The classroom smelled like wet chalk, burnt mana, and the lingering despair of a dozen children trying to learn magic before lunchtime.
Elias had warned the teacher—twice—that enrolling Rhea in a "Beginner's Practical Magic" class came with a few… complications. Specifically, that Rhea was (a) magically overpowered, (b) emotionally unpredictable, and (c) technically a former demon queen. He might've skipped that last one on the paperwork, though. Forms didn't have a checkbox for "ex-monarch of a hell realm currently residing in a six-year-old body."
At any rate, her official school name was "Rhea Cindersky," which had a nice, harmless ring to it, and nobody had questioned it yet.
Until today.
Until the ceiling exploded.
It all began innocently enough.
"Okay, class!" said Miss Allera, a plump woman with rose-tinted spectacles and the energy of someone who desperately wanted this day to be over. "Let's go over wandless channeling. Remember! No one should be using more than a trickle of mana. Safety first!"
Elias, sitting outside by the classroom window, gave Rhea a double thumbs-up from behind the glass.
She squinted at him. "What does two thumbs mean again?"
He mouthed, "You got this."
She whispered, "But do I?"
The child next to her—Tilly Brightpenny, a proud owner of three freckles and the loudest sneeze in the kingdom—glanced sideways.
"You talk to yourself a lot," Tilly said.
Rhea whispered back, "You talk to yourself when you're scared of what's inside you."
Tilly blinked. "...I talk to my socks sometimes."
"That counts."
Miss Allera clapped. "Focus, little mages! Now, breathe in… draw from the air around you… and light your palms."
Most kids produced the magical equivalent of a warm nightlight.
Rhea's hands glowed like two tiny suns.
The glow turned gold.
Then red.
Then something cracked.
A split-second later, there was a boom like someone had stuffed an arcane firecracker into the ceiling tiles. A rush of golden flame spiraled upward, igniting the rafters, sending magical glyphs sparking out of control. Paperwork burst into spontaneous fire. Tilly's chair flipped backward from the shockwave. A decorative cat statue on the bookshelf shrieked and ran out the door.
When the dust settled, a perfect, smoking hole stood in the ceiling.
Rhea stood beneath it, blinking up at the sky now visible through the wreckage. Her hands were still faintly glowing.
"…Oops," she said.
Miss Allera's glasses were hanging askew, her bun half undone like she'd just barely survived a battlefield. She coughed once, surveyed the wreckage of her once-organized classroom, and looked at Rhea with the calm authority of a woman teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown.
"Miss Cindersky," she said through clenched teeth, "please take your seat."
"There isn't one anymore."
Miss Allera closed her eyes. "Then please step outside. And send your guardian. Now."
"Was it really that bad?" Elias asked, kneeling beside her outside on the courtyard bench.
Rhea stared at her feet, which were swinging again.
That was never a good sign.
"I burned a hole through the roof," she mumbled.
"Roofs are overrated."
"I almost barbecued Tilly Brightpenny."
"She told me she sneezed on you last week, so… honestly, fair's fair?"
Rhea didn't laugh.
Instead, she folded her little hands together tightly. Her hair—usually floating faintly from residual mana—hung heavy and still.
"I wasn't even trying hard," she said. "It just… built up. Like something inside me wanted out. I thought I had control."
Elias placed a hand on her back gently. "It happens. Magic isn't like sword practice. It's not all discipline. Sometimes it's emotions, instincts, stress. And you're a little girl in a new world being asked to sit still and not explode."
"I literally exploded."
He grinned. "Right. But stylishly."
Rhea let out a small huff, somewhere between a sigh and the laugh she was too sad to give.
Then the door opened again.
Miss Allera stepped out with Guildmaster Tyrin in tow.
Elias blinked. "Wow. You really called in the big one."
"I had to cancel class," she said. "One of the students started crying when he thought the statue had come to life."
"It did come to life."
"That's not the point."
Tyrin approached, arms folded behind his back, silver eyebrows raised. "Miss Cindersky."
Rhea stiffened.
"I'm not going to ask you if you meant to do it," Tyrin said. "Because I've seen enough wild surges to know intent rarely matters."
She nodded quietly.
"I am going to ask you how you feel."
That surprised her. She looked up. "What?"
"You had a surge. That means your control cracked. Not because you're bad. But because something pushed you. I need to know what."
"I didn't sleep much," she admitted.
"Nightmares again?"
She glanced at Elias, then nodded.
Tyrin sighed. "You're full of magic, Rhea. Older than your body can handle. That's a dangerous combination. I'm going to recommend a temporary suspension from classroom magic until we get your surges under control."
"I understand," she said quickly. Too quickly.
Miss Allera softened. "You're not banned forever. Just… until we can be sure the ceiling stays in one piece."
"I can fix the ceiling," Rhea offered. "With fire."
"Please don't."
Elias placed a hand on Rhea's shoulder. "We'll work on it at home, alright? Private lessons. Controlled space. Maybe fewer ceilings."
"Maybe fewer children," Rhea muttered.
That night, Rhea sat on the floor of their small house, scribbling magical runes into the dirt with a stick. Elias watched her from the kitchen as he poured tea—one for him, warm and bitter, and one for her, extra honey, no caffeine, and a tiny marshmallow floating on top because she liked them.
"Didn't touch your tea," he said, placing it beside her.
She didn't look up. "Magic doesn't fix broken."
He blinked. "That's… a heavy thing to say for someone surrounded by glowing runes."
"They're containment symbols," she said. "For me."
"Rhea—"
"I scared them. I scare you."
He knelt in front of her, took the stick from her hand, and set it down.
"Hey."
She looked up.
"You don't scare me. You worry me. You confuse me. You make me read long magical theory books until my brain leaks. But scare? No."
"I burned a hole through solid stone."
"I once lit my pants on fire trying to make tea."
"…How?"
"Fire rune. Poor placement. Long story."
She giggled weakly.
Elias exhaled. "We'll figure this out. You've got power that doesn't fit in your hands yet. That's okay. You're still growing."
"But what if I don't grow fast enough? What if something breaks before then?"
He reached out and took her hand.
"Then I'll be here. To patch it up. Or duct tape it. Or yell at it until it behaves."
"Duct tape doesn't fix magic."
"It does if you believe in it hard enough."
She leaned into him.
Just a little.
Enough to make his heartbeat slow, to remind him that for all her strength, she was still a child. One trying to carry a power meant for gods.
And for now, she just needed someone to tell her she was still enough—even when the ceiling burned.
The next day...
Elias sat down with her in the empty lot beside the house, which he had now nicknamed The Boom Field. They'd set up glowing wards and a dummy labeled "Sir Explode-a-lot" for target practice.
"Alright," he said. "First rule of magic training."
"Don't vaporize the furniture?"
"Correct. Second rule?"
"Stop when the dummy screams?"
"Well, ideally it shouldn't scream at all, but sure. That too."
She raised a hand.
A warm glow formed, softer this time. Controlled. She breathed slowly, steadily, shaping it into a flame the size of a teacup.
It hovered above her palm.
No burst.
No flare.
Just light.
And Elias watched, silently proud.
She was trying.
That was all that mattered.
To be continued…