I JOLTED AWAKE the next day, heart hammering, my ears ringing with a scream that seemed to slice straight through the walls. For a moment, I couldn't tell if it had come from my dream or from reality. I mean, I've been having weird dreams lately. The edges of my sleep still clung to me, but then it came again—louder this time, raw and sharp, from the room next to mine.
I threw back the covers and stumbled barefoot onto the cold floorboards with the night's chill still pressing against my skin. My body moved before my mind could catch up, driven only by instinct. The scream had been a child's.
The door to the adjacent room was already ajar. I pushed it open wider, the hinges groaning softly, and the sight that met me rooted me to the spot. Eleanor sat on the edge of the bed, her arms wrapped tightly around little Morgan. He was curled into her like a bird trying to bury itself into a nest, trembling so violently his small frame shook against her chest. His sobs came in hiccupped bursts, almost strangled, with his fists clutching the fabric of Eleanor's nightdress as though letting go would mean being swallowed whole by whatever terror had seized him.
Eleanor's voice was a soft murmur, steady and calm despite the boy's frantic cries. "Shh, my love, it's only a dream… you're safe, you're safe now. No one will hurt you here."
The sight tore at something inside me, something that felt as raw as an open wound. My legs finally moved, carrying me closer. "What happened?" My voice came out more breathless than I intended, but Eleanor looked up at me, her expression composed though shadowed with fatigue.
"Little Morgan's having another nightmare," she said gently, running her hand over Morgan's hair. "He's been through so much already. Sometimes the memories come back to him in his sleep."
Morgan's little body was shaking as though he had been dropped into a frozen river. I crouched beside the bed, reaching out but hesitating halfway, unsure if my presence would soothe him or make him retreat further into his pain. I mean, watching him unbearable. His terror clung to the air, so thick I could almost taste it. And as I stared, memories pressed against me like ghosts.
Dwight's voice came back to me when he told me about how terrifying it had been for him to be hunted by the men in black, and to feel shadows stretching, as these ominous men closed in with their cold precision. He had told me it was like being an animal chased down by predators, every heartbeat screaming survival while your body betrayed you with exhaustion.
Looking at Morgan now, I saw that same terror etched into his tiny face. He was too young to carry that weight. Too young to have already been made prey. And then, unbidden, another thought crept in. Harriet. What had she gone through before landing in this place? Had she been hunted too? Had she been dragged from her home under the threat of those men? For a moment, I let myself picture her frightened, cornered, her sharp composure stripped away by panic. The image unsettled me. Because as much as I disliked her—resented her quiet confidence, the way she seemed to succeed without trying—I couldn't deny that she was one of us. A gifted. A target.
But almost as quickly as the thought came, I shoved it down, burying it beneath the familiar bitterness that always rose in her presence. Harriet didn't need my empathy. She already had everything else.
I shifted closer, kneeling fully now so my eyes were level with Morgan's. "Morgan," I whispered softly, careful not to startle him. His head jerked at the sound, his tear-streaked face half-hidden against Eleanor's shoulder. "Can you tell me what you dreamed?"
For a moment, I didn't think he would answer. His sobs came softer now, broken by shallow breaths, his chest still heaving. But slowly, like someone forcing words through a locked door, he spoke between hiccups.
"A… a b-bombing, Alice," he stammered. His voice was thin, fragile, but the words carried weight enough to make my stomach lurch.
I swallowed, trying to keep my own voice steady. "Bombing?"
He nodded against Eleanor, pressing his face deeper into her embrace as if afraid the memory would crawl back into the room with him. "Bombing. And fire… s-so much fire. And people… screaming. Everyone I l-loved… were d-dying." His breath hitched, a sob cutting through. "I c-couldn't see them clearly. Their faces are all b-blurred."
My throat tightened.
Blurred faces. That image clawed at me. Maybe his mind, in trying to protect him, had obscured the worst of it. Or maybe the trauma had swallowed the details, leaving only the raw edges of grief and terror. I wanted to tell him it was only a dream, but the words died on my tongue. Because what if it wasn't? What if it had been memory, twisted and fragmented by his young mind but rooted in truth?
