It took Lyra weeks to adjust to the mixed energies and dynamics of the Salvatore School. It had been a whirlwind of a journey. The first priority was bringing her up to speed with the academic curriculum. Lyra found traditional education painstaking and long-winded, but when it came to magical studies, she took to them like a fish to water.
Although her curse prevented her from using offensive magic, Lyra thrived in other areas. Her healing and protective spells grew stronger with each lesson, as she dedicated herself to training and studying far beyond what was required. What began as a desire not to fall behind her peers soon transformed into a genuine love for magic.
However, her intense focus on study created a small disconnect between her and other students her age. That, combined with the naturally cliquey groups and subgroups among the supernatural students, left Lyra somewhat isolated—even from the other witches. Yet, this never truly brought her down. The joy she found in her studies, along with Emma's steady support, helped her feel grounded and content.
Emma had been a constant presence, guiding Lyra through her adjustment to school life. Lyra could often be found helping Emma care for the younger witches, who looked up to her like a gentle older sister. Beyond their daily interactions, Emma had also gently encouraged Lyra to attend counseling sessions, where they explored topics such as her forgotten past, her feelings about the curse, and everything in between.
Though naturally bright and optimistic, Lyra found the sessions unexpectedly helpful. She learned that acknowledging pain didn't mean dwelling on it—that she could grow from the past rather than be held back by it. And in doing so, she took one more step toward embracing the future.
Lyra sat alone on the lush grass beneath the bright midday sun. Around her, small groups of students lounged on the lawn, chatting and laughing. Though she held a book in her lap, her thoughts kept drifting—especially after reading the most recent letter from Granny Ethel. Despite the distance between them, Lyra and her granny wrote to each other constantly. Ethel was always thrilled to hear about Lyra's accomplishments and never failed to encourage her to make more friends.
"Everyone's scared of being rejected," Ethel had written, "but you have to reach out so others can reach back."
With her thoughts now swirling, Lyra closed her book and decided to return to her dorm. Though her room was a double, no one had chosen to room with her yet, so it remained hers alone. As she approached the door, she noticed a small package resting on the floor. Curious, she picked it up. The return address read New Orleans. That caught her off guard. She could count the number of people she knew on one hand—and none of them were from there. Erring on the side of caution, she brought the box into her room but left it unopened. She would wait to ask Emma what to do with it.
With the quiet of her room now restored, Lyra focused herself and began practicing magic. She had learned that magic was a witch's will made real. Incantations helped guide intent, and the magic core provided the power. With strong enough will—or emotion—spoken words weren't even necessary. Some older chants, especially those in ancient languages, seemed to carry deeper, more potent meanings.
As she practiced, raised voices echoed faintly through the hallway. Curious, Lyra paused and stepped out to peek. Down the hall, a standoff was unfolding. One girl stood alone, facing off against a group led by a blonde witch. The lone girl was Hope Mikaelson—a name whispered around campus. People didn't move for Hope out of respect. They moved out of fear.
The other girl was Lizzie Saltzman, one of the headmaster's daughters. She carried herself like the de facto leader of the witches and frequently stirred up drama, much to her father's frustration.
Their shouting match ended as explosively as it had begun. Lizzie and her posse stormed off, leaving Hope alone in the corridor. Lyra hesitated before quietly approaching.
"Hi... um, are you okay?" Lyra asked gently.
Hope turned toward her, emotion darkening her eyes. She studied the soft-spoken girl and sighed, replying calmly, "I'm fine. Sorry for disturbing you. I just lost something, but I'll check with Emma."
Intimidated by Hope's self-assurance, Lyra nodded and began to step back. But then she remembered Granny Ethel's words—reach out. With sudden resolve, she darted into her room, grabbed the unopened package, and hurried to catch up.
"Hey! Wait up," she called. "I'll come with you. I need to ask Miss Tig something too."
They walked side by side in silence toward the counselor's office. Gathering her courage, Lyra said, "My name's Lyra, by the way."
Hope glanced at her, catching the blush that spread across Lyra's cheeks. Disarmed by the girl's nervous sincerity, Hope replied, "I'm Hope Mikaelson."
Lyra beamed. "It's nice to meet you, Hope."
Hope watched her for a moment, noting the triumphant look on Lyra's face as if just exchanging names had been a monumental quest. One girl walked with a bright smile, the other with a subtle but amused one.
Emma Tig always kept her office door open to encourage students to drop in whenever they needed. When Hope and Lyra stepped inside, they found her behind her desk, looking up as she sensed their presence.
"Well, what brings you two here?" Emma asked.
Hope huffed. "One of the witches hid my paints. They came from home. I came here first before I do something that leaves Mr. Saltzman with only one daughter."
Emma arched a brow. "Okay… and you, Lyra?"
"Um, nothing that dramatic," Lyra admitted, holding up the package. "I found this outside my door, but I wasn't expecting anything. The only person I know outside this school is Granny Ethel."
Emma nodded. "Alright, that's an easy one. Where's it from?"
"New Orleans," Lyra replied.
At the mention of the city, Hope perked up, rising from her chair. "Wait—let me see that." She snatched the box, inspected the label, and immediately tore it open. Inside were neatly wrapped tubes of paint.
Emma laughed softly to herself. Two very different girls had entered her office: one with a problem, and the other—without knowing it—holding the solution.