Chapter 1: Dragons Descend
The evening air hung still and peaceful, painted in the soft amber hues of a dying sun that cast long shadows across the empty parking lot. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves of the old oak trees that had stood sentinel over the school grounds for decades, their branches swaying in a hypnotic rhythm that seemed to whisper secrets of years gone by. Scattered clouds drifted lazily across the darkening sky like cotton balls pulled apart by invisible hands, their edges tinged with gold and crimson as the last rays of sunlight filtered through them.
The red brick facade of Jefferson High School stood unchanged from the memories of those who had walked its halls years before, though time had weathered its surfaces and ivy now crept up the eastern wall in verdant tendrils. Tonight, however, the building pulsed with life and laughter as warm yellow light spilled from the windows of the main gymnasium, where a reunion was in full swing. Cars filled the parking lot in haphazard rows of sedans, SUVs and pickup trucks bearing the accumulated dust and wear of adult lives lived in the years since graduation. Hand-painted signs with cheerful arrows pointed toward the entrance, their bright colors declaring "Class of 2010 Reunion This Way!" in bold, welcoming letters.
Inside the converted gymnasium, the sounds of celebration echoed off the high ceilings. Conversations flowed like wine, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional shriek of recognition as old friends spotted each other across the crowded room. A DJ booth had been set up near the far wall, pumping out a carefully curated playlist of hits from their high school years, songs that instantly transported the gathered adults back to simpler times when their biggest concerns were final exams and prom dates. Tables draped in the school colors of blue and gold dotted the space, laden with name tags, yearbooks and photo displays chronicling the achievements and milestones of the graduating class.
But outside, away from the warmth and nostalgia, a solitary figure stood in the gathering dusk. John Hartwell cut an unremarkable silhouette against the backdrop of the school's entrance, neither particularly tall nor short, his frame carrying the soft edges that came with a sedentary lifestyle and too many takeout dinners. His red polo shirt, chosen specifically for tonight's event, bore the faded logo of a band he'd loved in college and his dark jeans showed the telltale creases of having been pulled from the back of a closet after months of neglect. At thirty-two, his brown hair was already showing the first hints of recession at the temples, though he kept it neatly trimmed in a style that hadn't changed much since his twenties. His face, clean-shaven for the occasion, bore the slightly pale complexion of someone who spent most of his time indoors, illuminated now by the blue glow of his smartphone screen.
His thumbs moved across the device's surface with practiced efficiency as he typed out his frustrations to the one person who would understand. "I honestly don't know why I even came to this," he messaged, the words appearing in the familiar chat interface that had become his primary means of social interaction over the past few years. He paused in his typing to glance up at the sky, watching the clouds drift overhead in their eternal dance, when something caught his attention. A peculiar shift in their formation that made him squint and lean forward slightly.
"Dude, come join us, we're all talking about what we've been up to since graduation," came a voice from behind him, causing John to turn around with a slight start. The speaker was Keenan Walsh, a man whose appearance seemed frozen in time from their high school days. His lanky frame was draped in a button-up shirt the color of faded denim, paired with jeans that hung loose on his narrow hips. His dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail that reached halfway down his back and a sparse mustache adorned his upper lip—a facial hair choice that had seemed edgy in high school but now appeared more like a stubborn refusal to acknowledge the passage of time. His face bore the angular features of someone who had never quite filled out from his teenage years, all sharp cheekbones and prominent Adam's apple.
John gestured toward the sky with his free hand, his expression troubled. "I'll be there in a minute, but do you see that? Something's off about the sky. I could have sworn that cloud formation looked like a goat with numbers on it a few moments ago and now it's suddenly shaped like a scorpion." His voice carried the earnest tone of someone accustomed to having his observations dismissed, yet unable to stop himself from sharing them.
Keenan followed John's gaze upward, squinting at the darkening sky for a moment before letting out a laugh that held more condescension than humor. "Jeez, even after all these years you're still like this, John, seeing things that aren't there and getting all wrapped up in supernatural nonsense." He shook his head with the exaggerated patience of someone who had endured countless similar conversations over the years. "Some things never change, I guess."
The dismissal stung, but John had grown accustomed to such reactions over the years. His fascination with the unexplained, the hidden and the mysterious had been a constant source of ridicule throughout high school and apparently, that hadn't changed in the intervening years. "Just because most people don't see what's lurking in the shadows doesn't mean it doesn't exist," he replied, his voice taking on a defensive edge. "You can't see air normally, but we all know it's there. Most supernatural phenomena work the same way. They exist just outside the range of normal perception. And besides, there really is something there. Just look."
