An original story by SolaraScott

Chapter 1 - Acceptance Letter

Available in audiobook format

The bus rumbled down the suburban road with the sluggish determination of a dying beast, its worn-out shocks groaning with every bump and crack in the pavement. Students laughed and chattered around her—plans for the summer, awkward goodbyes, cheap declarations of love that would evaporate before the first July barbecue. Elara sat silent. Her eyes stared out the window, watching the world blur past in shades of early summer green, sunlight casting long stripes of gold through the branches. Graduation was over. Caps tossed. Diplomas handed out. A dozen emails in her inbox congratulating her for achieving the bare minimum expected of every other 18-year-old. She should’ve felt proud. Instead, she felt... unfinished, like she was standing at the edge of something too vast to comprehend. Or, like the ending everyone else had celebrated, it wasn’t her ending. Not really.

The brakes gave a familiar whine as the bus slowed, air hissing from the pneumatic door. With a practiced motion, Elara slung her worn canvas bag over her shoulder and stood, her knees brushing the plastic seat in front of her. She made her way to the front, stepping carefully around someone's forgotten jacket, her boots clicking against the floor. As she reached the front of the bus, her eyes caught on the wide convex mirror above the driver’s seat—the one meant to let the driver watch the rowdy kids in the back. It caught her, instead. A flash of who she was now. Her hair was dark, dyed black months ago in an impulsive attempt to reinvent herself. It fell around her shoulders in choppy, uneven layers, the kind that said I did this in my bathroom mirror at 2 AM. Her skin, pale from too many days spent inside reading spell forums and fantasy novels, gave her a ghostlike contrast, emphasized further by the dark eyeliner she always over-applied. Freckles dusted her nose—something she used to hate, but now considered part of her signature look. Her hoodie, a faded band logo stretched across the chest, hung too long on her frame. She looked tired. Not from lack of sleep. From waiting..

Heat rose off the pavement in shimmering waves as she stepped off the bus. The bus trundled away behind her, engine belching one last tired cough before fading down the road. Elara stood alone on the cracked sidewalk, her sneakers crunching faintly on the edge of the grass as she turned toward the small house at the end of the lane. Her house. Same faded blue shutters. Same sloping roof patched with mismatched shingles. Same crooked mailbox leaning just a little too far left, like it had given up standing straight years ago. She made her way down the narrow cobblestone path, her feet moving on instinct, heart ticking a little faster with every step. Her hand brushed against the rusted mailbox lid and lifted it.

Inside: a coupon for pest control, a water bill, and a medical statement. There is no envelope with curling black script, no seal embossed in violet wax, no hint of magic, and no letter.

Elara sighed. Not dramatically, not loudly. Just a small exhale, like air leaving a balloon that never fully inflated. She let the lid fall closed with a metallic thunk. Her fingers lingered on the cool metal a moment longer than necessary. Maybe it had been stupid to hope. Littlewick Academy wasn’t just the most prestigious magical school—it was practically myth. The kind of place every wannabe witch or wizard dreamed of but never really expected to see. Most people applied once out of curiosity, then moved on. Got jobs, went to college, and forgot about it.

But not Elara.

She turned away from the mailbox, walking up the path, her boots thudding softly against the uneven stone. The house loomed ahead, unassuming and ordinary. A chipped welcome mat. A windchime that hadn’t chimed in years.

The door creaked open with a low groan, its hinges sticking just enough to remind her that no one had bothered to oil them. Elara stepped inside and exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The familiar scent of home—lemon cleaner and old wood, the faint musk of laundry detergent and summer dust—welcomed her like a memory half-forgotten. She unslung her canvas pack and dropped it beside the doorway with a soft thud, a silent declaration that she was done, at least for the day. Her sneakers followed, kicked off with practiced ease, landing askew on the worn mat that had seen better years. She didn’t call out; she didn’t need to. The silence told her everything—no soft rustle of her dad’s newspaper, no hum of her mom’s usual afternoon vacuuming. The house was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of settling floorboards. Empty, and that suited her just fine.

Elara moved through the front hall and into the kitchen, each step echoing faintly off the tile as she brushed a few loose strands of hair behind her ear. The countertop was cluttered with the usual junk—mail, receipts, and a half-eaten banana someone had clearly forgotten to finish. She grabbed the stack of bills she’d pulled from the mailbox and dumped them unceremoniously onto the pile already sitting by the toaster. Let her parents worry about electricity and pest control. Her fingers curled around the fridge handle, the cold metal shocking against the warmth of her skin. Inside: a half-gallon of milk, three types of leftovers, and an absurd amount of string cheese. She grabbed an apple from the counter instead, along with a cold can of something sugary and carbonated, letting the door swing closed with a soft thump as she leaned her back against it and bit into the fruit.

