A group of students had gathered in a tight circle. I recognized the layout immediately. It was the same formation wolves used when they cornered a deer.
In the center stood Lyra.
She was the anomaly of our year. She wasn't Unblessed like me. In fact, she had received a [Class: Acolyte of Light]—a Rare-tier Holy Blessing. It was the kind of power usually reserved for the High Nobility or the ancient magical families. She could heal wounds with a touch and purify water with a glance.
But she didn't have a family name.
The rumors were vicious. Some said she was the bastard child of a Duke who had stepped out on his wife. Others whispered she was the daughter of a Witch who stole a blessing from the gods.
Because of that, she was stuck here, in Commoner School. Even with a powerful class, the Imperial Academy wouldn't touch her. To get into the Academy, you needed a Patron—a noble sponsor to vouch for your bloodline. Lyra had no one. She was a powerhouse with no plug.
Right now, she looked anything but powerful. She was holding a tin box painted with bright flowers, her knuckles white against the metal.
Standing opposite her was Clara.
Clara was technically a student at the Commoner School, but everyone knew her family had bought a minor title recently. She had received a [Class: Scribe] blessing. It was a non-combat utility class, basically a glorified secretary, but it came with a title, and that made her feel like royalty.
"I... I just thought..." Lyra stammered, her voice barely a whisper. She held the tin box out a little further. "It's the start of the term. I baked them myself."
"You thought?" Clara laughed, a high, cruel sound that silenced the immediate area. She looked at the tin box like it was filled with poison.
Clara took a step forward, smoothing her pristine skirt. She stared directly into Lyra's eyes.
"You thought we would want to eat something made by... you?" Clara sneered. She looked around at her friends for validation. "It doesn't matter how much you wash your hands, Lyra. We all know where you come from. Or rather, we know that nobody knows where you come from."
"They're just chocolate chip," Lyra whispered, shrinking back.
"It's bastard food," Clara stated, her voice dripping with venom. "And my mother says bad blood is contagious. We don't want your witch-cursed cookies."
Lyra flinched. She started to lower the box, defeated.
But Clara wasn't done. She swung her hand in a sharp, dismissive arc.
Smack.
Her palm connected with the side of the tin box.
The lid flew off.
Dozens of cookies exploded outward, scattering across the dirty wooden floorboards. They crumbled on impact, turning into a mess of crumbs and chocolate.
The room went dead silent.
Lyra stood there, her hands still raised, holding nothing but empty air. She looked down at the ruined food, then up at Clara. A tear leaked out.
"Oops," Clara said, smiling without an ounce of regret. She dusted her hands off, as if touching the box had contaminated her. "Looks like they belong on the floor anyway. Just like your chances of getting a Patron."
The silence stretched. It was heavy, awkward, and cruel.
Clara stood there with her hands on her hips, waiting for applause that wasn't coming. Lyra was trembling, looking at the floor like she wanted it to open up and swallow her whole.
My brain screamed at me. Stay in the seat, Adam. Stay invisible. You have a smuggling ring to investigate. But then I looked at Lyra's face. It was the same look I had yesterday when I was lying in the dirt with Gareth standing over me. The look of someone who believes they deserve the pain.
"Dammit," I whispered. I stood up. The scrape of my chair against the floorboards sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.
Heads turned. "Is that Adam Reed?" I heard a girl whisper from the row ahead. "He's unnervingly quiet... but have you seen his eyes? And that jawline?" another girl murmured, twirling a lock of hair. "It's a shame he's Unblessed. He's arguably the best-looking guy in the year." "Shh, he's walking over there." I ignored the whispers. I was used to them.
Being "handsome" was my only consolation prize from the genetic lottery. It didn't give me fireballs, but it did make people hesitate before punching me.
I walked straight into the center of the circle. I didn't look at Clara. I didn't acknowledge her "Scribe" nobility or her expensive dress. To me, she was just an obstacle in the line of sight.
I stopped in front of Lyra. She flinched when she saw my boots, expecting another kick. Instead, I knelt down. I reached out and picked up a cookie that had landed on a napkin, mostly intact.