He quickly snapped a photo of the sky with his phone's camera, the device's flash briefly illuminating his face in the growing darkness. Without hesitation, he sent the image to his friend, the one person in his life who didn't immediately dismiss his interests as fantasy or delusion. "At least I have one friend who believes me and has had her own experiences with this kind of thing," he said, unable to keep a note of hurt from creeping into his voice. "I honestly thought you would at least humor me after all these years though."
John's phone vibrated with an incoming message drawing his attention away from whatever Keenan wanted to say, the notification sound cutting through the evening air louder than he thought possible. He glanced down at the screen, expecting to see his friend's usual supportive response, and it was at first till he saw the rest of it and it made him feel a strange sense of growing unease he couldn't explain.
"Haha, well, for now, just try to play nice and make the most of it, sometimes we just have to deal with the real world but honestly? I would probably feel the same. I would have very much prefer us chatting or playing Diablo or even better wow! *back pat gif* Wait... what the hell? Are those people in the sky? And what are those black dots? What the hell is going on over there?!"
Confused he looked at the photo he had sent, his eyes widening as he tried to process what the camera had captured. Where he had expected to see the scorpion-shaped cloud formation, the image instead revealed four distinct humanoid figures suspended impossibly in the sky among the clouds. The first was a woman dressed in elaborate red oriental clothing that seemed to flow and ripple despite the stillness of the photograph. Her dark hair was pulled up in an intricate style adorned with what appeared to be golden ornaments and her pose suggested both grace and power. Beside her stood a man in similar Eastern-inspired garments, his blue robes trimmed with gold thread that caught the light even in the digital image. His hair was bound in a traditional topknot and his stance conveyed the disciplined bearing of a warrior or scholar.
The third figure was dramatically different—a man whose muscular torso was bare except for two leather straps that crossed his chest in an X pattern. His physique was that of a bodybuilder or gladiator, all rippling muscles and defined contours, wearing nothing but a simple loincloth around his waist. His pose suggested raw physical power barely contained. The fourth and final figure was the most disturbing of all—a humanoid creature covered in coarse fur, its yellow eyes sunken deep in a skull-like face and its mouth open in what appeared to be a snarl, revealing rows of sharp, shark-like teeth that gleamed with predatory menace.
But it was what lay beneath these impossible figures that truly sent ice through John's veins. Scattered across the lower portion of the image were dozens of small black specks, too regular and numerous to be birds or debris. As he stared at the photo, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, he became aware that those same black dots were now visible to the naked eye and they were growing larger by the second.
"Wow, didn't know there was a filter like that," Keenan said, glancing at the phone screen from the side with casual interest, still completely oblivious to the reality of what they were seeing or just choosing not to accept that something was going on.
"There isn't a filter, you know I don't like or use those kinds of things." John replied, his voice tight with a mix of growing annoyance and worry. "I don't know what those figures are or how they appeared in that picture, but those black specks are getting a lot closer now and something feels really, really wrong, just what the hell even as those things?!"
As he squinted and focused on them the black specks slowly began to form, becoming more recognizable as they grew closer. Massive dragons with wings that blotted out parts of the darkening sky. Their scales starting gleam like polished obsidian in the fading light and their eyes glowed with an inner fire that spoke of ancient intelligence and barely contained rage as they fully began to take shape. As they drew closer, the creatures opened their maws and released torrents of flame that illuminated the evening sky in hellish orange and red. The fire wasn't random or wild. It was directed and purposeful, burning everything in their path as they flew in formation directly toward the school.
Without hesitation, John grabbed Keenan by the arm, ignoring his protests as he pulled him toward the entrance to the gym in a rush before yelling to everyone inside, letting go of Keenan's arm and ignoring his glare of anger, indignation and confusion. "If you don't want to be burnt to a crisp, you need to find a building to hide in—nothing over two stories and preferably a room deeper inside and away from windows with at least one room as a buffer between you and the outside," he shouted, his voice carrying the authority of someone who had spent years studying survival scenarios and emergency preparedness, eyes scanning the crowed and taking in there confused and humor filled gazes, some even mocking well a few muttered to each other wondering what he had taken. "Go check outside for yourselves if you don't believe me, but I'm getting the hell out of here and finding a safe place until I can figure out what the fucks going on!"
