Scrap Artists

The air in the Auradon Prep science lab didn't just smell like sulfur; it smelled like the impending loss of Pyra’s scholarship.

Pyra of the Underworld leaned over a workbench, her electric-blue braids tied back with a piece of frayed copper wire. Her orange-gold eyes were narrowed, glowing with a faint, restless light that matched the hum of the device between her hands. It was supposed to be a self-sustaining kinetic battery—something to prove to the faculty that her "Chaos Crafting" was more than just a fancy name for property damage.

"Right wire, blue fire. Left wire... big wire?" Pyra muttered to herself, her scarred fingers dancing over a series of Hextech crystals she’d compressed from her own essence. The crystals pulsed with an unstable indigo light. "Come on, work with me here. If I can just bridge the gap between the magic and the machinery without blowing out the windows again, Fairy Godmother might stop looking at me like I’m a ticking time bomb."

"Is that supposed to be smoking?"

The voice was cheerful, melodic, and entirely too close to her ear.

Pyra jumped, her hand slipping. A spark of blue flame jumped from her thumb into the crystal core. The device didn't just smoke; it began to emit a high-pitched whine that sounded like a tea kettle screaming in terror.

"Probably," Pyra snapped, not looking up as she frantically tried to vent the excess energy. "Depends which wire is melting. And also, who gave you permission to breathe my oxygen?"

"I’m pretty sure the oxygen in the science wing is communal property," the boy replied.

Pyra finally glanced sideways. It was Flynn Fitzherbert. Of course it was. The son of Rapunzel and Eugene was a permanent fixture in the hallways, usually found sketching murals or talking his way out of detention. He was leaning against the table, his chestnut hair perfectly messy and his warm amber eyes filled with genuine curiosity rather than the usual 'oh-god-a-villain-kid' dread.

"Probably?" Flynn repeated, tilting his head at the vibrating gadget.

"Probably," Pyra echoed, her heart hammering against her ribs. When she got nervous, her magic flared, and right now, her palms were starting to smolder. "Look, Prince Charming, you might want to back up. This thing has a fifty-fifty chance of becoming a revolutionary power source or a very expensive paperweight that takes out this entire floor."

Flynn didn't move. In fact, he leaned closer. "Cool."

Pyra paused, her fingers hovering over the glowing crystals. She blinked at him. "...Cool?"

"Yeah," Flynn grinned, his freckles shifting as he smiled. "Most things in this school are designed to be safe and boring. You’re building something that looks like it wants to fight me. I respect that."

Before Pyra could process the fact that someone in Auradon actually liked her brand of disaster, the device reached its breaking point.

*BOOM.*

It wasn't a lethal explosion—Pyra was too good for that—but it was loud. A wave of blue pressure rolled outward, knocking over several beakers and coating both Pyra and Flynn in a fine layer of soot and shimmering magical glitter. The fire alarm began to wail, and the overhead sprinklers hissed to life.

Pyra stood there, drenched, her blue hair plastered to her face. She waited for the lecture. She waited for him to yell, or to run away and tell the Headmistress that the daughter of Hades was a menace.

Flynn wiped a streak of soot from his forehead, looking down at his ruined silk vest. He let out a low whistle. "Okay. So, left wire was definitely the big wire."

Pyra stared at him, her eyes glowing bright orange. "You’re... you’re not going to scream?"

"I’ve spent my life around a woman who can grow twenty feet of hair in a week and a dad who once tried to outrun a palace guard on a horse named Maximus," Flynn said, shaking his head as he laughed. "It takes more than a little blue glitter-bomb to scare me, Pyra."

Pyra opened her mouth to retort, but a small, wet weight suddenly hit her legs.

She looked down to see Wren. The ten-year-old girl was soaked to the bone, her oversized leather jacket—which had once belonged to Pyra—hanging down to her knees. Wren didn't look bothered by the sprinklers. She looked delighted.

The young girl looked up at Pyra and then at the charred remains of the invention. Slowly, she raised her hands, her fingers moving in the fluid motions of sign language.

*Pretty stars,* Wren signed, a wide, gap-toothed grin on her face.

Pyra felt the tension drain out of her shoulders, replaced by a familiar, protective warmth. She reached down and ruffled Wren's damp hair. "Yeah, kid. Real pretty. Also really expensive."