I dusted it off. "Chocolate chip?" I asked, looking up at her. Lyra blinked, her golden eyes wide with shock. "I... yes. But—" I took a bite. It was good. Really good. Soft, chewy, with actual expensive chocolate, not the waxy stuff we bought in the slums. "Damn," I said, chewing slowly. "That is top tier. You used real butter, didn't you?" I stood up, finishing the cookie in two bites.
I licked a crumb off my thumb. "Lyra, if you're throwing these away, I'll take the whole batch. My breakfast was stale bread." Lyra's face turned a bright, luminescent pink. "You... you liked it?" "I loved it." I turned to Clara finally.
Clara looked furious. The fact that the "hot quiet guy" was ignoring her to flirt with the outcast was short-circuiting her brain. "Ew," Clara sneered, wrinkling her nose. "You're eating floor food, Adam? I knew the Reeds were poor, but I didn't know you were scavengers."
I stepped into her space. Not aggressively, just confidently. I used the height difference.
I looked down at her with a bored, half-lidded expression. "And I knew the Millers were 'New Money,'" I said smoothly, my voice low enough that the girls around us had to lean in to hear. "But I didn't know you were insecure enough to be threatened by a cookie, Clara."
The class gasped. A few girls giggled. Clara's face went from pale to beet red. "I am not—" "It's not a good look on you," I interrupted, giving her a pitying smile.
Clara opened her mouth to scream, to curse, to do something—but the door slammed open. "Everyone in your seats! Now!" Mr. Halloway bustled in. He looked flustered, sweating slightly.
He was hugging the heavy leather satchel to his chest with both arms.
The drama evaporated instantly. Clara shot me a look of pure hatred, spun on her heel, and stomped back to her desk. I winked at Lyra—who looked like she was about to pass out from a mix of embarrassment and gratitude—and walked back to my seat in the back row.
"Thank you," she mouthed silently as I sat down. I just nodded. "Alright, settle down, settle down," Halloway commanded, his voice unusually high-pitched.
He marched to his desk and set the leather satchel down. Thunk. It hit the wood with a heavy, metallic sound. That wasn't books. That was glass and liquid. "Today," Halloway said, wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, "we are discussing... catalysts."
He began to fiddle with the buckles of the bag. Suddenly, my pocket grew warm. I frowned. I reached down and touched the fabric of my trousers. The Whisper Stone. It wasn't just vibrating.
It was buzzing. Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz. "Catalysts," Halloway continued, his hands shaking slightly as he undid the first buckle, "are substances that accelerate a reaction."
The stone got hotter. It felt like a fresh coal against my thigh. BZZZZZZZ. I sat up straighter. The stone only reacted to unstable magic.
Volatile magic. Halloway opened the flap of the bag. He pulled out a glass vial. It wasn't a standard alchemical reagent. It was a vial of swirling, glowing purple liquid.
The exact same shade I had seen leaking in the baker's cellar. Military Grade Ether. The stone in my pocket felt like it was going to burn a hole through my leg. I hissed, shifting in my seat to pull it away from my skin. "This," Halloway said, holding the vial up to the light, a strange, frantic gleam in his eyes, "is raw energy. Pure potential."
My heart hammered against my ribs. That wasn't a teaching prop. That was a bomb. A single vial of that stuff could blow a hole in a stone wall. And he had a whole bag of it. Why did a History teacher have a bag full of explosives? And then I saw it.
Halloway wasn't looking at the class.
He was looking at the door. He kept glancing at the clock. He wasn't teaching. He was waiting. He was a mule. He was making a drop. And he was using the school—using us—as his cover. "Sir?" I called out, my voice sharp.
Halloway jumped, nearly dropping the vial. "Mr. Reed! Do not interrupt!" "Is that... safe?" I asked, standing up slowly.
My hand drifted to my belt, wishing I had my spear. "That looks like Ether, sir." The class turned to look at me. "Ether?" someone whispered. "Isn't that illegal?" Halloway's eyes went wide.
The friendly, bumbling teacher mask slipped for a second, revealing sheer panic. "It is a... a diluted sample!" Halloway stammered. "For educational purposes! Sit down, Adam!" The stone in my pocket gave one final, violent jolt.
CRACK.
The sound didn't come from the vial. It came from the window. Glass shattered inward. A black canister, hissing with smoke, flew through the broken window and rolled across the classroom floor. "Flashbang!" I screamed, diving under my desk.
BOOM.