a day and a half. I'm shipping them.
On the screen was her blog, designed in dark aesthetic: gothic fonts, soft glow, an avatar with closed eyes, and the tagline, "I only write what their hearts feel, but their rules won't let them show."
mirabelle_blackwing's blog
🖤 Category: "Sins They Haven't Committed (Yet)"
📌 Tags: #KaiAya #DarkGuardian_and_Fiery_Unaware #yes_I_know_they're_not_together_yet #but_in_my_heart_they_are
Mirael looked like the heroine of a school romcom that forgot it was about school. Skin pale as morning snow. Eyes a deep gray-green, with that spark you see in people who know too much about everyone else's romantic plotlines. She was skinny, always with the expression of someone who "didn't sleep because she read one more fanfic, and yes, she gets all the hints."
And it would all have been fine, except she'd just passed her.The New Girl.
Aya sat on the bench after settling in. Puffy eyes. Red nose. Fists in her pockets, shoulders hunched. And no one beside her.
Mirael stopped for a second—not out of pity. For inspiration.
"She's crying. He'll come. He always comes. Because that's how it works."
– If only you knew, – she whispered as she walked by, – how many chapters you've already starred in…
Back in her room, she opened a new tab.And started writing:
"Kaidan stood in the doorway, like the last bastion of decency. He wanted to leave, but couldn't. She was there. Sitting, almost sin incarnate, crushed by exhaustion. Her fiery hair fell over her face, but he knew—there was something ancient hiding behind it. Something dangerous. Something he wanted to kiss… and maybe be a little afraid of."
Mirael giggled. Then suddenly went pale.
– Oh, no… What if she finds my blog?Or worse…What if Kaidan reads it?!
She yanked the tablet out of the charger and hid it under her pillow.Just in case, she covered it with a cloth and put a tea tin on top.
Technically, that wouldn't help. But psychologically, it felt a bit safer.
Entry #143. Category: "Someone's Getting Married. Not Me."
"I just wanted to study. Just wanted to write. Just wanted to find people who also respect roleplay AUs and don't ship everyone with the first person they meet. But no. The Academy decided: here, have a New Girl."
The New Girl.
She burst into my life like chaos in a planner—beautiful, bold, with hair the color of "I-dyed-it-myself-with-my-bare-hands-in-anger."Like someone yanked a character out of a visual novel rated 21+ and said, "Now live with this next to you."
I watched her from the second floor window (not stalking, just happened to be in the library with binoculars—coincidence!).And I saw everything.
Kaidan...He walked beside her.And not just walked—he led her.
The great, icy Kaidan, cold-blooded, unemotional, a blank sheet of A4, suddenly looked like… a guy with a zoo in his stomach.
He looked at her. And you know HOW he looked?Like he just saw a MILF in his favorite anime.Like he wanted to take her by the chin and whisper, "Your existence is ruining my self-control."But he didn't. HE. DIDN'T.
He held back.
And I saw it in his eyes!—a flash of anger. Not aggression. No.That very anger when you want to kiss, but instead you say, "Reporting, she's arrived."The kind of anger that makes fanfic hot. Not just hot—like "18+, gets you banned on AO3" hot.
Kaidan walked away with the beauty it's impossible not to fall for.He strode beside her, tense, like a hero before confessing his feelings.And then turned and looked at her as if she was a threat to his morals.
I'd have died on the spot. She survived. Strong woman. Respect.
And you know what's the saddest part?Aya doesn't know.
She DOESN'T KNOW that Kaidan is the main ship of the whole Academy. That I'm already on chapter twelve of my fic about them.That fanart of their kiss in the office, against dramatic red curtains, is already saved in four formats and printed on my phone case.
P.S. If anyone shares this post outside the blog, I'll poison myself with wolfsbane.
P.P.S. If Aya reads this, I'm emigrating to the dungeons.
P.P.P.S. If Kaidan sees this… well… I'll write another. From his point of view. He suffers too, by the way.All for the art.