Chapter 7 - Gems & Power

Elara sat in the small, high-backed chair—her legs dangling just above the floor, a tray folded discreetly off to one side like it might be used later.She was surrounded by softly glowing crystals embedded into the classroom’s domed ceiling. Each gem flickered faintly in time with the students’ presence, shifting in hue as if feeding on mood or attention. Rows of desks curved outward from the center like petals of a flower, but the seats for first-years, she’d quickly discovered, were slightly different. Softer and shorter.

She didn’t move. Her fingers curled around the hem of her skirt—light pink gingham with embroidered strawberries along the edge, the fabric falling just far enough to obscure the faint bulge of her fresh diaper. Her blouse was puff-sleeved and trimmed in delicate lace, with two buttons shaped like hearts just beneath the collar. The ribbon at her neck was an exact match for the one Selena had tied into her hair that morning, her twin pigtails bouncing slightly as she breathed. The outfit didn’t say student. It said storybook toddler. And despite how long she'd spent glaring into the mirror, willing it to look more dignified, it never did.

The aftermath of breakfast didn’t fade. If anything, it clung to Elara more tightly than the sticky weight of her used diaper. There was no dignity left in pretending otherwise. The cramps had started midway through the bottle, subtle at first—sharp twinges that she’d mistaken for nerves. But then Selena had smiled, brushed Elara’s hair back with infuriating tenderness, and whispered that oh-so-casual confession: Mommy added a little something to your bottle this morning, just to make sure you don’t have any more… potty troubles today. It had hit her like a curse, as though the words themselves had triggered the final surrender. From there, the descent had been rapid and undeniable.

She’d tried to hold it. Gods, had she tried. But there was no stopping what had already been set in motion. Her body had relaxed without her say-so, her cheeks flaming as the mess filled her diaper in full view of the other first-years, in full earshot of the smirks and stifled laughter from nearby tables. Selena had simply kept eating, calm and composed, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Elara’s hands had curled into fists on the highchair tray, her knuckles white with effort, her jaw clenched so tight she thought her teeth might shatter. But she hadn’t cried. Not there. Not then. Because that would’ve meant acknowledging just how far she’d already fallen.

The worst part hadn’t been the accident. It had been what came after.

The walk back to Ruby dorms was quiet but no less cruel. Selena hadn’t rushed. She’d taken her time, fingers laced with Elara’s like they were out for a Sunday stroll rather than parading a diapered girl through the heart of the school. Elara’s gait had been stiff, her knees awkwardly spread by the bloated padding between her thighs, the mess shifting with every step. Every squish, every slow, shuffling motion had been a reminder that this wasn’t over. That she wasn’t in control. Students had passed them, some casting glances, others openly amused. Elara didn’t look up once. She couldn’t bear to meet their eyes.

When they reached the dorm, Selena didn’t ask. She simply guided Elara to the changing table as if she were a cranky toddler overdue for a nap. Elara hadn’t said a word. Not when the snaps along her onesie came undone. Not when the tapes were peeled back and the cold air hit her soiled skin. Not even when the wipes came—one after another, slow and clinical, each swipe of Selena’s hand stripping away more than just filth, her dignity as well. Elara had stared at the ceiling, her lip caught between her teeth, until the coppery tang of blood mixed with the shame already burning in her throat. She had wanted to scream. To run. But her body refused to move. Her will had been broken in subtler ways.

Selena had hummed a lullaby as she worked.

She used more powder this time, dusting it gently over Elara’s reddened skin, her fingers slow and unhurried. The fresh diaper was unfolded with the same soft rustle as before, thick and white with blue moons, and the tapes were sealed down with mechanical precision. Then came the new outfit, laid out neatly on the edge of Elara’s crib like a gift she should be grateful for. A puff-sleeved blouse with heart-shaped buttons. A pastel skirt with a matching bow. Ruffled socks. Everything pink, innocent, and insufferably childish.

She hadn’t thanked her.

She hadn’t even spoken.

But she’d worn it.

Because refusing meant more control was taken.

And so she sat quietly on the edge of her crib afterward, legs dangling, watching the way the skirt barely covered the fresh bulge beneath her. She hadn’t looked in the mirror. She didn’t need to. The image was already etched into her mind—a little girl in baby clothes, sitting quietly after her change, waiting to be taken to class like a good girl.

And now here she was. Dressed like a doll, seated like a child, and waiting for her first class in magic.

The absurdity of it all might’ve made her laugh if her stomach hadn’t still been in knots.

When Selena had delivered her to the classroom—delivered, as if she were a parcel, not a person—she’d exchanged warm greetings with the professor like two old friends catching up. “She had a bit of a difficult morning,” Selena had said with a smile, adjusting the bow on Elara’s back. “Might need some extra cuddles after class.”

