We all stumbled off the ship, Sofia furiously recording every step. 

Who knew suitcases could be so tragic in sand? As soon as we crossed the pier onto the shore, my suitcase felt like it was filled with rocks, each step a battle against gravity. I wasn’t alone in this misery; Sofia and a few others struggled too, their bags sinking like anchors. It was like trying to walk through a sandpit with cargo pants on— painful and utterly unnecessary.

Meanwhile, some people had their bags floating beside them with an unsettling ease.

Mine could’ve floated too—easily, in fact. Cosmic Witches and gravity have a complicated relationship. But I chose not to. Let them waste their sparks. I was saving mine for the trials. So I dragged my bag through the sand like it owed me money.

“Good evening, everyone,” a voice boomed ahead. 

Branches parted dramatically, revealing a witch seated on what looked like a flying broom—except it was more like a splintered, creaking tree branch. 

He had piercing green eyes, a wild beard, and shoulder-length hair that looked like it hadn’t seen conditioner in a century. His cloak was so ancient that it seemed like it had last seen action when pointy hats were still in style. Seriously, did he raid his grandma’s attic for fashion tips?

“I am Gideon, or just call me G if you’re feeling friendly,” he announced in a mystical voice that could summon a storm. “I’ll be showing you around Hollowmere Island, or at least the part where you’ll be staying. We call it… the Castle,” he said.

And just like that, the name settled over the group like a velvet shroud—ancient, ominous, and unshakably real. It wasn’t just a place. It was a boundary. A promise. A warning.

The Castle. As if anything more needed to be said.

He dismounted his branch with a flourish, and suddenly my suitcase floated up as light as a feather. Bags rose around us, drifting like balloons at a clown convention, while we just stood there, grounded. I glanced at Sofia, who was now giving her suitcase an apologetic pat.

“Witches, I will take your bags. Follow the blue and white feathers to The Castle,” G announced, flicking the feathers from his cloak that started drifting ahead, weaving a path through the trees like a confused GPS signal.

Sofia muttered hashtags under her breath, like “#crazywitchcraft #multiplemagic,” as she filmed every second. Then, with growing horror, she looked at her screen. “There’s no reception,” she groaned, slumping forward like a zombie who just discovered carbs were back in fashion.

“Oh, joy,” I grinned sarcastically. “A whole week offline. Bliss.”

“Freak,” she shot back, rolling her eyes so hard I half-expected them to detach and take selfies on their own as she reluctantly followed the crowd, her expression twisted in Instagram withdrawal.

While Sofia and her fellow social media addicts stumbled around like lost puppies, waving their phones in vain, I focused on the eerie feather trail ahead. The feathers floated with unsettling precision, weaving around tree roots and mist like they’d done it a million times before. I wondered how many others had walked this path—and how many had survived the trials. Becoming a Beautiful Witch wasn’t supposed to be easy, but just how tough was this going to get?

Then—

Suddenly, something flickered at the edge of my vision—a dark shadow, a malevolent energy, shifting behind a tree. I tried to brush it off my nerves, but the hairs on my neck stood up, and a faint whisper seemed to echo in the air pulling me in.

The whisper wasn't in any language I knew, but it hummed with urgency, like a half-remembered lullaby sung in reverse. 

I squinted at the trees, trying to pin the shadow down, but as soon as I thought I’d grasped something—some shape, some truth—a tap on my shoulder made me jump, a squeak escaping before I could stop it.

“What’s up, Doughnut Dragon?” Sofia teased, following my gaze toward the shadows. But the figure was gone, leaving nothing but mist behind.

 I froze for a moment, my mind still spinning from what had just happened.

“Nothing.” Finally, I muttered. 

Maybe it was just in my head. Maybe the shadow between the trees was a trick of light. But the way the trees held their breath—like they saw it too—made me wonder. 

“Selfie time!” She squeezed in beside me, snapping a photo before I could protest. I thought I’d escaped my mom’s endless selfies, only to land right in Sofia’s feed-hungry clutches. Great.

We kept following the feather until the trees thinned, revealing a sprawling field of lush grass. Beyond it loomed what I could only assume was “the Castle,” a hulking silhouette against the darkening sky. But “Castle” felt like an understatement.

It had turrets twisted like claws, their jagged stone edges cutting into the dusk. Ivy tangled up the cracked walls, and gargoyles glared from high above, their twisted expressions daring us to approach. They framed a grand archway at the entrance, with iron gates covered in intricate carvings of vines, mythical beasts, and spirals that seemed to throb with their own dark magic. It was the kind of place that looked perfect in horror movies but definitely not in Instagram.

“Wow, I wish I could show my followers this,” Sofia muttered, still staring.

“Thank the stars they can’t,” I quipped. “Spare the world your ‘aesthetic shots.’”

“Take that back!” she shot back, a mischievous gleam in her eye. I could almost hear the sound effect cue.

Before our squabble could heat up, G reappeared from nowhere, his presence almost making the mist ripple like bad special effects. "I see you’ve all made it,” he said, his tone less congratulatory and more ominous. Our bags were nowhere to be seen, which was... unsettling.

“Now, I’ll call out your names, room numbers, and roommates. Please, no switching rooms. Be back here in thirty minutes for orientation.”

He started listing names, and naturally, Sofia got called before me. She looked mortified as G announced her roommate: Wendy Dream.

Sofia’s reaction was priceless—a mix of horror, betrayal, and the kind of suppressed fury usually reserved for exorcisms or pop quizzes on Mondays. Of all people, she got paired with her arch-nemesis: Wendy Dream. Not because Wendy had ever personally wronged her—well, unless you count existing in a high ponytail and glitter lip gloss as a crime—but because she was the very embodiment of everything Sofia hated.