With that he shook his head, mumbling how he tried before sprinted away from the gym, his mind racing as he tried to remember the layout of the school building well searching for the safest possible location he could get to, rushing out would be a death sentence, he had to find somewhere in this building. The main office came to mind immediately; it was located in the center of the building with other rooms used as classes that would serve as multiple barriers on either side and behind it that could act as buffers but more importantly, he remembered that there was a small staff room connected to the office between the back classes and said office, a windowless space that met all the criteria he had shouted to the others.
As he ran through the familiar hallways, his footsteps echoing off the polished floors, John pulled out his phone and quickly sent a voice note, not trusting himself to type or manage to get a message across clearly in his frantic rush for safety. "It's dragons! Actual fucking dragons! I've found a place to hide for now. The building is made of brick, so I'm hoping it will withstand the heat if there the fire breathing type and the room I'm in is deep inside the building, hopefully far enough to avoid the worst of it. Plus, it's narrow, so they shouldn't be able to reach in or get inside easily."
The sounds from outside were growing more intense by the moment, he could now hear screams of panic and terror, the roar of car engines as people probably tried to flee now seeing the threat yet often followed by the sickening crunch of metal on metal as panicked drivers collided with each other in their desperation to escape. Through it all, the otherworldly roar of the dragons grew louder, accompanied by the clear crackling sound of their flames consuming everything in their path.
John had barely finished sending his voice note when the door to the staff room burst open behind him as eight of his former classmates stumbled inside, their faces pale with terror and confusion. He quickly switched his phone to silent mode and pressed himself back into the shadows of the small room, content to watch rather than engage with the group that had just arrived, knowing how quickly people could change in panicked situations.
The first to speak was Hana Morrison, a tall woman whose platinum blonde hair seemed to glow even in the dim light of the staff room. She wore a simple white dress that emphasized her modest figure and her blue eyes held the fervent intensity of someone whose faith had become the cornerstone of their identity. "This is God's wrath," she declared, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and religious ecstasy. "He's sent demons to cleanse the earth in fire. It's Judgment Day and we need to pray and hope His angels come to rescue us. It's the only way we'll survive this."
Her proclamation was immediately challenged by Marcus "Moose" Thompson, a tall man whose brown skin glistened with sweat from their frantic escape. His white shirt was already stained with perspiration and his black jacket hung open, revealing the muscular build that had earned him his nickname on the football team. His dark hair was slicked back in a style that had once been fashionable and his eyes burned with the kind of aggressive skepticism that had made him a formidable debater in high school. "Get a hold of yourself, Hana," he snapped, his voice carrying the commanding tone he had perfected as team captain. "I don't know what's going on out there, but I seriously doubt it has anything to do with God or Judgment Day or whatever religious crap you're spouting."
Before Hana could respond, Stacy Williams stepped forward, her mustard-blonde hair framing a face that had grown more beautiful with age. Her black dress hugged her curves in all the right places and her green eyes flashed with protective anger. "Hey! Leave her alone Moose!" she shouted, positioning herself between the larger man and Hana. "She's just scared, same as everyone else here. We don't need you making things worse with your bullying."
Standing beside Stacy was Andrea "Andy" Chase, whose dirty blonde hair fell in waves around her shoulders. She wore a red dress paired with an open black jacket and her features were set in an expression of determined solidarity as she nodded her agreement with Stacy's defense of Hana. Behind them both, Amy Rodriguez moved to physically shield Hana from Moose's aggressive posture. Amy was a large-boned woman whose long black hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall and despite her size, she moved with surprising grace as she positioned herself as a human barrier.
The tension in the room was broken by the voice of Steel Marcis, a broadly built man whose square jaw and serious demeanor had made him a natural leader even in high school. His skin bore the scars of a life spent in physical labor and his black clothing—shirt, jacket and pants—gave him an almost military appearance. "Look, we're all on edge right now especially with the hell that's happening outside. At least John spotted those things and gave us some advice about where to hide. Without that warning we probably would have been burnt to a crisp so instead of fighting among ourselves we should instead be grateful we even got a warning and listened rather than rushing away like others."
Beside Steel stood his longtime friend Shay Martinez, a shorter but similarly built man whose leather jacket gave him the appearance of someone who had spent years working with his hands. His blue shirt was already torn from their hasty escape and his black jeans were scuffed from running across the parking lot. He nodded emphatically at Steel's words, his expression grim but grateful.
Moose's face twisted with frustration and barely contained rage. "Speaking of him, where the hell is he? He needs to tell us what the hell is going on. He obviously knows something about this situation and we have a right to know what the hell it is."