Juice dribbled down her fingers as she chewed, the tart sweetness grounding her in the moment. Comforting in the way only the boring could be. She popped the can open with a satisfying crack and took a long drink before turning on her heel and heading for the stairs. Maybe she would rewatch that old show she liked as a kid. Anything to fill the yawning period summer had dumped into her lap.

She’d barely made it to the first step when her mother appeared from the hall, glancing up at Elara.

“Elara!” Her mother’s voice came bright and warm, a burst of sunlight in human form. “Welcome home, sweetheart! And congratulations!”

Elara blinked, her foot hovering in midair for a beat before settling back onto the tile. She turned slowly, one brow raised, an apple half-eaten in her hand. Her mom stood in the hallway, still in her pale blue work blouse, smiling wide enough to crinkle the corners of her eyes. The same expression she used when she was proud—really proud—like when Elara had won second place in the county spelling bee five years ago, or finally passed her driving test on the third try.

“Thanks,” Elara said after a moment, managing a small smile as she leaned her weight against the banister. “But... It’s just high school, Mom. I didn’t, like, cure cancer or graduate college.”

The words came out casually enough, a little shrug accompanying them, but something clenched in her chest as she said them. She didn’t say what she really wanted to—It’s not like I got into Littlewick. That part stayed silent, tucked safely away behind her teeth where hope and disappointment couldn’t crawl out and embarrass her again. The worst thing wasn’t getting in. The worst thing was believing she might have. That maybe, just maybe, she was something more.

Her mother’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it softened, like she knew something Elara didn’t. “Still,” she said, stepping forward to ruffle her daughter’s hair, “it’s worth celebrating.”

Elara rolled her eyes and ducked the gesture, but the corners of her mouth twitched. She turned back toward the stairs, can in one hand, apple in the other, the faintest trace of curiosity stirring at the base of her spine. Something in her mom’s tone had felt... off.

“Before you go…” Her mother’s voice caught her just as Elara placed her foot on the first step, and the words held a weight that didn’t match their casual delivery. There was something in the tone—measured, almost teasing—that made Elara freeze mid-motion. She glanced over her shoulder, arching an eyebrow, her free hand finding her hip in that practiced, irritated teen posture she’d refined to an art form. Her apple hung limply in her other hand, forgotten for the moment. The look on her mother’s face didn’t help—soft, knowing, the kind of smile that only parents seemed to possess when they thought they were being clever.

Elara squinted. “A surprise?” she asked flatly, already preparing herself for the worst. She imagined some dumb graduation gift—new clothes for the summer, maybe a sparkly binder and pens for the local community college. Or worse, something symbolic, like one of those inspirational books with quotes from successful women who climbed the ladder of life one broken stiletto at a time. Or—she shuddered internally—a cake with her baby pictures printed on top in icing. She could already hear the laughter, feel the cringe creeping over her skin.

But her mother didn’t answer. She just gestured toward the living room, her smile growing a fraction wider, eyes twinkling like she was enjoying herself far too much. Elara suppressed the sigh that clawed its way to her lips and turned, walking the short hallway with deliberate steps. The apple, still in her hand, now felt heavy, like a prop she no longer needed. She rounded the corner, already planning her eye roll, ready to endure whatever forced celebration her parents had dreamed up this time.

And then—

“Congratulations!!!”

The word exploded around her like a spell gone off mid-cast, an eruption of voices and clapping and cheers so loud she physically flinched. The living room had been transformed—balloons lined the walls in a cascade of pastel and gold, streamers drifted down from the ceiling like ribbons caught in a breeze, and a massive banner—handmade, clearly, with glitter that still clung stubbornly to the air—spelled out CONGRATULATIONS ELARA! in bold, uneven letters. Her aunts and uncles were there, her cousins, a few of her classmates she hadn’t spoken to in weeks, even that neighbor who still mispronounced her name every Christmas. They all stood in a wide circle around the room, grinning and clapping and calling out her name like she’d just won the Nobel Prize.

Elara froze.

