THE WORLD EXPLODED before I could even scream. The rocks came down with no hesitation, swallowing everything in sight. The mountainside shuddered under the weight of it, and a wall of brown tore through the air so fast it blurred into pure light. My body moved before my mind caught up—I tried to run, but my feet slipped, my heart lurched, and in that single, endless moment, I thought—this is it. Then the rocks hit first. It was rolling like a thousand needles cutting through my skin. The sound was deafening. I threw my arms up, eyes wide, but there was nowhere to go—no cover, no chance. Just the avalanche, closing in, fast.
And then something inside me snapped. A spark at the core of my chest. It burned through me, racing through my veins like lightning. I didn't think. I felt.
The world went dark, but I saw light brighter still pouring from my hands. It curved outward, bending the air itself, forming a dome that pulsed against the avalanche's fury. The rocks struck, but instead of crushing me, it broke—splintering against the shield like shattered glass. With it, my knees buckled. I grit my teeth, pushing harder, my arms trembling as the light flared brighter, holding back the weight of a mountain. My heartbeat echoed in my ears, so loud it drowned everything else out.
And then, silence. The roar faded, the light dimmed, and all that remained was stillness—the kind that makes you wonder if you've gone deaf or if the world has just stopped breathing. The rocks around me had frozen mid-tumble, scattered in a perfect circle of untouched ground. I stood in the center, panting, with my arms still raised and my palms faintly glowing.
Then came the sound of clapping. My head whipped around.
Ryan stood a few meters away, arms crossed, the faintest hint of a smile pulling at his mouth. "Impressive," he said, voice calm as ever. "That was faster than last time."
The illusion peeled away—the mountain, the rocks, the storm, all of it. Then the gifted Ryan asked to conjure those illusions smiled at me. It all dissolved into drifting mist, leaving behind the wide, dew-kissed field of Willowmere's training grounds. The light washed over everything. The other gifted stood at a distance, watching.
My pulse still hadn't slowed. "You could've warned me first," I said, my voice half a gasp, half a growl.
Ryan walked closer, his shoes crunching softly against the grass. "If I did, you wouldn't have reacted the same way."
"I thought I was about to die."
He tilted his head, studying the faint shimmer of gold fading from my hands. "You thought, yes. But you didn't."
I exhaled hard, my chest still tight. "You know, one of these days, that's going to stop being comforting."
Ryan smiled faintly. "If you ever stop thinking you're going to die, you'll stop pushing yourself to live."
It was such a Ryan thing to say—half philosophy, half impossible standard. I brushed snow off my sleeves even though there wasn't any left.
"But needless to say, you've improved," he said, his tone softening. "Last month, that avalanche would've buried you."
"Yeah," I muttered, but I couldn't hide the flicker of pride beneath it.
He gave a small nod. "Take a break for now, Alice. Then help Eleanor supervise the younger ones."
And with that, he turned away.
I watched him go, still trying to calm my breathing. He looked so steady—so calm. The same calm he always wore like armor. And lately, that calm bothered me more than any storm.
Ryan then turned to Harriet and Dwight who were on the other side of the training ground.
"Remember," Ryan's voice carried from the ridge above, calm but commanding. "You control the power—it doesn't control you."
He gave them that look he always did before a trial. Harriet adjusted her gloves, her hair tied neatly back, though the faint tremor in her fingers gave her away. Dwight rolled his shoulders beside her like he was made for situations that went sideways. I stood a few feet behind.
Harriet was the first to step forward. She exhaled, stretched out her palm toward a cluster of stones the same gifted who conjured the illusions at me had rigged near the slope. The rocks shuddered faintly, rising a few inches off the ground—then froze midair.
"Come on," she whispered to herself, brows knitting. Her hands trembled slightly. The stones hovered, flickered… then dropped.
Dwight gave her a sideways glance, his tone light but not unkind. "You're thinking too much again."
"I'm focusing," Harriet said through gritted teeth, lifting her chin. "There's a difference."
Dwight just shrugged. "Maybe, but you're trying to control it like it's a problem to solve. It's instinct, not arithmetic."
Harriet didn't respond, but I could see the frustration in the tight line of her shoulders. And then it happened. A sound split through the air. We all looked up. High above us, the ridge trembled. Stones that had clung to the cliff face began to break loose, tumbling in slow motion before reality snapped back and gravity did what it always does.