Shay's expression hardened as he stepped forward to confront Moose. "What makes you think he has any answers about any of this? Just because he saw them first and had the presence of mind to warn us doesn't mean he knows what's causing it or how to stop it."
But Moose was beyond reason, his fear and confusion manifesting as aggression toward the easiest target. "He saw them coming, he told us exactly where to hide and he gave us specific instructions about what kind of shelter to look for That's not the kind of knowledge you just stumble across. He clearly knows something and we need answers now! Steel you need to hold him down while Shay and I get the truth out of him once we manage to find and grab him."
His gaze swept across the women in the room with dismissive contempt. "And you girls—Hana, Stacy Andy, Lucy and Amy—go find somewhere else to wait this out. Maybe the bathroom or something. There's no need for you to see what we're going to have to do to get information. Besides, John was always a loner in school, so I doubt any of you were close enough to him to really care what happens to him."
The suggestion was met with immediate and fierce resistance from multiple directions. Shay's face flushed with anger as he stepped closer to Moose. "And who exactly made you the boss around here! You can't just order people around like when we were still in high school.
Andy's voice rose to match Shay's intensity. "Exactly! We aren't kids in school anymore asshole! You don't get to tell us what to do or where to go."
As the argument escalated, the building around them began to shake and vibrate, the sound of destruction growing ever closer. Stacy let out a terrified scream as dust rained down from the ceiling tiles and Hana's prayers grew more fervent and desperate. The last member of their group, Lucy Santos, had remained silent throughout the entire confrontation. She was a petite woman whose brown hair framed a pale face dominated by large, expressive eyes. Her Jack Skellington t-shirt did little to conceal her generous figure and her black pants hugged her curves in a way that would have drawn attention under normal circumstances. A long, fluffy jacket hung loosely around her shoulders as she moved to sit against the wall, her back pressed against the cool brick as she tried to process the impossible reality of their situation.
Lucy wrapped her arms around herself and began rocking slightly, muttering under her breath in a desperate attempt to convince herself that none of this was real. "This isn't happening," she whispered, her voice barely audible yet still managing to carry over and be heard above the growing chaos outside. "This is just a nightmare. If I say it enough times, it has to be true. This can't be real. Dragons don't exist. This is just a bad dream."
Meanwhile, the three men—Moose, Steel and Shay—had formed a tense triangle at the side, their bodies coiled with barely restrained aggression almost ready to come to blows. The stress of the situation, combined with old high school rivalries and personality conflicts had created a powder keg that seemed ready to explode at any moment.
"We don't have time for this!" Moose eventually shouted, his voice cracking with desperation and rage.
It was at that moment that a new voice cut through their argument like a blade through silk—a voice that was wrong in every conceivable way, distorted and layered as if multiple people were speaking in unison, yet somehow maintaining a singular identity that was both alien and terrifyingly intelligent before settling on a smooth male tone.
"So very, very true," the voice said with an airy quality that made everyone's skin crawl. "You lot don't have time to waste with pointless yelling and petty squabbles. Especially since you are among the lucky ones."
Every person in the room froze as if turned to stone, their arguments forgotten in the face of this new and impossible presence. Slowly, as one they turned toward the source of the voice and what they saw defied every rational explanation their minds could conjure.
Standing in the doorway—though none of them had heard it open—was a figure that seemed to have stepped out of a fever dream or a medieval nightmare. It wore the elaborate costume of a court jester, but every detail was wrong, twisted into something that hurt to look at directly. The creature's mask was made of what appeared to be porcelain, pure white and perfectly smooth with eye holes that seemed to contain infinite darkness. Its outfit was a mix of red, black and white arranged in diamond patterns that seemed to shift and flow even as they watched him creating optical illusions that made their eyes water and their heads spin.
The jester's sleeves were puffy and ended in elaborate frills, while its legs were encased in striped stockings that led to curled shoes adorned with tiny bells that should have jingled but remained ominously silent. Most disturbing of all were the creature's proportions—its arms and legs were far too long for any human frame, giving it the appearance of something that had been stretched on a medieval rack until it barely resembled its original form.
As they stared in horrified fascination, the patterns on the jester's costume continued their hypnotic dance, flowing and changing in ways that suggested the fabric itself was alive. The creature stood perfectly still, its masked face tilted at an angle that no human neck could achieve, waiting for their shock to subside enough for communication to resume.