Every instinct screamed at her to bolt—to melt into the floorboards, vanish in a puff of smoke, anything but stand there, center stage, being celebrated for something she didn’t even think was worth celebrating. Her stomach twisted. It was just high school. A twelve-year march through hallway lockers and pop quizzes. This? This felt like too much. Overkill, the kind only parents could conjure when they thought they were showing love but really were just making everything worse.

But then—

Her eyes caught the box.

It sat in the center of the room, nestled among the circle of smiling faces, as though it were the guest of honor and she was just there to meet it. It was whimsical, unlike anything she’d ever seen in real life—pale lavender and ivory, patterned with stars and moons and the faintest shimmer of enchantment in the way the corners curled. A silken bow, impossibly delicate, perched atop it like a crown. And there, tucked neatly at its center, was a single envelope. The wax seal shimmered with magic, a deep, glimmering purple stamped with an emblem she knew instantly, intimately. Her breath caught. Her fingers tingled. No way.

The seal was unmistakable: the sigil of Littlewick Academy.

She didn’t even realize her mouth had fallen open until her cousin nudged her playfully, and she snapped it shut, her eyes wide, darting between the box and her mother, who stood just behind her now, that same knowing smile turning soft. The room echoed with claps and laughter, with cheering, but Elara heard none of it. Her ears were filled with static, with the roar of her heartbeat crashing against her ribs. The world blurred at the edges, and for the first time in a very long time, she forgot to be sarcastic. Forgot to roll her eyes. Forgot to play it cool.

The world narrowed around her, the chatter and clapping reduced to a distant hum like wind behind thick glass. Elara knelt beside the box, her mother taking her snack, the room spun not with movement but with weight—expectation, possibility, magic. Real, actual magic. Her fingers trembled as they reached for the envelope, not out of fear, but reverence. It was warm beneath her touch, the parchment humming faintly with power. She traced the edges slowly, as if she were afraid it might vanish, or worse, be fake. But the seal remained firm beneath her thumb, rich purple wax stamped with the unmistakable sigil of a crescent moon encircled by thorns. It tingled when she touched it, a soft pulse of energy that sent goosebumps up her arms. It felt alive in a way nothing else ever had, like the whisper of a dream made real. This wasn’t just a letter. It was a key.

“Well, don’t keep us waiting!” her uncle’s voice called out from the corner of the room, chuckling, but even he sounded subdued, as though the entire gathering understood something sacred was unfolding. The room had gone still—not tense, not forced, just waiting.

Elara swallowed, fingers closing around the seal, and she broke it with a quiet snap. It opened effortlessly, like the magic knew it belonged to her. Inside were two notes. The top one bore her name—Elara Myles—in looping silver script, and for a moment, all she could do was stare. Her name looked different like this. Special. Like it belonged to someone extraordinary.

She unfolded the first letter and read, her voice shaky at first, but growing stronger with each word.

“Elara Myles,

It is with great pleasure that we welcome you into the storied halls of Littlewick Academy for the Arcane and Esoteric Arts. Your application, submitted on the twelfth night of the new moon, was received, reviewed, and—despite the overwhelming number of applicants—selected with enthusiastic recommendation by our Admissions Council.”

Her throat tightened. She couldn’t help the grin that broke across her face, sharp and brilliant and utterly unguarded. The kind of smile she hadn’t worn in years. Around her, the air was still. A few gasps. A cousin squealed softly. Her mom placed a hand over her mouth. Elara kept reading, her eyes scanning the next lines as if her life depended on them.

“You are hereby granted First Year Status, effective the coming semester, and will be expected to arrive at the Emberrise Platform for your scheduled departure no later than August the Third.”

Real. This was real. Her heart pounded like it was trying to escape her chest, each beat louder than the last.

Enclosed, you will find your uniform, preliminary schedule, a detailed list of supplies, and your House Orientation Guide. You will also find a personalized note from your assigned caretaker—your designated guardian for the duration of your First Year.”

Her voice caught there. “Caretaker?” she murmured, more to herself than the room. Elara moved on.

“At Littlewick, we pride ourselves on nurturing not only magical excellence but humility, discipline, and the core principles of magical maturity. As such, First Year students are to follow all rules and guidance provided by their assigned guardians without exception. You are not yet expected to understand the full nature of your enrollment. You are only expected to trust the path ahead. That is the first lesson of becoming a true Witch.”

She paused, blinking at the last line. The wording was strange, more ritualistic than anything else. But then again, magic always was.