"Move!" I shouted.
But the avalanche was faster. The air filled with dust and thunder. Harriet's hand flew out on instinct, her lips parting, eyes wide—trying to stop the fall with her telekinesis. But nothing. Not even a flicker.
"Come on, Harriet!" I yelled. "Do something!"
"I—I can't!" she gasped, voice breaking. Her hand trembled in midair, helpless. "It's not—working—"
The realization hit her like a strike to the chest. Her eyes went glassy with panic. But out of nowhere, wight was moving. Before I could blink, he leapt in front of her as he braced himself for the impact. His skin shifted faintly. The rocks hit—hard—but instead of breaking him, they shattered, bouncing off the strange, silver sheen that coated his arms. The sound of impact was deafening. Dust exploded around them. And by the time the last stone settled harmlessly at the bottom of the slope, everything was still again. My lungs burned. Harriet was already on her knees, coughing, and her gloves scraped the dirt. Her composure was gone. She pressed her palms into the ground, shaking her head in disbelief.
"No, no, no…" Her voice cracked softly. "It's gone. It's just—."
Dwight dropped beside her. "Harriet—"
"I couldn't move them, Dwight," she said, looking up at him, eyes red-rimmed. "They were right there, and I felt nothing. Nothing."
"Don't say that."
"It's true," she whispered, her voice trembling like something fragile about to snap. "I don't know who I am without it. If I can't use my gift—if I can't help—then what's left?"
She buried her face in her hands.
Dwight reached for her slowly, as if afraid she'd shatter at a touch. He didn't say anything. He just wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close until her forehead rested against his shoulder. For a moment, neither moved. The dust began to settle. Harriet's breathing came in short, uneven bursts against his chest, but Dwight didn't let go. I stood a few steps away, watching the two of them. The silence was heavy, but not empty. Ryan then approached from behind me, his steps crunching lightly on the ground. He didn't interrupt, didn't call out orders, didn't even scold us for the chaos. He just watched. And I could tell by the faint crease in his brow that he understood what had just happened—not just the failed power, but the shift.
Harriet slowly lifted her head. Her face was streaked with dirt and tears. Dwight brushed her hair back gently, his thumb catching a tear she probably wished he hadn't seen.
"Hey," he said quietly. "You're still Harriet. With or without it."
She gave a shaky laugh that wasn't really a laugh. "You don't mean that."
"Yeah," he said, his tone steady, eyes locked on hers. "I do."
Harriet exhaled slowly, her shoulders lowering as the tremors in her hands finally eased. She didn't thank him.
Ryan finally broke the silence. "That's enough for today," he said, his voice softer than usual.
Dwight looked up at him, nodding. Harriet said nothing as he helped her to her feet, his hand steady on her arm. When we began walking back toward the field, I lingered behind, watching their silhouettes ahead—Dwight still holding her hand, Harriet not pulling away. For a long time, I thought Harriet was untouchable—too perfect, too composed, too proud to fall apart. But now I realized maybe the strongest people are the ones who've already learned how to break quietly. And Dwight—he wasn't trying to fix her. He was just there. That kind of presence was rarer than any gift. But could it be Harriet's gift dwindled because of that serum the Other had injected her?
***
When we reached the other residents, Ryan dismissed the rest of the class. The younger gifted scattered, laughing. Harriet and Dwight sat on the edge of the field. I stood off to the side, arms crossed, pretending to study the clouds. But my mind was elsewhere.
A few months ago, Dwight had been the one I'd crush on. And Harriet? I'd despised her. So much. She was everything I wasn't—poised, sharp, always one step ahead. Now, watching them together, I didn't feel jealousy. Just… peace. Maybe people weren't meant to stay frozen in the versions we built of them. Maybe we were all just changing—bit by bit—without realizing it.
The wind shifted. I smiled faintly and turned back toward the house. Somewhere behind me, Ryan called out a few last instructions to the trainees. But there was something different in the air today.
After being assigned to the daily chores, the others drifted off for their tasks. I lingered in the field, watching Ryan from a distance as he spoke with Dr. Crowe. Their conversation was hushed and too far to make out, but I caught pieces when Ryan gave the flick of a document to Dr. Crowe. Whatever they were discussing, it wasn't about training.