Flynn watched the interaction, his expression softening. He didn't look at Wren with the pity most people did. He didn't look at her like she was a "ward" or a "problem." He looked at her the same way he looked at Pyra: like she was the most interesting thing in the room.

"She’s right, you know," Flynn said softly. "The sparks were blue. Like the stars in the paintings in my mom’s tower."

Pyra felt a flush that had nothing to do with her fire. She turned away, grabbing a rag to wipe down her workbench. "Whatever. Go home, Flynn. I have to clean this up before Fairy Godmother turns me into a pumpkin."

"I'll help," Flynn said, picking up a fallen broom.

"I don't need help," Pyra snapped, her abandonment issues flaring up like a shield. "I’ve been doing things on my own since I was five. I don't need a prince to play hero."

Flynn stopped, leaning on the broom handle. He didn't look offended. He just looked... patient. "I’m not playing hero, Pyra. I just don't have anything better to do, and you look like you could use a friend who doesn't mind a little soot."

He looked at Wren. "What do you think, Tiny? Can I stay?"

Wren looked at Flynn, then at Pyra. She stepped forward and poked Flynn in the stomach, as if testing to see if he was real. Then, she gave a sharp nod and pointed to a pile of scattered gears on the floor.

"See?" Flynn grinned. "The boss says I’m on the clock."

***

The weeks that followed were a blur of confusion for Pyra.

In the Underworld, things were simple. You built things, you avoided the grumpy souls, and you listened to your dad tell you that you were "the brightest spark in the pit." Hades loved her, in his own chaotic, godly way, but he hadn't exactly taught her how to handle a boy who brought her extra copper wiring "just because he saw it in the workshop" or a sister who looked at her with a mixture of longing and resentment.

Mal was the hardest part.

Pyra saw her sister in the courtyard one afternoon, surrounded by the core four. Mal looked perfect—the pink-and-purple princess of Auradon, the girl who had saved the day. When their eyes met, Pyra felt a sharp pang of jealousy. Mal had gotten the freedom, the crown, and the glory.

But then she saw the way Mal’s hand drifted to her necklace when she thought no one was looking. She saw the exhaustion in Mal’s eyes.

"She thinks you hate her," Flynn said, appearing beside Pyra. He was holding two cups of cocoa.

Pyra didn't jump this time. She was getting used to his presence. "I don't hate her. I just... I don't know where I fit. She’s the 'Good Mal' now. What does that make me? The 'Bad Sister'?"

"You're Pyra," Flynn said firmly, handing her a cup. "You're the girl who builds mechanical birds for the kids in the primary school and pretends she didn't do it. You're the girl who protects Wren like a dragon guarding gold. You aren't Mal’s shadow, Pyra. You’re your own fire."

Pyra gripped the warm cup, her scarred fingers tracing the rim. "My dad told me not to let the Isle tell me who I’m supposed to be. But Auradon is just as bad. Everyone wants to 'fix' me, Flynn. They want to turn my blue fire into white light."

"I like the blue," Flynn said simply.

He sat down on the stone bench next to her, pulling out his sketchbook. For a long time, they sat in silence. It wasn't the awkward silence Pyra was used to with other students. It was the kind of silence she usually only shared with Wren—quiet, supportive, and safe.

Pyra watched him draw. His hand moved with a confidence she admired, sketching the way the light hit the fountain in the center of the quad.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked suddenly.

Flynn didn't look up. "Doing what?"

"This. Hanging around me. Learning sign language for Wren. Not running away when I accidentally melt the floorboards. You’re a prince, Flynn. You could be hanging out with people who... I don't know, don't have burn scars and trust issues."

Flynn finally stopped drawing. He turned to her, his amber eyes serious. "My mom was stuck in a tower for eighteen years, Pyra. My dad was a thief who thought he didn't deserve a happy ending. They taught me that the most beautiful things in the world are usually the ones people try to hide away or change."

He reached out, his hand hovering near hers. He didn't grab it—he knew she wasn't ready for that—but he stayed close enough that she could feel his warmth.

"I don't want to fix you," he whispered. "I just want to be there while you figure out who you want to be."

Pyra felt a lump in her throat. She looked away, her eyes glowing a soft, flickering orange. "I’m a disaster, Flynn."

"Yeah," he chuckled, leaning back. "But you’re the most brilliant disaster I’ve ever met."

