I'D GOTTEN USED to Morgan's light footsteps padding through the hallway at night. Sometimes he'd sneak into the kitchen for cookies or to check on Hunter sleeping by the hearth. But lately, those steps had changed. They were heavier—hurried, uneven. For three nights straight, I'd heard him waking with a start. Whimpers. Then silence.
That morning, when I entered the dining room, he sat at the far end of the table, head down, sketching again. His small shoulders trembled with every stroke of the pencil. The sunlight through the windows washed him in pale gold, but it only made him look more fragile.
"Morning, Morgan," I said softly, setting my tray down. He didn't look up. His hand shook so badly that the pencil scratched through the paper.
I pulled the chair beside him. "Hey," I said again, gentler this time. "You okay?"
When he finally raised his face, my stomach sank. His eyes were red and hollow. There were shadows under them that didn't belong to a child.
He swallowed. "Miss Alice…" His voice came out broken, almost a whisper. "I…"
I hesitated, my gaze falling on the paper.
At first glance, it was chaos—dark charcoal smudges, violent strokes. But as I focused, the image began to take shape. The house—our home—was torn apart, the walls crumbling into fire. The fields behind it were swallowed by smoke. I could see small figures running—some I recognized, others only half-formed. But at the center stood something else. It was a boy standing in front of an army of pale men in black suits. His arms outstretched as if shielding someone from the inferno. I stared at it for a long moment, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
"What is this supposed to be?" I asked, though I wasn't sure I wanted the answer.
Morgan's hands trembled. "I don't know," he said. "It just came into my head when I woke up. I can't stop seeing it. Every time I close my eyes—" He broke off, gripping his temples as if the image hurt to remember. "It's too loud," he whispered.
I knelt beside him, gently prying the pencil from his hand before he could break it. His skin was cold and clammy.
"Morgan," I said quietly. "Was it a nightmare?"
He shook his head. "Not a nightmare. It's like a memory that hasn't happened yet."
Something cold slipped down my spine. He looked at me then, and his eyes—those frightened, exhausted eyes—held a depth I hadn't seen before. "Someone's coming, Miss Alice," he whispered. "They'll burn it all. You'll try to stop them. But you can't."
I wanted to tell him he was just tired, that it was only a dream. But the words stuck in my throat. Because I'd seen his drawings before—each one like a breadcrumb leading to the truth. The figure by the lake before the Others appeared. Every nightmare had come to pass. And this one felt worse.
I crouched lower, meeting his eyes. "What do you feel whenever you experience your nightmares, Morgan?"
"My head sometimes hurts. They keep getting louder. Like something's trying to show me."
I didn't know what to say. I wanted to comfort him, to tell him it meant nothing—but what if it did? What if his drawings weren't just dreams, but warnings?
"Morgan," I said carefully, "thank you for telling me. I'll talk to Headmaster Ryan about it, okay? Maybe he'll know what it means."
His small hand gripped mine, trembling. "Promise you won't let them come back."
"Who?"
"The men in black." His voice cracked. "They were there."
I felt the blood drain from my face. Before I could respond, Miss Byrd called from the hall. "Morgan? Come now, dear, breakfast is ready."
He hesitated, eyes darting to mine. I forced another smile. "Go on. I'll be right there."
When he finally left, I stayed there on my knees, staring at the paper. The house was crumbling, the willow bent to its roots. A shadow loomed behind it all, blurred but unmistakably human—its eyes hollow, its shape burning at the edges. And there, in the middle, a boy stood while clutching something close to his chest. I didn't realize how hard I was gripping the drawing until I saw the paper tremble in my hands.
I rose quickly and left the study, my heart pounding as I crossed the corridor. I didn't stop until I reached the library, where Ryan usually spent his mornings reading through old reports and cataloging records. But today, he wasn't sitting by his desk. Instead, he stood by the window, looking out toward the field where the younger gifted were training under Eleanor's supervision. The light caught the faint lines of fatigue on his face, the kind that never quite faded no matter how much he slept.
He turned when he heard me. "Alice?"
"Headmaster Ryan," I said, holding up the drawing. "We need to talk."
Something in my tone must've caught him off guard. He gestured toward the table. "Sit."
I didn't. I laid the paper flat in front of him.
His brows furrowed as he leaned closer. "What's this?"
I nodded. "He drew it this morning. He said it came from a dream."
"Who?"
"Morgan," I said.
He exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the burning outline of the home. "He's always had a vivid imagination."
"This isn't imagination," I pressed. "You've seen what his dreams can do. Remember the one before the woods?"
Ryan's silence was answer enough.
"He's having them again," I continued. "He said it feels like something's showing him things—things that haven't happened yet."
For a moment, the only sound was the faint ticking of the old clock above the shelves.
Finally, Ryan straightened, his gaze heavy on me. "You think these drawings are warnings?"
