DAGON MANSION

CHAPTER TWENTY- EIGHT: SCARLETT GOES TO SCHOOL

Mia watched Scarlett adjust the bow in her hair with solemn precision, as if readying herself not for school but for a ceremony. For days now, the child had moved like morning light through the rooms — calm, bright, whisper-soft. The storm that had once lived in her eyes seemed to have curled into sleep.

Today was her first day of school.

Outside, the autumn wind murmured through the iron gates of Dagon Mansion, brushing gold leaves across the gravel like pages turning. When Mia held the child's small hand, she noticed how fragile the bones felt, as though Scarlett belonged partly to this world and partly to another — one farther from sunlight and closer to prophecy.

At the school gates stood a young woman with russet hair falling straight to her waist, eyes warm and intelligent behind delicate glasses.

"Good morning, Scarlett," she greeted, voice soft as parchment. "I am Agnetha Beake. Your teacher."

Scarlett's blue eyes widened, luminous with curiosity.

"I hope we can get along, teacher."

Agnetha laughed lightly, charmed, and Mia felt a brief thaw in her chest. For a moment, she allowed herself the sweetness of ordinary life — a mother, a school, a child stepping toward her future.

"Behave, darling," Mia whispered.

"I will be good," Scarlett promised, squeezing her hand like a vow.

But there are promises children make that the world cannot understand — promises born of magic and bruises, of love fierce enough to shatter doors.

Mia walked away with a trembling inhale, leaving a piece of her heart behind glass walls and play mats.

The classroom buzzed with innocence — tiny chairs, glittering crayons, sunlight spilling in like warm honey. Scarlett breathed the air as if tasting a new world.

Then a boy, fair-haired and sharp-tongued, stepped into her path.

"So the murderer's child came after all."

Scarlett blinked, innocence dissolving into confusion.

"What do you mean?" she asked, voice small.

"My parents said it," the boy replied, chin lifted in cruel triumph. "Your father is a murderer."

A hush fell — the kind that precedes thunder. Children stood frozen in their tiny shoes, unsure whether to watch or run.

Scarlett's pulse quickened; a terrible heat rose beneath her ribs. The world trembled as something ancient inside her stirred — loyalty as fierce as flame, magic waiting like a clenched fist.

"You lie!" she cried. "Do not speak of my father!"

"I'm not lying, stupid. Ask your mother."

Scarlett's hands lifted almost on their own — a gesture half childlike fury, half sorceress command.

"I command you — fly!"

The boy rose like a marionette jerked by invisible strings, body suspended in trembling terror. Gasps burst around the room; chalk rolled from desks; crayons clattered like frightened birds. The child hung near the ceiling, face drained of color.

Scarlett's voice dropped to a hiss, ancient and cold:

"Never speak of him again."

Then, like a spell snapping —

"Fall."

He crashed to the ground. He gasped—alive, eyes wide. Screams filled the room.

"She killed him!" a little girl shrieked.

Scarlett stood still, breaths slow and even, expression blank as winter stone.

Agnetha burst in, horror seizing her face.

"William! Can you hear me?"

Children pointed — tiny fingers trembling.

"It was her, teacher."

Agnetha turned to Scarlett — the girl calm, eerie, unrepentant.

"Scarlett... what did you do?"

"I defended my father," the child said, voice hollow. "I would do it again."

The teacher's heart gripped itself in fear.

Mia arrived with Randolf beside her — though he stopped outside, uneasy, as if the walls hummed with power only he could sense.

Inside, Scarlett ran into her arms like a swallow returning home.

"Take me away," she begged, voice cracking.

Mia gathered her with shaking arms, breath breaking.

"I'm taking her to therapy," Mia told Agnetha, throat tight. "She needs care, not punishment."

But Agnetha's eyes were clouded — fear warring with pity.

"This girl is dangerous," she whispered. "And she is hurting."

The car ride home was a silent elegy. The mansion's iron gates opened like the jaws of a slumbering beast as they arrived. Autumn shadows trailed behind them.

"May I go find Mr. Bear?" Scarlett asked faintly.

"Yes, darling," Mia whispered, voice trembling.

When the child had gone, Mia broke. The weight of worlds pressed on her — motherhood, magic, fear, love, exile. She fell into Randolf's arms, sobbing into his scent of earth and moonlit storms.

"What if she harmed him?" she whispered. "What if the world turns on my daughter?"

Randolf lifted her chin gently, eyes warm as wolf-amber.

"Trust fate," he murmured. "My instincts say the boy will live. But she must be guided."

Mia nodded, tears shaking her body. Something in Randolf's touch burned her — not with danger, but with a heat she had tried to forget existed.

He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.

"Mia," he breathed.

His lips found hers with the ache of longing and the hunger of a soul who had lived too long without warmth — a kiss slow at first, then fierce, claiming her sorrow and offering shelter in its place.

Mia did not resist. For one stolen moment, she let herself drown in tenderness not meant for her, in a life she would never live.

Then — footsteps. A breath of cold air.

Theolinda stood at the gate, having returned unexpectedly — empty-handed, searching for her forgotten phone. She froze.

And then she smiled.