Summer's over.
The school gates stand open, iron bars warm under the sun. People funnel through in loose groups, voices bouncing off concrete. Someone calls my name; I lift a hand in greeting without slowing down. It's the first day—everyone's half-awake, half-annoyed, pretending they aren't.
Inside, lockers slam. Shoes squeak across polished floors. The air smells faintly of cleaner and dust baked in over the years.
We're herded into the courtyard. The head teacher starts talking. I catch the important part—when to line up, when to leave—and let the rest pass. Around me, people shift their weight, check their phones, murmur to each other.
Then I see her.
Just for a second. A familiar shape cutting across the crowd.
My focus snaps sharp.
No. That's not—
"Kael, you're blocking the line."
Someone nudges my shoulder lightly. I step forward, glance back.
She's gone.
I exhale through my nose. Probably nothing. First day's always like this—too many faces, too much movement.
The class lists are taped to the wall near the entrance. I stop with a few others and scan down the page. Same names as usual. A couple of people comment on schedules, someone complains about a teacher.
Then I see it.
Her name.
I turn.
Aria Harper.
It takes a second to place her fully. She's taller than I remember, posture easy, eyes sharp as they move across the paper.
"You're in this class," I say.
She looks at me.
For a beat, there's nothing. Then her eyes widen slightly.
"…Kael?"
"Yeah."
She smiles. "Didn't expect to see you here."
"Same."
The bell rings, cutting off whatever comes next. People start moving again.
"Guess that settles it," she says, tapping the list. "Same class."
"Looks like it."
The morning goes by cleanly. Teachers introduce themselves. Rules get read off. I answer a question or two, exchange comments with people around me. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Aria sits a few seats away. When there's time, we talk quietly—where we ended up, what we're doing now. Broad strokes. No digging. It fits easily enough, like picking up a conversation that was paused, not ended.
At lunch, we sit together. The cafeteria is loud, crowded, full of motion. A few people glance our way, curious but not nosy. Someone calls out a joke at me from another table; I shoot one back. Aria watches, amused.
"You haven't changed much," she says.
"Depends who you ask."
She smiles, but there's a flicker of something else there. Gone before I can pin it down.
PE comes later.
The gym smells the same as ever—wood, sweat, varnish. Sunlight pours through the high windows, cutting the floor into long bright strips. Most people drift toward the usual equipment.
Aria stops short when she spots the boxing gear stacked against the wall.
"They still have this stuff?" she asks.
"Yeah. Nobody really touches it."
She's already reaching for gloves. "Then that's a waste."
I hesitate, then grab a pair myself.
We face each other on the mat. She rolls her shoulders once, settles her stance.
Something about it feels off.
"Whenever you're ready," I say.
She moves first.
Fast. Clean.
The first hit snaps my attention into place. The second forces me back a step. She's not swinging wildly—every movement is measured, controlled.
I adjust, try to read her timing. Feint, step in—
She slips past me and taps my chest.
The impact knocks the breath out of me, and I hit the mat harder than I expect.
Laughter and cheers ripple through the gym. Someone whistles. I sit up, rubbing my chest, grinning despite myself.
"Okay," I say. "Did not expect that."
Aria offers a hand. I take it, and she pulls me up without effort.
"You alright?" she asks.
"Yeah, how are you so strong?"
She shrugs. "Guess I practiced a lot."
There's more behind the words.
She doesn't say it.
By the time the final bell rings, she's gone.
I look for her in the hallway. Don't spot her. I text her once while heading out.
No reply.
Outside, the sun's already low, painting the buildings in orange. Cicadas buzz in the heat. I start home, hands in my pockets, letting the day settle.
Halfway there—
"Hey… wait. Please."
I stop.
The voice is faint. Strained.
Then it comes again.
I run.
The forest closes in fast. Branches scrape my arms. Leaves crunch underfoot. The air cools as the canopy thickens, light thinning into pale streaks between the trees.
I break into a clearing.
A circle is burned into the dirt.
Eight jagged crystals are driven into the ground around it, pale light pulsing between them. Something thrashes at the center—black wings beating against invisible restraints.
Too large to be a bat.
Too wrong to be anything else.
Every instinct tells me to turn around.
Then—
"Kael…"
The voice is human.
Familiar.
My blood goes cold.
The voice came from the creature.