Of all the bloody luck.

The phrase circled Morales's mind like an irritable hummingbird refusing to land.

His office was dimmer than usual, despite the enchanted light globes hanging from the ceiling. The golden glow they cast seemed tired, like even the room knew the situation was headed nowhere good. Papers, scrolls, and heart-shaped report crystals were scattered across his desk, but the one catching all the attention was the red file.

Maya Peyton's case file.

This particular case had grown sticky—too sticky—for Morales to handle with clean gloves. And now, as he stood before one of the upper cupids in the arbitration chamber, he was down to his final move.

"Wouldn't a revision of the decision be necessary, since it's Alfred Peyton's daughter?" he said, quietly but firmly.

Even to his own ears, it sounded like a cheap trick, and he hated himself for using it.

The upper cupid dropped the red file on his desk with a dull thud, the gesture louder than any verbal rejection. The expression on their face was unreadable, marble-smooth and cold. They turned without a word and left, the door sealing behind them with a whisper of finality.

Morales let out a slow exhale, the kind that scraped the bottom of the soul. He turned his chair toward the window. Outside, the view of the Cupid District shimmered in soft pastel colors—hovering cloud gardens, swan-shaped gondolas lazily drifting along sparkling heart rivers, and love doves circling the air in elaborate loops. But today, it felt like a painted lie. The beauty did nothing to soften the weight in his chest.

He couldn't face her—not at first. He needed a minute. Maybe two.

By the time the two hours had passed, Morales felt like he'd aged another decade. A knock came, small and uncertain.

She entered.

Maya walked in with her usual uneven step, like her shoes had minds of their own. Her hair was still frizzy from earlier, but now it had an added lopsided braid. Her eyes darted around the office as she sat, visibly confused that he hadn't turned to greet her.

"S-sir?" she called out gently, her voice thinner than usual. "I was to return in two hours..."

Still he didn't face her. He couldn't. Morales could already picture her face without looking: those too-honest eyes, that nervous twist in her mouth, and the silent plea she probably didn't realize she wore like perfume.

Silence filled the room—pressurized and heavy.

Maya's hands were in her lap, fingers tangled in a losing battle of anxious knots. Her knee bounced slightly. She bit her lip.

She knew. She knew. Even being Alfred Peyton's daughter hadn't saved her from the downward spiral. They'd already demoted her to junior assignments—deliveries, matchmaking follow-ups, even heart repair consults for toddlers. And somehow, she'd still found ways to screw those up.

And Morales... the amount of paperwork he must've filled just to keep her wings intact? It made her sick to imagine it.

Finally, he spoke.

"Maya, the decision from the upper cupids..." His voice faltered. It felt like glass in his throat.

She blinked. "The upper cupids made a decision concerning my case file?" Her voice cracked through the quiet like lightning, louder than she'd intended.

Morales forced himself to turn toward her. Slowly. The moment their eyes met, the air seemed to still. For a second, she felt hope—then he looked away.

His voice returned, carefully measured. "They've decided... to accelerate your senior cupid training."

Maya's brow knit. A few seconds passed. "What do you mean by accelerate?"

"The decision," Morales began again, his tone hardening only so he could keep it steady, "is that you'll be sent for your earthly test. Sooner than expected."

A beat.

"Oh," she said.

It came out so softly, like the breath had been knocked out of her. But she didn't cry. Not yet. She blinked slowly, nodding, as if repeating the words in her head would make them make sense. Sooner... maybe he meant a few months? Half a year?

Then Morales dropped the final blow.

"You are to leave for your mission in a week."

It hit her like a slap.

"What?" she gasped, standing up before she even realized it. "I still have at least two years to prepare for that!"

Her voice rang off the office walls. The harp orb in the corner flickered with the sudden rise in energy.

"Maya..." Morales said, and the way he said her name—it made her stop cold. "The punishment for failing this test is... banishment, the ultimatum is that you must pass."

She dropped back into her seat like a puppet with cut strings.

"Ba—banishment?" she whispered, and her entire body shrank inward. Her wings drooped. Her arms wrapped around herself like a shield. The fear poured into her eyes like ink in water.

Her fists clenched in her lap. Banishment. No more flying. No more magic. No more cloud gardens or celestial orchards. It would all be gone. Erased. She'd be a failed cupid. An exile.

Morales leaned forward, visibly regretful. "Maya, I tried to make them reconsider. I even mentioned your father—"

"Don't," she said, voice catching. "Don't say that."

He fell silent.

She was living out her worst fear—and yet there was something worse. Something colder than even the threat of banishment.

It was the look in Morales's eyes. That pity. That quiet certainty. He didn't believe she could pass the test.

She looked at the file on his desk, the papers documenting every screw-up, every misplaced arrow and awkward date she'd misaligned. Maybe she didn't believe in herself either.

But something inside her shifted.

Maybe it was spite. Maybe desperation.

Or maybe, for the first time, it was resolve.

"I'll do it," she said.

He blinked. "Maya—"

"It's okay," she interrupted with a fragile smile. "I'm fine."

She was anything but fine. Her heart pounded like a broken metronome. Her legs shook as she stood again. The ceiling felt like it was tilting slightly.

But she needed him to believe she could handle it—even if she didn't believe it herself.

Maya turned and walked toward the door. Her pace faltered. She paused just before opening it. She didn't look back.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, the tears began to fall.

First a few. Then more.

The hallway outside Morales's office was bright and endless, glowing with serenity—but to Maya, it looked like a corridor leading straight to a cliff's edge.

The bravery she'd forced into her voice was gone now, scattered to the wind. All that remained was the echo of Morales's words, looping in her mind like a curse.

Banishment.

She walked in a daze, hugging her arms around herself as she disappeared down the hall

-if you enjoyed that, read what happens next, in chapter 3-

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