Elara had wanted to scream.

Now she sat in silence, cheeks still hot, trying to hide behind her bangs as other students filtered in—some older, in proper robes with polished shoes. Others like her, first-years, recognizable by the gleaming silver trim of their uniforms and the unmistakable puff of padding beneath their skirts or shorts. She wasn’t alone in her treatment, but that didn’t make it better. It just made it harder to pretend.

Then the classroom door creaked open, and a figure entered from the far side of the room—tall, broad-shouldered, and robed in soft greys with accents of opalescent green.

“Good morning, class,” came the voice—calm, clear, and ringing with subtle authority. “Welcome to your first lesson in Practical Gemology.”

He strode toward the center dais with practiced ease, long fingers trailing along the edge of the glowing stones as he passed. When he reached the front, he turned, revealing a sharply angled face, thin spectacles resting low on his nose, and eyes the color of dark glass.

“My name is Professor Corven,” he said. “You’ll refer to me as Professor or Sir. Not Daddy. Not Mister Sparkles. Not—” and here his mouth twitched upward ever so slightly, “—Rock Daddy. And yes, that one has been attempted.”

A few students giggled. Elara didn’t. She stared forward, her hands still clenching the hem of her skirt as Professor Corven’s eyes swept the room.

The room fell into an attentive hush as Professor Corven clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace slowly before the arc of students. The soft glow of the crystals overhead pulsed in subtle rhythm, as if echoing the breath of the room itself. For a moment, Elara forgot about her outfit. She forgot the warmth of the diaper pressed against her. She forgot the bottle, the highchair, and even Selena. Because something about the way Corven spoke—measured, deliberate, utterly assured—cut through the haze of her morning like flint through fog.

“Magic,” he began, “is chaos.”

He let the words linger.

“Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. I mean it in the most literal sense. Raw magic, in its purest form, is volatile, directionless, and impossible to wield with precision. It floods, it cracks, it consumes. Without form, it’s a river with no banks—a storm with no eye. That is why all mages—no matter how talented, no matter how powerful—must rely on focus.”

He raised one hand, and the emerald ring on his finger flared to life with a vibrant glow, casting dancing green light across the polished floor.

“Gemstones,” he said simply. “Focus. Shape. Purpose.”

From beneath his robes, he drew a satchel and began to lay out objects on the broad stone table before him. Notebooks shuffled. Elara leaned forward instinctively, as did many of the other first-years, their puffed uniforms rustling faintly with the motion.

“Each gemstone,” Corven continued, now holding up a glinting red shard no larger than his thumb, “channels a particular wavelength of magic. Think of them as filters. Lenses. They don’t create power—they refine it.”

He turned the ruby slowly between his fingers. It pulsed once, then hovered above his palm, spinning lazily.

“Rubies,” he said, “are associated with the realm of the physical. They sharpen kinetic force, translate intent into movement, and are ideal for students focusing on object manipulation.”

With a subtle motion, Corven flicked his fingers—and the ruby pulsed. Instantly, a chair across the room jerked back two full feet, scraping loudly against the stone. A few students jumped.

“Pushing. Pulling. Lifting. Throwing. You want something to move? Use a ruby.” His eyes glittered. “Or, say… lift something that wasn’t meant to be lifted.”

Another flick—and this time, the ruby drifted subtly toward the first-year row. Elara barely had time to blink before the hem of the skirt belonging to the girl in front of her snapped upward with a dramatic whoosh, revealing a flash of pink plastic.

Gasps followed by laughter. The girl squeaked, yanking her skirt down, her face blazing red.

Professor Corven didn’t even blink. “Control is as important as power. Try something like that in the hallway, and your CG will hear about it. Possibly while you’re being changed.”

Elara flushed in sympathetic embarrassment—but also took furious mental notes. The precision of it. The elegance. It called to her, somewhere beneath the layers of shame she carried.

Next, Corven lifted a slender emerald, its facets long and deep, glinting with internal light that shifted with every angle. Unlike the ruby, this gem pulsed softly, as if it breathed.

“Emeralds,” he said, “are far more dangerous in the hands of the untrained. They channel emotional magic—feelings, urges, instincts. Not only in others, but occasionally in yourselves. They are often paired with bodily regulation spells—appetite, alertness, even… control.”

He let that word settle like a stone in the center of the room.

“Need someone to feel calm during a crisis? Emerald. Need to suppress stage fright? Emerald. Need to make someone laugh, cry, panic, or forget what they were about to say?” He smiled faintly. “Emerald.”

Elara stiffened in her seat, her mind racing back to when Selena had entered their room after the long restless night. To that warm, invasive sensation spreading through her gut. To the way her body had betrayed her—not because she’d let go, but because she’d been made to.

Her eyes narrowed. Selena had worn an emerald ring, hadn’t she?

