Jaime isn’t from an enclave. 

Her parents are from an enclave; it hadn’t approved of them, and they had left it with stars in their eyes and a bounce in their step. They’d been adults, at the time, and they had failed to fully consider their eventual children.

Jaime isn’t from an enclave. Jaime is from a quaint farm, with fifteen pygmy goats and a chicken coop and a black cat, and eleven younger siblings, and two parents, blissfully in love with each other. They’re somehow in love with her, too, and all of her monotonous syllables and careful grace, and love persuades them that her death is impossible, unthinkable.

Jaime thinks about her death. 

Her affinity for dancing spells - incantations that become more powerful when paired with choreography - is one way for her to live. The goats watch with fascination as she works through ballet, waltzing, old folk dances that show up in old spells; she’s tutored in everything she thinks to plead with her parents for, everything that might be handy. Late at night she dances in the barn, and counts her steps to her daily language practice, and her mother - pregnant, again and again and again - sits down in the corner and burns the dark little creatures of the night that want to gobble her up, when they arrive. They’re less little by the day.

Jaime thinks, very carefully, about not being gobbled up, and she doesn’t think that dancing will suffice.

On the day before her induction she shaves her head, and collects her supplies. She’s little, for fourteen, only ninety five pounds, and if that’s bad for her odds overall it's at least excellent for packing. She crams in a standard array of clothing and shoes and utilities and medicine, a pair of pointe shoes for emergencies, five knives, a headscarf with a small protective spell on it, crystal beads to store mana in, a few letters, a little box of candies with minor healing magic, and a small terrarium. Her parents know exactly what the terrarium is for; they pretend that they don’t.

Twelve mice, each a month old; only half a pound in total. The tank and paraphernalia add another ten pounds. She’d kill one a day, once they started having babies, and she’d dance strange dances over them to keep them safe from everything, except for her, and the malia from killing them would hollow her out, bit by bit, and keep her alive. 

The scholomance yanks her away and she is perfectly calm, perfectly poised, and perfectly still. 

Jaime isn’t from an enclave. She is going to live regardless.

Jaime isn’t from an enclave. 

Her parents are from an enclave; it hadn’t approved of them, and they had left it with stars in their eyes and a bounce in their step. They’d been adults, at the time, and they had failed to fully consider their eventual children.

Jaime isn’t from an enclave. Jaime is from a quaint farm, with fifteen pygmy goats and a chicken coop and a black cat, and eleven younger siblings, and two parents, blissfully in love with each other. They’re somehow in love with her, too, and all of her monotonous syllables and careful grace, and love persuades them that her death is impossible, unthinkable.

Jaime thinks about her death. 

Her affinity for dancing spells - incantations that become more powerful when paired with choreography - is one way for her to live. The goats watch with fascination as she works through ballet, waltzing, old folk dances that show up in old spells; she’s tutored in everything she thinks to plead with her parents for, everything that might be handy. Late at night she dances in the barn, and counts her steps to her daily language practice, and her mother - pregnant, again and again and again - sits down in the corner and burns the dark little creatures of the night that want to gobble her up, when they arrive. They’re less little by the day.

Jaime thinks, very carefully, about not being gobbled up, and she doesn’t think that dancing will suffice.

On the day before her induction she shaves her head, and collects her supplies. She’s little, for fourteen, only ninety five pounds, and if that’s bad for her odds overall it's at least excellent for packing. She crams in a standard array of clothing and shoes and utilities and medicine, a pair of pointe shoes for emergencies, five knives, a headscarf with a small protective spell on it, crystal beads to store mana in, a few letters, a little box of candies with minor healing magic, and a small terrarium. Her parents know exactly what the terrarium is for; they pretend that they don’t.

Twelve mice, each a month old; only half a pound in total. The tank and paraphernalia add another ten pounds. She’d kill one a day, once they started having babies, and she’d dance strange dances over them to keep them safe from everything, except for her, and the malia from killing them would hollow her out, bit by bit, and keep her alive. 

The scholomance yanks her away and she is perfectly calm, perfectly poised, and perfectly still. 

Jaime isn’t from an enclave. She is going to live regardless.

Jaime isn’t from an enclave. 

Her parents are from an enclave; it hadn’t approved of them, and they had left it with stars in their eyes and a bounce in their step. They’d been adults, at the time, and they had failed to fully consider their eventual children.

Jaime isn’t from an enclave. Jaime is from a quaint farm, with fifteen pygmy goats and a chicken coop and a black cat, and eleven younger siblings, and two parents, blissfully in love with each other. They’re somehow in love with her, too, and all of her monotonous syllables and careful grace, and love persuades them that her death is impossible, unthinkable.

Jaime thinks about her death. 

Her affinity for dancing spells - incantations that become more powerful when paired with choreography - is one way for her to live. The goats watch with fascination as she works through ballet, waltzing, old folk dances that show up in old spells; she’s tutored in everything she thinks to plead with her parents for, everything that might be handy. Late at night she dances in the barn, and counts her steps to her daily language practice, and her mother - pregnant, again and again and again - sits down in the corner and burns the dark little creatures of the night that want to gobble her up, when they arrive. They’re less little by the day.

Jaime thinks, very carefully, about not being gobbled up, and she doesn’t think that dancing will suffice.

On the day before her induction she shaves her head, and collects her supplies. She’s little, for fourteen, only ninety five pounds, and if that’s bad for her odds overall it's at least excellent for packing. She crams in a standard array of clothing and shoes and utilities and medicine, a pair of pointe shoes for emergencies, five knives, a headscarf with a small protective spell on it, a few letters, a little box of candies with minor healing magic, and a small terrarium. Her parents know exactly what the terrarium is for; they pretend that they don’t.

Twelve mice, each a month old; only half a pound in total. The tank and paraphernalia add another ten pounds. She’d kill one a day, once they started having babies, and she’d dance strange dances over them to keep them safe from everything, except for her, and the malia from killing them would hollow her out, bit by bit, and keep her alive. 

The scholomance yanks her away and she is perfectly calm, perfectly poised, and perfectly still. 

Jaime isn’t from an enclave. She is going to live regardless.