The men in black. CYGNUS. A cold sickness spread through me. I could almost see it, the fire he described—the kind that consumed without mercy, swallowing homes, families, laughter. What if Morgan's family had been victims of CYGNUS' cruelty? What if he had stood in the ashes of everything he loved, helpless and broken?
I pressed a hand to my stomach, willing myself not to retch. Hatred surged inside me then, sharp and consuming. Hatred for the men in black suits who thought they could hunt us like animals. Hatred for the organization that tore children like Morgan from their families and left them with scars so deep they bled even in dreams.
My fists curled against my knees. For the first time, the bitterness I carried toward Harriet felt small compared to this—this righteous, furious loathing for the ones who had done this to him. To all of us.
Eleanor rocked Morgan gently, her voice still a steady hum against his cries. "Shh, sweetheart, you're safe. Nothing will touch you here. I promise." She kissed the top of his head, eyes closing as if she could will her protection into existence.
I stayed where I was, crouched beside them, my body trembling with the force of what I felt. I couldn't reach into Morgan's mind and pull out the images haunting him. I couldn't bring his family back, or erase the fire that clearly lived behind his eyelids even now. But I could sit here. I could listen. And I could remember. Because if I let myself forget—even for a second—what CYGNUS had done, then what hope was there that anyone would stop them?
My heart ached as Morgan's sobs finally began to slow, fading into weary hiccups. His small body sagged against Eleanor's, exhausted from the sheer weight of his grief. She looked down at him with such gentleness it almost undid me all over again.
"He'll sleep again soon," she murmured, her eyes lifting briefly to mine. "But the nightmares, they'll come and go, Alice. Trauma lingers in children. In all of us."
I nodded stiffly, unable to find words. My throat was too tight, and my chest too full of rage, sorrow, and something else I didn't quite recognize.
I rose unsteadily, my legs stiff from crouching. My eyes lingered on Morgan, on the way his tiny hands still clutched at Eleanor's dress even in half-sleep, like he feared she'd vanish if he let go. Something in me cracked then, something I hadn't realized I'd been holding together since that night my own home went up in flames. And as I slipped back into the hallway, pressing my back to the wall, I let it.
CYGNUS had taken enough. And they would pay.
***
The mop sloshed against the floorboards with an almost mocking rhythm later that day, like it knew I didn't belong there. I sighed again, louder this time, partly to vent my frustration, partly in the vain hope someone might hear and release me from this misery. I hadn't slept after I woke up earlier. Of course. But that aside, the hallway was empty except for the sunlight spilling in through the long windows, catching motes of dust in the air like they had nowhere better to be.
My arms ached. My back ached. Even my pride ached. Back home—back when I still had a home—there had been housemaids for this sort of thing. I had never been expected to scrub floors until my hands were raw or carry buckets of water that sloshed against my legs. Yet here I was, in a house full of strangers, pushing around a mop as if it were some kind of punishment.
"This is ridiculous," I muttered under my breath, wringing out the mop. My reflection stared back at me from the wet floor—pale, hollow-eyed, a ghost of the girl who used to glide through marble halls in pastel dresses. Now I was barefoot in an apron, hair sticking to my face, sweat dotting my brow like I'd been banished to the life of a scullery maid.
I pushed the mop forward again, huffing, trying to ignore the sting in my palms. If this was supposed to make me "bond" with the other residents, it wasn't working. I felt no sense of belonging here—just humiliation.
I was about to grumble again when a fluttering sound rose in the hallway. At first, I thought it was just the wind against the windows, but then I looked up. I saw butterflies. Dozens of them—no, more than that, an entire kaleidoscope—spilling into the hall like a living stream of color. Their wings shimmered in hues of sapphire, amber, ivory, and ink, beating together in a strange, unified rhythm.
My heart lurched into my throat. The sight might have been beautiful under different circumstances, but this—this was wrong. They weren't just drifting through lazily as butterflies do; they were flying directly toward me.
"What in the—?"
The mop clattered to the floor as I stumbled back. My chest tightened with panic. They were too many and too fast. The air itself seemed to buzz with their wings, and for one wild second, I thought they would smother me whole. Without thinking, I threw my arms up in front of my face.
And then it happened.