Professor Corven continued, oblivious to the revelation unfolding behind her eyes. “These two—ruby and emerald—will be your foundations this semester. You will learn how to focus through them, how to blend raw intent with structure, and how to direct your will into the world without unraveling yourself in the process. That last part,” he added dryly, “is more common than you think.”

He gestured, and the gemstones arranged themselves in a perfect arc before him, suspended in midair.

“Other stones—sapphire, obsidian, opal—each with their properties. But those come later. For now, we begin with restraint. With clarity.”

The air in the classroom felt charged now, humming with possibility.

Elara leaned forward, her legs still not quite reaching the ground, the soft crinkle below her skirt a constant reminder of what they were turning her into.

But for the first time since arriving, something sparked inside her chest.

Magic. Real magic.

Professor Corven extended one hand, the ruby ring on his middle finger pulsing with a warm, internal light. He turned slightly, allowing the gathered students a full view of the demonstration table, where a single white feather lay motionless against the polished surface. It looked delicate—insignificant, even—but every eye in the room locked onto it as the energy in the space shifted. Corven’s face was calm, his gaze half-lidded with focus, and then, with a subtle flex of his fingers, the ruby flared.

The feather rose.

Not suddenly. Not dramatically. It lifted like it had simply forgotten to obey gravity, swaying upward on invisible threads until it hovered at eye level, trembling faintly as though sensing the power holding it aloft.

“This,” he said softly, “is precision. Not force. Ruby magic responds best to clear, singular intention. Too much strain and the flow fractures. Too little, and the focus dissolves.”

He held it there for another breath, then slowly lowered it to the table. The ruby’s glow faded. Students leaned forward in their seats, a few clapping quietly.

Corven turned. “Let’s see one of you try. Mei?”

Mei startled in her seat, blinking rapidly behind wide glasses. She had been seated just a few spots down from Elara, small and soft-spoken, her pale blue onesie barely visible beneath her skirt. Her hands twitched nervously as she stood, and she made her way to the table with slow, halting steps, every eye in the room now following her.

Corven offered her the ring. She took it with trembling fingers and slipped it on. It flashed dimly in response.

“Clear your mind,” he instructed gently. “Picture the feather. Nothing else.”

Mei nodded. She closed her eyes. Her lips moved without sound.

The ruby sparked.

For a split second, the feather twitched. A collective breath caught across the classroom.

Then, suddenly, whoosh—Mei’s skirt flipped upward as if yanked by a string, snapping above her waist and hanging there, perfectly frozen in the air.

The room erupted.

Gasps. A few startled laughs. One audible, "Oh no," from the back row. And beneath the lifted skirt, there it was—her diaper, clearly used, unmistakably sagging and faintly yellowed through the sheer material. Mei’s eyes flew open, her cheeks blanching before flooding crimson.

She dropped the ring with a clatter and bolted, her shoes slapping against stone as she burst from the room in a whirl of sobs and shame. The door slammed behind her.

A heavy silence followed.

Corven exhaled. He didn’t even look surprised. “Control,” he said, his voice even, “is everything.”

Then, calmly, he turned his gaze toward Elara.

“Miss Elara,” he said, as if the events of the past minute had not occurred. “You’re next.”

Her heart stuttered.

But somehow, she found herself standing. Her knees wobbled slightly beneath her skirt, the crinkle of her diaper whispering with every step. All eyes were still wide—still buzzing from the spectacle—but the silence stretched as she reached the table. The ruby ring was already waiting, warm with lingering magic.

She slipped it on.

The heat was immediate, soft, steady, like warm sunlight against her skin. The feather sat before her, light as breath. She swallowed hard, closed her eyes, and focused.

Up, she thought. Just that. Not a command. A wish.

The ruby flared.

And the feather rose.

It wasn’t graceful—it wobbled and tilted slightly sideways—but it rose. Elara gasped softly, eyes opening just as it hovered midair, her breath catching in her throat. For a brief moment, joy sparked in her chest.

Then her bladder gave out.

The warmth bloomed low and fast, soaking into her diaper without warning. It was gentle, but unmistakable—her body relaxing at the worst possible moment, control slipping away like water through open fingers. Elara stiffened and horrified, eyes darting around to see if anyone noticed, but no one was looking at her, not really. They were focused on the feather. On the magic.

She forced herself to keep her hands steady.

The feather drifted gently back to the table.

Applause broke out—polite, a little impressed. A few claps. A few nods. Corven inclined his head. “Well done.”

Elara nodded, mouth dry, and made her way back to her seat on stiff legs.

She sat slowly.

The warmth pressed into her again. She flinched.

It was the focus, she told herself. The strain. The magic. That’s why it happened. Not because she was a baby. Not because Selena was right. She was just… concentrating too hard.