“With warmest regards,

—Headmistress Everyn Hollowshade

Littlewick Academy”

Elara lowered the letter slowly, the paper whispering between her fingers. She looked around at the faces gathered—smiling, proud, awestruck—and felt the weight of her reality shift beneath her. The girl who had stepped into this room had been full of sarcasm, half-resigned to a summer of boredom. That girl had vanished the moment she touched that seal.

Elara’s fingers hovered over the second note, her heart still rattling from the first. Her thumb brushed along the edge, the soft parchment slightly warm to the touch, almost inviting. Unlike the formal acceptance letter, this one looked… gentler. Personal. Lined with a delicate lavender border and scented faintly of something floral and unfamiliar, it didn’t carry the same institutional weight. This wasn’t official correspondence. This was something else. Something just for her.

She unfolded the letter slowly. It was written in smooth, rounded script, each letter curving gracefully across the page with a practiced, affectionate rhythm. She blinked, adjusted her grip, and then—because everyone was watching, because the room was still and expectant—she began to read aloud.

“Dear Elara,” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “Welcome to Littlewick Academy. I am so pleased to have the opportunity to guide you during your first year of magical study. This is a time of great growth, challenge, and discovery, and I will be with you every step of the way.”

A few polite nods came from the family around her, and some murmurs of appreciation. Her mother beamed. Her aunt wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. Elara kept reading.

“I’ve already begun preparations to ensure your arrival is smooth and your transition into our unique learning environment is as comfortable as possible. I’ve taken time to carefully arrange your accommodations, your academic schedule, and your routines to help you thrive.”

That gave her pause. Personal routines? She glanced down the page, but didn’t stop. Not yet.

“There will be times when things feel unfamiliar or even uncomfortable, but I promise—everything has been selected with your care and development in mind.”

The shift in tone was subtle, but unmistakable. A few people in the room exchanged looks. Elara’s mouth stayed open, the words tumbling out faster now, as if by reading them quickly, she could get to the end before the letter did something terrible.

“You’ll find that the items in your package are specially chosen for a student in your position, and with the right mindset, I know you’ll take to your new role beautifully. After all, you’re such a precious little thing, and I simply can’t wait to begin helping you unlearn those big girl habits—”

Her voice faltered.

A pause spread like a stain in the air around her. The silence deepened. Her mother’s smile wavered. Someone coughed nervously. Elara’s eyes were locked on the final line, and her hands started to shake.

She swallowed, forcing herself onward.

“—so that you can become the obedient little baby Mommy knows you can—”

Her voice broke. The word Mommy hung in the air, soft and bright and sharp as a blade.

She didn’t finish the sentence.

A beat passed. Two.

Around her, the room shifted. The celebration’s glow dimmed beneath a growing weight of confusion. She could feel it—the way the crowd leaned closer, breaths held, smiles dimming into puzzled stares. Someone—her aunt, maybe—called out, “What does it mean, Elara? What’s going on?” Others joined in, curious, laughing, pushing for her to share. The second letter dangled limply from her hand now, forgotten, trembling as she stared down at the box like it had become a threat.

She didn’t respond. Instead, her hands moved on their own, compelled by equal parts dread and disbelief. The ribbon, once pristine, was ripped away. The lid cracked open with a soft creak. Inside, nestled on a bed of pale lavender tissue, lay the final proof that this was not a dream. A pressed school uniform, but on top of that, a diaper—pristine white, soft and crinkly, decorated with tiny cartoon creatures dancing cheerfully across the landing zone. A thick yellow line ran down the center, a wetness indicator, as if mocking her. 

The room went utterly, deafeningly silent.

Her eyes locked on the diaper, wide with stunned disbelief, even as a dozen gazes peered over her shoulder. The moment stretched, impossibly long. She could feel every breath in the room stop, every laugh from moments before curdle in the air. Then—SLAM! Elara’s hands shot forward and forced the lid shut, the echo of the impact ringing like a gunshot in the hush that followed. She wanted to run. To scream. To disappear.

The box sat before her like an altar, the silence around it louder than any applause had ever been. Every pair of eyes in that room had seen what lay inside—had understood—and in that moment, Elara felt something break. Not like glass shattering, but like a tether snapping loose, like the floor of the world had dropped out from under her and she was falling through something deeper than shame, deeper than confusion. This wasn’t just a prank; this was real.

And no one—no one—was laughing now.