Light burst from my palms that bloomed outward like glass stretching from molten fire. It curved around me in an instant, a half-sphere of translucent yet bluish energy, humming with force. The butterflies struck it harmlessly, as their delicate wings scattered against the barrier as if it were a wall of steel.
And I froze. My arms shook, but the dome held. It pulsed faintly, almost alive, wrapping me in its strange glow.
"Where are all these butterflies coming from?" My voice trembled. My heart pounded so loudly I thought it might break through my chest.
The butterflies swirled away from the barrier in gentle arcs before retreating down the hall. Slowly, cautiously, I lowered my arms. As I did, the dome flickered, then dissolved into nothingness, leaving me standing barefoot on the damp floorboards. I barely had time to process before footsteps echoed.
Ryan appeared at the far end of the hall, his dark blazer catching the light, and beside him walked a girl about my age, maybe younger, with her hair the color of wheat and her eyes soft as spring. She moved lightly, almost too lightly, as if even the ground wanted to hold her gently. In her hand, a single butterfly perched calmly before taking flight, circling her head as if tethered to her spirit.
I blinked. She was beautiful, but more than that—untouchably serene.
"Nicely done," Ryan said, his tone calm but edged with satisfaction.
My eyes widened. "Nicely done?" I sputtered, heat rising in my chest. "What on earth just happened?!"
The girl gave me a small, almost shy smile, her voice as gentle as her appearance. "I'm sorry if I startled you. But the butterflies meant no harm." She lifted her hand slightly, and as if on cue, a small group of the creatures reappeared, dancing in the air around her. "I just guided them to your direction."
"You guided them?" My tone cracked somewhere between outrage and disbelief. "You mean you sent an army of insects to attack me for fun?"
Ryan raised his hand in a calming gesture. "Not attack, Alice. Test."
"Test?" My voice pitched higher. I gestured wildly at the mop on the floor, at the lingering shimmer in the air where my dome had been. "You call nearly giving me a heart attack a test?"
"Sorry," Ryan lets out a soft laugh. "But yes," he said simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "And one you passed, impressively, I might add."
I blinked at him, words failing.
The girl beside him inclined her head politely. "My name's Meadow," she said softly, her smile warm but reserved. "I can guide butterflies—or summon them, rather. It's harmless, I promise. But Ryan wanted to see if your instincts would surface under stress."
My mind reeled. Instincts. That dome. That impossible shield. I pressed my palms together, staring at them as though they might reveal answers. My skin was still tingling with a faint hum, like I'd touched lightning and survived.
"What did I even do?" I whispered, my voice more fragile now.
Ryan stepped closer, his eyes steady on mine. "You manifested your gift, Alice. Not just in a burst of emotion, but in response to a threat, however harmless. That barrier was flyrokinesis, which simply meant you're flyrokinetic."
"Flyroki—what?"
"Flyrokinesis," he repeated patiently. "The ability to create barriers. Shields. A defense mechanism designed to deflect both physical and energy-based attacks. It's rare, but not unheard of. I suspected as much, but now we know for certain."
My lips parted. "A defense mechanism?"
"Yes." Ryan's smile was faint but approving. "A protective gift. Yours."
The weight of it hit me like a stone. I staggered back a step, shaking my head. "No. I don't even know how to control it."
"Yet you did produce it." Ryan's voice was firm now, cutting through my panic. "Without training. Without preparation. Your instinct to protect yourself created that dome. That is the nature of your gift."
Meadow watched quietly, her butterflies fluttering lazily above her head. I couldn't bring myself to meet her gaze. Instead, I pressed my palms against my chest, trying to steady the frantic beat of my heart. A barrier. A shield. It felt wrong, impossible, and yet—hadn't I done something similar before? Back in the janitor's closet at school, when my tears had sent a mop flying across the room? Back when my emotions had crackled against the walls of my own house? Could it really be that this power had always been there, waiting for the right moment?
Ryan's tone softened. "Alice, listen to me. I know this is overwhelming, but this is good. It means you are capable of using your gift. You can defend yourself."
I finally looked up at him, my voice trembling. "Defend myself against who? Them? The men in black?"
"Could be. Or perhaps from other people," he said simply, the shadow in his eyes confirming what I already knew. "Them. And others who might come."
My hands trembled. I clenched them into fists.