I told myself I needed fresh air, but the truth was, my thoughts wouldn't quiet down. The calm Ryan carried—it wasn't just composure. It was the calm of someone hiding something.
I followed the familiar trail toward the woods, the one that curved behind the cliffs and sloped down to the clearing. The path was damp, the smell of moss and earth rising with every step. When I reached the clearing, I stopped. The transmitter was gone. I crouched, brushing my fingers over the patch of dirt where it had once been. The ground was smooth—no sign of struggle or carelessness. Whoever had taken it had done so carefully, purposefully.
And it had to be Ryan. I leaned back on my heels, staring at the empty space. Days ago, this was where everything changed—where the truth began to unravel. The signal, the code, the realization that the Others weren't gifted at all but made. Mere experiments. And now it was gone, as if it had never existed.
A breeze passed through the trees. For a moment, I just listened to it. I tried to picture Ryan standing here, taking the transmitter himself. I could almost see him—hands clasped behind his back as if even uncovering monsters required patience and grace. But why hadn't he said anything? If he found something, why keep it from us?
Because maybe he's protecting us. Or maybe he's protecting something else. The thought sent a shiver through me. Still, I forced myself to believe the first one. Ryan had always been our anchor. If he was calm, it meant he knew what he was doing. Maybe he didn't want panic. Maybe he wanted the younger gifted—like the little ones who still flinched at thunder—to believe they were safe here. Because if they didn't, this home would crumble faster than any avalanche. Faster than the avalanche I faced during training.
When I returned to the home, the light was fading. The windows glowed gold against the dusk. From inside, I could hear Miss Byrd mingling with Dr. Crowe's deeper tone. They were by the main hall, talking with Ryan again. It wasn't the first time. I slowed my steps, peering through the cracked door. Ryan stood with his back to me, his hands resting on the desk. Dr. Crowe leaned over a stack of papers, gesturing to something with his pen while Miss Byrd's face was drawn, worried, despite the softness in her voice.
They spoke quietly—too quietly to catch words—but the tension was unmistakable. Miss Byrd's gaze flicked toward the door once, and I slipped away before she could see me. I didn't need to hear it. I already knew. Whatever they were doing, it wasn't about lesson plans or garden schedules.
Evening came and I couldn't sleep. The house was too still. Even the wind outside felt like it was waiting for something.
I sat by my window, chin resting on my knees. Hunter was curled up at Riven's side, fast asleep on his bedroll. Riven's breathing was steady, his face soft in the moonlight. I envied that kind of peace—the kind that didn't come easy to people like us.
Ryan's voice from earlier echoed in my head: You can't protect anyone if you freeze.
Was that what he was doing—protecting us? Keeping still so the rest of us wouldn't?
I looked out at the moon behind drifting clouds. The forest below glimmered faintly under the frost. Somewhere out there, the Others still moved. And here we were, pretending this home could keep us safe forever.
It was a fragile lie, but it was the only one we had.
***
The next morning, Ryan called for another round of drills.
"Pair up," he said, his tone brisk but even.
I joined Harriet, who smiled faintly despite the shadows still under her eyes. Her powers had been faltering since the injection. Sometimes she tried to hide it, pretending to stretch when she was really steadying herself. I didn't mention it.
Ryan moved through the field, correcting postures, adjusting angles. To anyone else, he looked like any other mentor. But I caught the way his gaze would sometimes drift toward the horizon, distant, calculating.
He knew something.
When training ended, he dismissed everyone for lunch. I stayed behind, pretending to gather my things.
"Ryan," I said finally.
He stopped, turning toward me. "Yes?"
"You've been… calm lately."
"Shouldn't I be?"
"After everything we found—everything you know—should you?"
He studied me quietly, eyes unreadable. "If I lose my composure, what happens to the rest of you?"
I didn't answer.
He stepped closer, his tone softening. "You have to understand, Alice. Leadership isn't about showing fear. It's about carrying it where no one else can see."
"So you are afraid."
A ghost of a smile. "Only of failing you all."
It silenced me.
He turned to leave but paused at the edge of the field. "You've grown stronger," he said without looking back. "But strength without restraint is chaos. Remember that."
*
That afternoon, I found Miss Byrd and Dr. Crowe near the main gate again, cloaked and carrying satchels.
