The room smelled of wax and alcohol.

  Too much of both.

  A single lamp burned low, its light catching on white sheets and cold stone.

  A body lay on the slab. Still. Unmarked.

  The kind of stillness that did not belong to sleep.

  Beside it, a narrow strip of dull silver rested on the table — scarred, cut down from something once whole. It bore faint traces along its surface, like fingerprints that refused to fade.

  The man did not touch it yet.

  He stood at the body’s side, fingers pressed carefully to the neck.

  Not in comfort.

  Not in farewell.

  In measurement.

  He closed his eyes.

  Quanta stirred — thin at first, then drawn deeper, coaxed out with practiced restraint. It slid through his veins and into his hand, sinking beneath skin that no longer responded.

  Nothing happened.

  His jaw tightened.

  He pushed harder. Precise. Surgical. The way he’d been taught. The way he’d taught himself when no one was watching.

  The air grew tight. The lamp flickered. Sweat gathered at his hairline as he fed more into the contact, ignoring the dull ache blooming behind his eyes.

  Still nothing.

  The flow broke.

  He staggered back a half-step, breath uneven, wiping his brow with the back of his ink-stained sleeve. His hand trembled faintly.

  Slowly, he reached for the alloy.

  The moment his fingers brushed it, the pull was immediate — greedy, absolute. No hesitation. No balance.

  It drank everything it touched.

  That alone told him enough.

  He tested it anyway.

  Once.

  Twice.

  The result did not change.

  By the third attempt, sweat beaded at his temple. His hands shook now, gaze fixed on the table as if staring harder might force the truth to surface.

  Then his knees gave out.

  He sank to the floor beside the slab, breath uneven, vision blurring at the edges.

  From the far end of the room, the girl slid off the table she’d been sitting on. Her boots touched stone without a sound. She leaned in, red hair slipping loose over one shoulder as she studied his face.

  “You alright?” she asked quietly.

  He nodded once.

  “Better than the last attempt?”

  He didn’t answer right away. Then, softly, “Different.”

  Her gaze flicked from the alloy to the body. Understanding passed between them — unspoken, unwelcome.

  She tilted her head, considering. “You could—”

  “No.”

  The word cut clean. Immediate. Final.

  She blinked, more startled by the speed than the answer. “I didn’t even say—”

  “No,” he repeated, turning to face her fully now. His eyes were tired. Focused. Unmoving.

  “Not on living people. Not with something I don’t understand.”

  She searched his face, then huffed softly. “Worth asking.”

  “It wasn’t,” he said, and for once there was no humor to soften it.

  “Did it work, though?” she asked instead.

  He looked back at the body, then shook his head.

  “I still don’t know what it’s doing,” he said. “Or why.”

  She exhaled, sharp but not surprised. “Then we should go,” she said, already reaching for his arm. “Before someone notices.”

  He let her pull him upright.

  The lamp was extinguished.

  Together, they stepped into the underground passage, their footsteps swallowed by the dark beneath the gravestones.

  Outside, the path vanished quickly into the pines.

  Morning came pale and sharp, the kind that made stone look too honest.

  Two figures stood before the iron gates.

  Both were middle-aged, dressed in formal traveling attire — dark coats, polished boots, the kind of clothes meant to command cooperation without ever raising a voice. A carriage waited a short distance behind them, its driver perched atop the seat, reins loose in his hands.

  The man tilted his head, studying the towering gates and the academy crest wrought into the metal.

  “Is this the school?” he asked, without looking away.

  The driver squinted up at the sign. “That’d be Elkington Academy, sir. Ain’t it?”

  The man frowned. “No, I said—”

  “Wait,” the woman cut in.

  She stepped closer to the gate, eyes narrowing slightly as she took in the grounds beyond. Manicured hedges. Stone paths. Buildings set back just far enough to feel deliberate.

  “Elkington,” she said. “Registered. Accredited. And somehow absent from every inspection rota.”

  The man finally turned to her.

  “Exactly. I’ve checked the district twice. We’re scheduled to inspect Clearwater Academy, not this place.”

  “And yet,” she said mildly, “here we are.”

  They exchanged a look — not alarmed, not curious. Assessing.

  “Well,” the woman said at last, already reaching for the gate. “Let’s see what kind of school forgets to exist on paper.”

  Garrett was in the front yard near the gates, arguing with a topiary.

  “Well?” he snapped quietly, hands on his hips. “Are you a swan or are you an insult to horticulture?”