Wendy was that girl. The walking cliché. A cheerleader with a fan club, a million followers, and a perfectly curated fake laugh. And worse, she had a reputation for breaking hearts. Yeap, just like she did to Xavier.  It was the principle of the thing.

Sofia was probably already drafting a cease-and-desist letter in her head. Or at the very least, mentally curating a collection of savage Instagram captions. They’d strangle each other within five minutes. Or at least post passive-aggressive stories with thinly veiled quotes like “Not all glitter is gold. Sometimes it’s just low IQ.”

Meanwhile, my anticipation grew with each name called. Finally—"Sabriella Star, room twenty-seven, and your roommate, Kendi Green.” Relief and curiosity flickered inside me. I had no clue who Kendi was, but anyone was better than Wendy. Plus, "Green" sounded less like a reality TV star and more like someone you could actually read novels with. 

After calling out all names, G pried everyone’s phone out of their hands and dumped them into a scratchy, sisal-woven bag. The air echoed with exaggerated groans, like we’d just been sentenced to medieval punishment. I handed mine over without much thought. Unlike the others, I wasn’t glued to mine twenty-four-seven. 

As they stared at the bag like it held their lifelines hostage, I just turned and headed inside, quietly entertained by the unfolding crisis.

The moment I stepped into The Castle, the air chilled, heavy with the scent of ancient stone and redwood. The entrance hall was vast, with vaulted ceilings crisscrossed by blackened beams. Gilt-edged tapestries hung on the walls, their faded scenes depicting witches in epic battles against monsters that seemed to reach out toward you.

I trailed my fingers along the cold redwood walls as I climbed a sweeping staircase. Shadows flickered from sconces sculpted like twisted vines and skulls. 

As I spiraled upward, gargoyles watched from the railings, their stony eyes fixed on my every step. Great, now I'm being judged by mythical creatures. Just what I needed.

The staircase curved in a dizzying spiral, each turn revealing dimly lit corridors. Paintings of ancient witches lined the walls, their eyes seemingly following me in eerie silence. I gave one a small, nervous smile, but it didn't smile back. Disappointing.

But as everything unravelled, I began to notice it—most of the Castle was carved from redwood, its deep, ruddy hue bleeding through every corridor. A rare wood, hauled from the North… where the trees are cursed, and those who harvest them rarely return.

I wondered how they’d managed to bring it back—past the dark tales I’d read about the North. But the castle was ancient. It had stood through centuries of Trials, unchanged. Maybe the world was different then… or maybe the price was simply paid in silence.

Finally, I found my room. I pushed the door open and paused. A girl sat on the bed to the left, looking up as our eyes met—hers dark brown, steady, and curious. Her skin had a soft, warm glow, and her braids framed her face in a way that gave her an effortlessly calm presence. 

She definitely had a better skincare routine than I did.

“Hey,” she greeted, her voice soft but confident.

The room itself was a fluffy pink nightmare. Her bed was draped with a rich, emerald green quilt, while mine, unfortunately, was bright princess-pink—a color that physically hurt my soul. Delicate lace curtains framed each canopy bed, and fairy lights twinkled across the wooden walls. A tall mirror stood next to a vanity lined with silver hairbrushes, like a shrine to someone obsessed with beauty. 

Seriously, who decorates like this? Even my suitcase was less over-the-top.

I dragged my eyes back to my new roommate. “Hi, I’m Sabriella. Or just Sabi,” I said, giving the room one last grimace.

She nodded. “I’m Kendi. Nice to meet you.”

With a small sigh, she glanced at the watch on her wrist. “Call me in... twenty-five minutes,” she murmured, sprawling onto her bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world. 

The mattress sighed beneath her, like even it had learned not to protest. I barely knew her—hadn’t even learned if she preferred coffee or tea—but somehow, I understood. That line wasn’t about time; it was about space. Boundaries wrapped in velvet. A polite, deliberate delay masquerading as a request. She wasn’t ignoring me. Just avoiding me with style. And somehow, I respected it.

“You’re napping?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t you have your own weird hobby?” she replied, a hint of a smile playing on her lips without even opening her eyes.

She had a point. I could’ve argued, but really, I’d planned on pulling out my tarot cards for some comfort—anything to quiet the noise in my head.

Lately, the Trials were all I could think about. I told myself it was about the title, the prestige. But deep down, I knew—it was about her. About making my mother proud. About proving I wasn’t just her daughter, but someone who could stand in the storm and not break. Someone who could step out of her shadow and into something of my own.

Because here, failure wasn’t just disappointing—it was defining.

Lose the Trials, and your name is stripped from the records, swallowed by silence. You wear a black robe as you walk down the aisle—not in triumph, but in disgrace. Its hem is stitched with a fractured star, your mark of failure. A reminder to everyone watching that you were tested… and found lacking.

I pulled out my tarot deck and placed it before me, a sense of calm settling over my shoulders like a well-worn clothe. This wasn’t just another reading—this was the beginning of my journey. The path to becoming an elite. Whatever it took, I would make it.

My tarot cards have always looked to the stars for answers—drawing on ancient constellations, lunar shifts, and the quiet pull of the universe. But the stars have never been in the business of giving me straight ones. They speak in riddles, filtered through inked symbols and silent pulls of fate. They tell you what you need to know, never what you want to. So no, I couldn’t say if I’d win. The stars have been eerily silent on that question since I was a kid. But one thing was clear—I’d do whatever it took to see this through.

In that moment of resolve, something inside me fractured. A memory I'd flicked off snapped—like a thread yanked too hard from the loom of time, unraveling into something darker.

The ghost behind the tree. The whisper that wasn’t wind. The weight in the air—thick, watching, wrong.

And just like that, the determination turned into dread. I finally had a question for the stars.

"Was there really something behind those trees?"