***

The breaking point came during the Family Day preparations.

The pressure was mounting. The parents were coming, and the tension between the VKs and the Auradon kids was at an all-time high. Pyra had been spending sixteen hours a day in the forge, building a massive, intricate clockwork dragon for the festivities—a peace offering, she told herself.

But her heart wasn't in it. She was worried about Wren.

Wren had been acting strange. The little girl was spending more time hiding in the library, her drawings becoming darker, more frantic. She was terrified that now that Pyra was "becoming a hero," she would be sent back to the foster system or forgotten.

Pyra found her tucked behind a tapestry in the Great Hall, clutching a sketchbook to her chest.

"Hey, Tiny," Pyra said softly, kneeling down. "What’s up?"

Wren didn't look up. Her hands trembled as she signed, *Go away?*

"Go away? Where would I go?" Pyra asked, her heart sinking.

*With the pretty people,* Wren signed, her eyes filling with tears. *Pyra is a star. Stars are in the sky. I am just... dirt.*

Pyra felt a surge of cold anger—not at Wren, but at the world that had made a ten-year-old feel like she was disposable. Her hair began to flicker, a low blue flame licking at the ends of her braids.

"Listen to me, Wren Hart," Pyra said, her voice low and fierce. "I am not going anywhere. You are not dirt. You are the person who saw my 'stars' when everyone else saw a fire hazard. We’re a team. You, me, and..." she hesitated, "and maybe the annoying prince with the sketchbook."

Wren looked up, a small sniffle escaping her.

Pyra pulled a small, glowing crystal from her pocket. It was a Hextech piece she’d been working on—a light that never went out. She placed it in Wren’s hand. "This is a piece of me. As long as this is glowing, I’m right here. Okay?"

Wren gripped the crystal, its blue light reflecting in her dark eyes. Slowly, she leaned forward and tucked her head under Pyra’s chin.

"I promise," Pyra whispered into her hair. "I’d burn this whole kingdom down before I let them take you."

"That sounds a bit dramatic, don't you think?"

Pyra looked up to see Mal standing at the end of the hallway. Her sister looked hesitant, her arms crossed over her chest.

"It’s a figure of speech," Pyra snapped, though she didn't move Wren.

Mal walked closer, her eyes softening as she looked at the two of them. "Is it? Because when I said it, I usually meant it."

Pyra felt a flicker of common ground. "Dad always said I had his temper."

"He told me I had Mom's eyes," Mal said, a bitter smile touching her lips. "I think you got the better deal."

Mal sat down on the floor, a few feet away. For the first time, she didn't look like the Queen of Auradon. She just looked like a girl who missed her father.

"He really loves you, doesn't he?" Mal asked quietly.

Pyra nodded. "He’s a terrible parent, Mal. He let me eat cereal with a blowtorch and he encouraged me to build explosives. But... he never tried to make me anything I wasn't."

Mal looked at her lap. "I spent so long hating him for leaving. Then I saw you arrive, and I hated you because he stayed for you."

"He didn't stay for me," Pyra said, her voice softening. "He was trapped, Mal. He wanted to find you. He told me stories about you every night. He called you his 'little spark.'"

Mal’s breath hitched. She looked at Pyra, and for the first time, the wall between them cracked.

"We’re a mess, aren't we?" Mal laughed shakily.

"A total disaster," Pyra agreed.

Wren looked between the two sisters, then reached out and grabbed Mal’s hand, pulling her into the circle. Mal froze, then slowly closed her fingers around the little girl’s hand.

In the shadows of the Great Hall, the three of them sat together—the Queen, the Inventor, and the Menace.

"Hey, Pyra?" Mal said after a moment.

"Yeah?"

"Don't burn the kingdom down. I just got the drapes replaced."

Pyra grinned, her orange eyes glowing with a warmth that had nothing to do with destruction. "No promises, Mal. No promises."

As the sun began to set over Auradon, casting long shadows across the stone floor, Pyra realized that for the first time in her life, she wasn't waiting for the other shoe to drop. She wasn't waiting to be abandoned or fixed.

She looked at the glowing crystal in Wren's hand, then at her sister, and finally at the doorway where she knew Flynn was probably waiting with a sketchbook and a bad joke.

She wasn't just a VK. She wasn't just Hades' daughter.

She was Pyra. And for the first time, that was exactly who she wanted to be.