  The gardener shifted uncomfortably. “Sir, it’s meant to be abstract.”

  Garrett pressed his palm to his forehead.

  That was when two shadows fell across the stone.

  He turned — and froze.

  Two strangers stood at the yard’s edge, impeccably dressed, their expressions pleasant in the way that meant trouble.

  “We’d like to speak with the headmaster of this institution,” the man said.

  Garrett’s smile snapped into place on instinct.

  “That would be me. Welcome to Elkington. May I ask—”

  “We’re here to inspect the school,” the woman said, already looking past him at the buildings, the students crossing the grounds, the sheer scale of it all.

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  Garrett’s mind went blank.

  Then it started running.

  Inspect.

  The word hit him so hard his ears rang.

  An inspection? Here?

  That wasn’t possible.

  There was never supposed to be an inspection.

  That procedure was for normal schools.

  Elkington was the absolute exception.

  The Crown had seen to that.

  “There must be some misunderstanding—” Garrett began.

  The woman reached into her coat and produced a small, enamelled badge. Plain. Official. Unremarkable to anyone who didn’t know what it meant.

  “We’re authorized,” she said evenly. “By the Registry. Any accredited school may be inspected without prior notice.”

  Any school except this one, Garrett’s mind supplied.

  The badge had to be broad.

  If it weren’t—if Elkington were the only exception—it would raise questions.

  Questions normies weren’t meant to ask.

  And questions Garrett had never expected to answer.

  For half a heartbeat, instinct flared sharp and desperate.

  I need to contact Ironhart.

  He crushed the thought immediately.

  Even if a message went out now—

  Even if someone answered at once—

  It would take time.

  Time he did not have.

  Garrett inhaled once, then smiled.

  “Inspect?” he repeated aloud, smoothly, as if the word amused him. “How… unexpected.”

  The man returned the smile.

  “So we’ve been told.”

  Garrett laughed — a short, polite sound. “Of course. We’re happy to cooperate. Naturally. It’s just that…” He spread his hands apologetically. “Some of our paperwork is… undergoing reorganization.”

  The woman’s gaze sharpened. “Reorganization.”

  “Yes,” Garrett said, leaning into it. “Curriculum updates. Staffing records. Staffing rotations. Tedious things. I’d hate for you to receive incomplete information.”

  The inspectors exchanged a look.

  “How long?” the man asked.

  Garrett swallowed.

  “Three days.”

  So I can contact the Crown and stop all this.

  The woman didn’t blink.

  “One day.”

  The silence that followed was thin and dangerous, like ice about to crack.

  Garrett held it for a heartbeat—then nodded, though his knees nearly gave out.

  “Very well,” he said smoothly. “Tomorrow, then.”

  The man closed his ledger with a soft snap. “Fine. We’ll proceed with our scheduled inspection first.”

  Garrett’s pulse jumped.

  “Clearwater Academy,” the man continued. “It is on the list.”

  The woman turned her head slightly, studying Garrett again. “You wouldn’t happen to know the way, Headmaster…?”

  “Oh. Of course,” Garrett said immediately. Too immediately. “I’d be happy to show you.”

  He was already moving. Far too eager.

  He all but herded them toward the front gates, smiling with the bright intensity of a man escorting explosions away from a crowded room.

  “I’ll have a carriage brought around,” he added, clapping his hands once. “No need for you to walk. The roads can be… confusing.”

  The woman arched a brow. “Can they?”

  “Oh, terribly,” Garrett replied. “Twists. Turns. Very easy to get lost.”

  The carriage arrived with impressive speed.

  Garrett opened the door himself.

  “Clearwater Academy is just down the road,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll have the driver take you straight there.”

  The man stepped inside, still watching him. “You’re very accommodating.”

  Garrett smiled.

  “I take hospitality quite seriously.”

  The door shut. The carriage rolled away.

  Garrett didn’t relax until it vanished beyond the trees.

  One day, he thought grimly.

  That’s all we have.

  He was halfway across the courtyard before the gardener heard him mutter:

  “Ermin is going to kill me.”

  Ermin had finally achieved silence.

  Not peace — that was unrealistic — but silence.

  The classroom was settled. Pens scratched. Pages turned. Even the Pines had stopped vibrating at a frequency detectable by animals.

  Ermin inhaled.

  “This,” he said, turning back to the board, “is the proper circulation pattern for controlled channeling. If you interrupt the flow—”

  Trey’s hand shot up.

  “No.” Ermin said without looking.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You have been saying nonsense for half the class.”