"Going somewhere?" I asked.
Miss Byrd smiled, that kind, motherly smile that always felt like a deflection. "Just a short errand, dear."
"Another one?"
Dr. Crowe glanced at her before replying, "The Headmaster's given us tasks. Routine things."
I folded my arms. "Routine things that take all day?"
They exchanged a look that said everything.
"Please, Alice," Miss Byrd said gently, touching my arm. "Trust that we're doing what's necessary."
And then they were gone, vanishing down the misted path beyond the gates.
I stood there long after they disappeared, the cold biting at my skin. Maybe they were investigating CYGNUS. Maybe they'd found something. But if they had, why keep it from us?
Because we were the ones who'd risked everything finding the truth in the first place. And now, we were the ones being kept in the dark.
*
That night, I found Riven sitting by the willow tree, sharpening his blade under the moonlight. Hunter lay beside him, head resting on his paws.
"Hey," I called.
"Hey," Riven replied.
"Can't sleep either?" I asked, approaching.
He looked up, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "You kidding? Hunter snores."
I smiled despite myself and sat beside him. The night air was cold, smelling faintly of rain.
"You've been quiet," he said after a while.
"Just thinking."
"About what?"
"Ryan," I admitted. "He's too calm. The transmitter's gone, Miss Byrd and Dr. Crowe keep leaving, and no one tells us anything."
Riven ran the whetstone along the blade slowly, the rasping sound steady. "You think he's hiding something?"
"I think he's trying not to scare everyone," I said, sighing. "But pretending nothing's wrong doesn't make it safer."
He looked at me for a long moment. "You trust him?"
"Yeah, Blackcap," I said after a pause. "But I don't think I know everything about him."
"None of us do," Riven murmured. "Not really."
The wind rustled through the willow's branches, soft and slow. He put the blade aside and leaned back against the trunk, eyes half-closed. "If he's calm, let him be. Maybe he knows something we don't."
I wanted to believe that. I really did.
But as the night deepened, I couldn't shake the thought that calm was just another word for waiting. And whatever Ryan was waiting for—whatever Miss Byrd and Dr. Crowe were searching for—it felt like it was already coming for us.
When Riven and I decided to head back to the home, I saw Harriet sitting alone on the back steps of the home with her elbows resting on her knees, fingers laced loosely together. The wind combed through her hair. She didn't look up when I stepped. For a while, I just stood there, unsure if she wanted company. Then I sat beside her, although far enough that she could keep pretending she hadn't noticed me. The boards creaked softly beneath us. When I looked at Riven, he just smiled softly as he ascended to the stairs.
For a while, I just sat there, unsure whether to step closer. There was a time when the sight of Harriet alone like this would've sparked something sharp in me—a petty triumph, maybe. The part of me that had once wanted her to trip, just once, to see her perfect composure crack. But now, watching her like this, the feeling that came wasn't victory. It was concern. Her strength was slipping. I could see it in the way her fingers trembled when she brushed her hair behind her ear. In the way her eyes seemed older than the rest of her face.
I finally took a few steps forward. "Hey."
She turned slightly, as if pulling herself out of a trance. "Hey."
"Mind if I sit?"
She nodded her head, and I took the empty space beside her. The silence that followed was… thick. Not angry or cold, just heavy with everything we'd never said out loud. For a while, the only sound was the hoot probably from Sebastian outside. And then…
"So," I said, forcing the word out before I could stop myself, "how are you holding up?"
Her eyes flickered toward me, cautious. "I'm fine."
It was the kind of fine that meant anything but.
"Really?" I asked quietly.
Harriet hesitated. Her reflection wavered faintly in the glass, like even the light didn't know how to settle on her. "Some days are better than others," she admitted. "Some days… it feels like I'm still me. And some days I can't even move a pebble without feeling like I'm breaking apart inside."
I wanted to say something comforting, but my throat felt tight. What could I even say? That I understood? I didn't. I couldn't imagine losing the very thing that defined you—your gift, your power, the part of you that made you more than ordinary.
Instead, I just said softly, "That must be hard."
Harriet gave a faint, humorless laugh. "You could say that."
