"Man… do you really believe Rayden has no power?" Luis leaned forward, resting his hand on his chin, eyes half-closed as if weighing something heavy in his head. "Last night, I saw him training. Alone. Like he was trying to summon something… or reach something. Then the ground cracked beneath him. Like it couldn't hold whatever was inside him. I don't know, man. I doubt he's as weak as they say."
Rubby stepped forward with a lazy sway in his step, lifting his hand like he was about to throw shade at a party. "Boi, chill," he said, half-laughing. "Why should we care? If he's strong and hiding it, then maybe he's got a reason. Not everybody wanna show off."
The three of them plopped down on the bed, ignoring the work they were supposed to be doing with the rest of the squad. A quiet tension sat between them—like they were trying to make sense of a puzzle they weren't ready to admit was real.
Then the door opened with a soft creak.
Rayden stood there, freshly back from the infirmary. His uniform was rumpled, and his steps were slow, like each one took more effort than it should have.
"Man, how you feelin' now?" Troy asked, pulling a face like he could feel Rayden's pain just by looking at him.
Rayden smiled faintly, not with joy, but with something else—something older, like he'd smiled through worse before. The small plaster on his nose peeled off and floated to the floor, revealing the crooked mess underneath.
Luis stepped back, eyes wide. "What the f*ck… boi, your nose— it's…"
"I know," Rayden said, voice quiet. "It's fine. I've been through worse. Back in school, I used to get bullied so much I forgot what normal even looked like. Thanks though. I just need to rest now… we got class tomorrow."
He walked to his bed, not looking at any of them too closely, like he wasn't sure if kindness was something he could trust yet.
Troy raised his voice a bit, "Hey, almost forgot. The principal came by earlier—he was lookin' for you."
Rayden stopped mid-step. His back stiffened. "Me?" he asked, turning slowly. "Why?"
Troy shrugged, glancing at the others. "No idea. But he left a message. Said… 'Not all power looks like power. But all truth eventually demands a price.'Wait, what–did you, like, do something wrong or what?"
Rayden's face tightened. His eyes dropped to the floor, and he repeated the words under his breath. Over and over. Like a prayer or a curse he didn't understand yet. Without another word, he turned and rushed out the door, leaving them all behind in a room thick with questions.
They watched him go.
"What the hell does that even mean?" Luis asked, arms crossed, brows furrowed. "Sounds like some prophecy or riddle."
Troy shook his head. "Feels like a warning to me. Or a test."
Meanwhile, Rayden was running down the corridor, heart pounding with something he couldn't name. Confusion. Hope. Maybe even fear. His mind kept spinning with those words, trying to find sense in them.
'Not all power looks like power. But all truth… eventually demands a price.'
When he reached the principal's office, he didn't hesitate.
Knock. Knock.
A pause. Then the voice from inside: "Come in."
Rayden stepped inside quickly, breathing hard. He stood straight, though his hands were tense at his sides.
Principal Thorne sat behind his wide desk, face unreadable. His posture sharp. Eyes cold.
"Rayden Ashen," the principal said, voice low and firm. "How may I help you?"
Rayden flinched slightly at the sound of his full name. Not many people used it. Not unless they meant something. Still, he brushed the feeling aside and stepped forward.
"I… I got your message, sir. You came to my room and left a message with my dormmates. You said, 'Not all power looks like power. But all truth eventually demands a price.' I— I just wanted to understand what that meant."
He tried to smile, to seem calm, but it came out nervous and unsure. The principal's expression shifted, just barely, like something behind his eyes cracked.
"Me?" Thorne asked, voice slow, almost mocking. "I never came to see you."
Rayden blinked. "But… sir, you told Luis and the others—"
Thorne's hand slammed against the desk. "I said it wasn't me! Why would I waste my time on someone with nothing? Get out!"
Rayden stepped back, heart racing, face flushing in shame and confusion. He turned slowly toward the door, jaw clenched. He had barely touched the handle when Thorne spoke again.
"Rayden."
He turned, hope flickering again in his chest.
"You don't belong in Class 1A. Starting tomorrow, you're assigned to Class 2B. Now leave."
Rayden stood frozen for a second too long, then nodded slowly and opened the door.
The hallway outside felt colder now.
Inside the office, Thorne sat back down, mumbling under his breath.
"Me? Go find him? Motivate him? With some cryptic riddle?" He scoffed. "I don't talk like that…"
He paused, eyes narrowing. Something tickled the back of his mind. The words. The exact phrasing. It scratched like a whisper behind a locked door.
'Not all power looks like power. But all truth eventually demands a price…'
He stood up slowly. A memory clawed its way to the surface.
"I've heard that before," he said to no one. "It wasn't mine. It was…"
His eyes widened. The blood drained from his face.
"That line… it belonged to her."
He whispered her name like it hurt to say it.
'Dread mother of the veil, lady Veyra Nocthallow'
He clutched the edge of his desk, his knuckles white.
"She's back."
The lights began to flicker—first soft, like a nervous breath, then sharp, like the room itself was trying to blink away what was coming. The ceiling fan above started to spin faster, whining low like it could sense the change in air. Principal Thorne stood there, not a muscle twitching, not a step back. If anything, he looked bored.
He raised his hand.
One palm glowed with a low, steady fire. The other cracked into frost.
"Ha…" His voice was deep, low, filled with a kind of mockery that comes from a man who's seen too much and thinks too little of it. "So it's you. Lady Veyra... or should I say—Veyra Ashen."
His eyes narrowed. A faint smirk pulled at the edge of his mouth.
"It's been years, hasn't it? I thought you were dead, rotting somewhere like your cursed husband. But here you are, haunting me. Let me guess—this is about your grandson, isn't it?" He chuckled. "Rayden. That pathetic boy. Quiet, weak, afraid of his own shadow. You came all this way for him?"
He stepped forward, the flames on his hand rising a little, the cold on the other biting the air around it.
"Don't play games with me, Veyra. I know everything. Everything. I know who that boy really is. Second child of Damon Ashen, your blood, your burden. I watched him grow under my nose, pretending to be ordinary. But he'll fail. Just like the first one did. Just like Karl."
He laughed again—sharp, cruel, empty.
Then the lights flicked one final time... and cut out completely.
Dark.
Dead dark.
The fan gave one last creak and stopped mid-spin.
Then a sound.
A low, aching moan, deep and unnatural, dragged across the room like a breath from a grave.
"Haaaaaa—!"
It wasn't just a noise. It moved. It pressed against the walls, pressed against Thorne's chest like something trying to crawl inside.
He still didn't flinch.
The air grew cold. The walls felt closer. Then, in an instant, the ceiling light exploded in a flash of white. Shards rained down.
The room was black again.
For a second—just one—he let his bravado slip.
"What…"
Before the word could finish, something unseen grabbed him by the chest—lifted him like a child would a doll—and slammed him down against the floorboards hard enough that the sound cracked through the office.
His breath hitched.
He tried to rise, pride screaming louder than pain. But he couldn't move. Something else was there now.
And for the first time in years, Principal Thorne looked afraid.
"…Wait—" he gasped.