Ryan glanced at Meadow, then back at me. "Meadow agreed to help because her butterflies pose no real danger. We needed a way to provoke your instincts without harming you. And it worked."
"So you planned this," I muttered bitterly. "You planned to ambush me with butterflies while I was… mopping floors."
Ryan's mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. "Sometimes the unexpected reveals the most truth."
I wanted to be angry, but the sting of humiliation warred with something else—something I couldn't name. Relief, maybe. Or the faintest spark of hope.
Ryan's voice gentled again. "Alice, what you did just now was remarkable as it was. Your control is raw and instinctive. Powerful, but unrefined. Without training, it will remain unpredictable. But with guidance…" He paused, his gaze steady. "With guidance, you could master it. Use it not just for yourself, but for others."
I swallowed hard. "Training." The word felt foreign in my mouth.
"For self-defense, first and foremost. That barrier of yours could protect you from almost anything if you learn to wield it properly. But right now, it's like glass—beautiful, but fragile. We'll need to make it steel."
I bit my lip, staring down at the damp mop abandoned on the floor. The absurdity of it struck me—the girl who once cared about nothing but grades and gossip and pastel-colored dresses now standing in a hallway, mop water seeping into her toes, being told she could turn invisible shields into weapons. Part of me wanted to laugh. Another part wanted to cry. Instead, I exhaled slowly, my voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know if I can."
Ryan's answer was steady, unwavering. "You already did."
Meadow stepped forward then, her voice quiet but certain. "And we'll help you. You're not alone in this, Alice." One of her butterflies landed lightly on my shoulder, wings beating in a soft, steady rhythm, like a heartbeat I hadn't realized I needed.
I blinked at it, my chest tightening in ways I couldn't explain. For the first time in a long while, I let myself believe—just a little—that maybe they were right.
***
When I finished my chores after being tested by the headmaster, I had wandered through the gardens at first, curious about the greenhouse where Meadow often disappeared with her butterflies, then drifted toward the orchard where children's laughter carried across the trees. My feet kept moving without much thought, as if I were following something unseen.
When I arrived there, I heard cheers, shouts, and the kind of noise that rose with excitement and energy. My ears pricked at once. It wasn't the lighthearted sound of games; it was sharper. Curiosity tugged me forward. I followed the path until the trees opened into a wide field tucked behind the home. The grass was beaten down in patches, and wooden posts ringed the space like makeshift boundaries. A crowd of gifted residents, all different ages, had gathered in a loose circle, their voices blending in a rush of anticipation.
I edged closer, slipping between two older boys, and my breath caught.
Dwight was one of them.
He stood at the center of the field, his stance loose but ready, and his hair falling in the familiar golden sweep across his forehead. My heart gave a foolish jolt—like the girl I used to be had come rushing back without asking. He moved with ease, almost playfully, as feather-like pins surged toward him from an opponent's outstretched palms. The pins licked close, but the moment they touched his skin, his body shimmered. His arms glowed faintly like metal, his skin almost silver, and the pins simply rolled off him harmlessly.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Dwight grinned, that same grin I remembered from school when he'd scored during football matches, the kind that made everyone cheer louder. He ducked low, rolled, and as another feather-like pin shot across the field from the other side, his body shifted again, pale frost crawling across his skin like armor. The shards of ice shattered against him as though they'd struck stone.
I couldn't breathe. Nothing's changed. That was the thought that anchored me, bitter and sweet all at once. Nothing about him had changed—not his easy charm, not the way everyone seemed drawn to him, not the way he looked like he belonged anywhere he went. And me? I was still the girl standing at the edge, watching.
I hugged my arms across my chest and tore my gaze away, desperate for distraction. But on the other side of the area was the girl I least wanted to see.
She sat a little ways off, legs crossed, back against the trunk of an old oak tree. A book rested on her lap, her eyes gliding over the pages without a flicker of interest in the chaos before her. Around Harriet, the cheers and gasps might as well have been whispers of the wind. She was apart from it all, as always.
I frowned. How could she sit there, so calm, when everyone else was enraptured by the spar?
My curiosity pulled me closer. I craned my neck just enough to glimpse the spines of the books stacked beside her. Telekinesis. Mental Discipline. Psychic Strength.