The silence returned. I fiddled with the hem of my pink sleeve, trying to find words that wouldn't sound forced. The truth was, talking to Harriet still felt strange. We'd spent so long orbiting each other like rival stars—close enough to feel each other's gravity, but always in competition.
"I've been meaning to ask," I said after a moment, "about that time in the field. When the rocks fell. How you—"
"Failed?" she finished for me, the word flat.
"I was going to say froze."
She glanced at me, and for the first time there wasn't defensiveness in her eyes. Just weariness. "It's okay," she said quietly. "You can say it. I failed."
"You didn't," I said, a little too quickly. "You tried, Harriet. You've done more than anyone here to protect us. You don't owe anyone perfection."
Harriet smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You sound like Dwight."
I felt a small laugh slip out before I could stop it. "He's rubbing off on me."
We fell silent again, but this time it didn't feel so strained. It was almost peaceful—two people sitting side by side, finally letting the noise settle.
After a moment, Harriet spoke again, her voice softer now. "You know, Alice… I used to hate you."
That caught me off guard. My head snapped toward her. "Well," I said awkwardly, "that makes two of us."
She chuckled, a low, tired sound that somehow eased the tension in my chest. "I know. I could tell. You wore it on your face every time I beat your scores."
"I did not," I said, pretending to glare.
"You did," she teased gently. Then her voice lowered. "But I didn't hate you because of anything you did. I hated you because you were everything I wasn't. You had this fire in you. You didn't care what people thought. You didn't crumble when people doubted you. I always envied that."
Her words hit deeper than I expected. I stared at her, realizing I'd spent years building this picture of Harriet—the perfect girl, the one who outshined me without even trying. I never stopped to think that maybe she was just as lost as the rest of us.
"I always thought you looked down on me," I admitted. "Like I was just… beneath you."
Harriet shook her head. "Never."
That word sat heavy between us.
Then she looked at me, really looked at me, and said, "You're stronger than you think, Alice. I know you don't see it, but everyone else does. Even Ryan."
"Ryan?" I asked, half-skeptical.
She nodded. "He trusts you. You may not notice it, but he listens when you talk. He sees something in you—something the rest of us can't fake."
I didn't know what to say.
For a second, I felt my throat tighten. "You know," I said softly, "for the longest time, I thought you were untouchable. The way you carried yourself… I always thought if I could just catch up, maybe I'd finally matter."
"You always mattered," Harriet said. "You just didn't see it."
Her tone was so steady, so sincere, that it undid something in me. I felt my eyes sting before I could stop them.
I turned away quickly, pretending to look at the sky. "You're going to make me cry, you know that?"
Harriet smiled faintly. "Then we'll both cry. I've done enough pretending for a lifetime."
We sat there a little longer, letting the quiet mend what years of silent resentment had broken. The night eased and a pale sliver of moonlight broke through the clouds. For the first time, I didn't feel like I was sitting next to someone I had to measure up to. I was just sitting next to Harriet—the girl who had once been my rival.
When we finally stood, she bumped my shoulder lightly. "Thanks for asking how I'm doing."
"Thanks for answering," I said.
As we walked back inside, something in the air between us felt different. Lighter. Like we'd both laid something heavy down and agreed, without saying it, not to pick it up again.
"Hey, Alice?"
Her voice was small—barely more than a thread carried by the rain outside.
I turned to her, surprised by the tone. Harriet rarely sounded unsure. "Hmm?"
She exhaled, eyes fixed on the floorboards. "I'm sorry about the past."
For a second, I didn't say anything. The words hung between us, fragile and unexpected. There were a hundred things she could've meant—the arguments, the cold stares, the petty things we both said when pride mattered more than peace.
But hearing her say it out loud, in that quiet, trembling voice… it was enough.
Something in my chest softened.
"I know," I said finally, my voice low. "Me too."
She looked up, searching my face for something—maybe forgiveness, maybe understanding—and when she found it, her shoulders eased.
Then, almost shyly, she asked, "Friends?"
I blinked, caught off guard, and then smiled. "Yeah. Friends."
And for the first time since we'd met, the word didn't feel strange on my tongue.
Maybe that's what forgiveness really is—not a grand apology or some big, dramatic moment, but small, quiet ones like this. The kind that sneak up on you until you realize you've already let go. And as I turned away, I smiled to myself, thinking—we were finally starting to heal.