  A few students snickered.

  Ermin pressed on. “As I was saying—”

  The door slammed open.

  Not knocked.

  Not politely opened.

  Slamming was a choice.

  Ermin closed his eyes in surrender.

  Garrett strode in, cloak doing that dramatic thing it always did when he was in a bad mood.

  Every head turned.

  “Hi, Headmaster!” someone chirped.

  “Good morning, sir!” another added, far too cheerfully.

  Garrett nodded but did not slow.

  He crossed the room in long strides, seized Ermin by the sleeve, and hauled him bodily toward the corner.

  Ermin let himself be dragged, already tired.

  “I wasn’t actually teaching anything today anyway.”

  “Inspectors,” Garrett hissed.

  Ermin froze.

  “…What?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Silence hit harder than Garrett’s entrance.

  Ermin stared at him. “That’s not possible.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “They don’t inspect this school.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “They only inspect normal schools.”

  “I am painfully aware.”

  Ermin blinked. “How?”

  “Not now.”

  “Why?”

  Garrett’s eyes snapped. “This is not the time to ask. Think.”

  Ermin exhaled slowly. “Why are you telling me? You’re the headmaster.”

  Garrett gestured sharply back toward the classroom.

  “Because you,” he said flatly, “deal with chaos every day.”

  His gaze flicked — deliberately — to Trey, who had leaned halfway out of his seat to eavesdrop.

  “And because if anyone knows how to control that,” Garrett continued, “it’s you.”

  Ermin followed the look. Winced. “That’s not control. That’s containment.”

  “Then contain harder.”

  Ermin folded his arms, mind already working. “…Whaf if we pretend we’re normal?”

  Garrett nodded once. “Go on.”

  “We cancel anything suspicious. No Quanta displays. No enhanced training. No weapons where they can be seen. We act.”

  Garrett’s jaw tightened. “Act how?”

  “Like a normal school,” Ermin said grimly. “Boring lessons. Harmless subjects. No glowing. No training.”

  Garrett nodded. “Right.”

  “The hardest part is telling students not to—”

  “Especially you, Ermin.” Garrett snorted. Tame yours.”

  “My—”

  “The Pines,” Garrett cut in. “Your chaos. Your responsibility. I don’t care how you do it. Lecture them. Threaten them. Sit on them if you have to.”

  His jaw clenched.

  “And if one of them so much as breathes Quanta while those inspectors are here—”

  He stopped himself. Drew a slow, controlled breath.

  Then finished, quiet and absolute.

  “Hit them. I will back you.”

  Ermin studied his face for a long moment.

  “…You’re serious.”

  “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

  Ermin sighed. “Fine.”

  “I need an emergency meeting,” Garrett said. “Main hall. Now. The whole school.”

  “…I don’t—”

  “We don’t have time for I don’t,” Garrett cut in. “Your medium is stone. The buildings are stone. Use it.”

  Ermin raked a hand through his hair.

  “I do not project sound,” he said flatly. “That’s not my specialty.”

  Garrett leaned closer, voice deadly calm. “Then learn.”

  Ermin sighed — the long, defeated sigh of a man about to embarrass himself in front of several hundred students.

  He turned back toward the classroom.

  “Remain seated,” he said automatically.

  No one moved.

  Ermin walked to the nearest wall, placed his palm against the cool stone, and closed his eyes.

  He drew in a breath and pushed.

  His voice echoed out—

  —or tried to.

  The sound warped, pitched strangely, then vanished halfway through the room like it had fallen down a hole.

  Silence.

  Then a few students coughed. Someone bit back a laugh.

  Ermin opened one eye.

  “Shut it, I don’t normally project sound.”

  Trey, never missing an opportunity, said cheerfully. “We can see that, sir.”

  Ermin inhaled again. Slower. Deeper.

  He grounded the flow.

  When he spoke again, his voice didn’t shout.

  It spread.

  Low. Clear. Everywhere at once.

  “All classes are dismissed. Emergency meeting at the main hall.”

  Heads snapped up across the room.

  “All staff. All students. Now.”

  The stone beneath their feet thrummed faintly, the sound rolling outward through halls and stairwells, up walls and down corridors.

  “I repeat,” he said, voice steady now, unmistakable. “Emergency meeting. Immediately.”

  The resonance faded.

  For half a second, no one moved.

  Ermin withdrew his hand, voice returning to its normal register.

  “Questions,” he said mildly, “about projection?”

  Even Pine Hollow stayed quiet.