Of course.
It wasn't enough for Harriet to be brilliant in school, to outshine me in every competition, every whispered comparison. Now here she was, studying gifts that sounded extraordinary, while I barely understood the dome I had conjured that morning.
Then my stomach tightened.
A shout snapped me back to the spar. Dwight had landed lightly on his feet after dodging another attack, but his opponent—h the same wiry boy with sharp eyes and wild dark hair—looked furious. I'd heard his name whispered earlier: Quill. His gift, from the murmurs in the crowd, was shooting sharp feather-like pins. He could absorb impacts and redirect them like a living weapon.
"Is that all you've got?" Dwight taunted, his grin wide.
Quill's jaw clenched. "Don't mock me, Newbie." He lunged, his fist veined with stored energy, the ground trembling under the weight of his charge. Dwight leapt aside, his body shifting again, adapting instantly to the sudden attack.
The crowd cheered louder. But beneath the excitement, I could feel the tension sharpening. This wasn't just sparring anymore.
Quill snarled, eyes blazing. "You think you're special just because you adapt? You think you can't be beaten?"
Dwight straightened, his grin faltering. "It's practice, Quill. Calm down."
"Calm down?" Quill's voice cracked. "You don't get it. Some of us don't get to be effortless!"
The words struck me like a stone. I swallowed hard, the truth of them cutting deeper than I wanted to admit.
The ground shuddered violently as Quill unleashed another burst of pins. The crowd gasped and stumbled back. Dwight barely managed to catch himself, his body shifting with the same resilient adaptation—but I could see the strain in his jaw now.
The tension snapped.
Objects nearby—benches, practice weapons stacked by the field, even the loose stones around the perimeter—trembled, lifting off the ground. The air thrummed with unstable energy.
"Quill—stop!" someone in the crowd shouted.
He didn't. His anger had consumed him.
I stumbled back a step, heart racing. If he let go of that energy, if Dwight couldn't adapt fast enough—
And then, just like that, everything stilled.
A single motion, barely more than a flick of the wrist. I turned, and my breath caught.
Harriet hadn't even looked up from her book. She sat there, one hand raised lazily, her expression the same calm mask she always wore. But in that moment, all the chaos—the flying objects, the trembling air, even Quill's clenched fists—froze. Suspended. It was as if the entire field had been caught in invisible strings.
Slowly, Harriet lowered her hand. Everything dropped harmlessly to the ground. And the crowd stared in stunned silence.
Her voice broke it, calm but commanding. "Enough!"
That one word cut sharper than any shout. Quill's fists dimmed, his chest heaving as though he'd been yanked from a storm. Dwight, too, lowered his stance, his eyes flicking warily toward Harriet.
And Harriet? She simply turned a page of her book.
Ryan's voice carried across the field as he stepped forward. "Well done, Harriet."
My gaze snapped to him. He looked proud—no, more than proud, impressed. "Your control is extraordinary," he said, his tone warm but serious. "Few could pacify a conflict like that so decisively. You've barely begun, and already your potential is immense."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Heads turned toward Harriet with something close to awe. But as always, she didn't react. She didn't need to. That unreadable calm of hers was reaction enough.
Ryan went on. "You'll begin special training tomorrow. Your gift is too valuable to leave unrefined."
I couldn't move.
The words sank into me like knives. Special training. Immense potential. Extraordinary control. Harriet. Always Harriet. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, she was always there. Always ahead. Always exceptional.
And me? Even when I manifested my gift, even when I finally thought I might be more than the girl everyone dismissed or compared, it wasn't enough.
I felt the ground tilt beneath me. My chest constricted, heat rising in my throat until I thought I might choke on it. The cheers picked up again, murmurs of admiration for Harriet blending with Dwight's lingering presence on the field. Everyone else seemed swept up in the spectacle, but I—
I only felt small.
I turned away, hugging my arms tighter around myself. In the privacy of my thoughts, I whispered the words I would never say aloud: I'll never catch up. Not to her. Not to any of them. No matter what I do, I'll always be a failure.
And that truth settled heavy in my chest, heavier than any shield I could conjure. Because it dawned on me that Harriet might be the gifted the headmaster saved who had the extreme power over anyone he's ever seen.