I hesitated, then nodded. "I don't know. But if there's even a chance—"
He cut in gently, "—then we take it seriously."
That steadiness in his voice was something I'd always admired. But this time, I caught the faint edge beneath it. He was worried too.
"I'll speak with Dr. Crowe," he said after a pause. "Perhaps there's a scientific explanation. Something about his mind, his connection to energy."
"But what if there isn't?" I asked quietly. "What if he's really seeing what's to come?"
Ryan didn't answer. He turned to the window again, watching the field where the others trained. For a moment, everything looked painfully normal.
Then he spoke, voice low. "Then we prepare."
"But we don't know when that dream of his would happen."
"We don't have to. By nightfall tomorrow, we will be evacuating."
"To where?"
"Far from here. Far from where the Others couldn't track," Ryan said.
"But how about our thing? The home? The documents? Everything?"
"We can't take everything, Alice. I should start making plans right now. I'll do whatever it takes to save the residents of this home. I can't let anyone harm the gifted, especially my wife."
The Others might have vanished from sight, but that didn't mean they were gone. And Morgan's drawing felt less like a dream and more like a countdown.
***
Night had settled softly over Willowmere, that kind of stillness that only comes after rain. The lamps in the corridor burned low, their golden light bleeding through the edges of my door. I sat by the window, absently twirling a primrose between my fingers—a bloom I'd kept alive on the sill since the first day I arrived. Its petals were pale yellow now, soft and almost trembling under the faint wind that slipped through the glass.
Riven was in the corner of my room, leaning against the wall with a half-smile, absently flipping one of his dog tags between his fingers. We'd been quiet for a while—comfortable quiet, the kind that didn't need words.
But my mind wasn't quiet.
Ever since Ryan and I had spoken about Morgan's drawings—about how the boy might be seeing fragments of what was coming—I couldn't stop thinking about it. The sketch of the burning home still sat folded on my desk, edges wrinkled from how often I'd picked it up and stared at it. The idea of fate, of something so dark already written—it clawed at the back of my head.
I tried to shake it off. I pressed the primrose against the glass and watched its reflection blur with the stars outside.
"What are you thinking about?" Riven's voice broke the silence.
"Nothing," I lied, because it was easier than saying everything.
He chuckled softly. "You're a terrible liar, Whit."
I turned to glare at him, but before I could retort, a scream cut through the air.
A woman's scream. Sharp. Raw.
Riven's expression changed instantly—his joking vanished. "What was that?"
My chair scraped the floor as I stood, heart hammering. "It came from downstairs."
We didn't think. We just ran.
The halls were chaos—footsteps, startled voices, the sound of something falling. My bare feet slapped against the wooden steps as I followed the noise toward the parlor, the sound growing louder with every turn.
And then I saw her.
Eleanor—her face pale, her hands gripping her swollen stomach as she doubled over, gasping in pain. Ryan was at her side, one arm around her shoulders, the other steadying her as Miss Byrd hurriedly cleared the sofa.
"Her water broke!" Miss Byrd cried, voice trembling.
I froze for a moment, breath caught halfway in my throat, before rushing forward. "What do you need?"
"Water," Ryan said quickly, eyes flicking to me but full of urgency. "And towels—anything clean."
"I'll get it!"
Riven had already moved to help, grabbing the edge of the table and pushing it aside to make room. He knelt beside Ryan, steadying Eleanor's legs as Miss Byrd fetched a basin. Hunter hovered at the door, ears flattened, whining low. My hands were shaking as I filled a glass of water from the kitchen, nearly spilling it twice before I ran back. When I returned, the parlor was a storm of motion.
I placed the water down beside them and backed away to give space.
Harriet and Dwight appeared moments later, breathless, Harriet's hair disheveled, Dwight still half in his training gear. "What happened?" Dwight demanded.
"Eleanor's in labor," I said.
Miss Byrd turned, sweat glistening on her forehead. "If you're not helping, keep the children back."
As if summoned, little footsteps echoed down the hall. I happened to look at where the sound was coming, only to see Morgan, Augustus, and Cornelius standing, rubbing their eyes.
"Stay there," I told them gently, but they hovered near the doorway, peeking in.
The storm outside had returned, rain drumming faintly on the roof as lightning flickered beyond the windows. Inside, Eleanor's breathing came in short bursts, Ryan's hand never leaving hers.
"It's all right," he whispered. "You're doing so well."
She let out another cry, and Miss Byrd called, "One more push, Eleanor! You can do this!"
It happened so suddenly that none of us were sure if what we were hearing was real—at least, not until Eleanor doubled over, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat.
For a heartbeat, the room froze. Then chaos broke loose.
Ryan was already at her side, his chair scraping against the floor as he lunged forward. Miss Byrd dropped the basin she'd been carrying, water splashing across the wooden boards. I stood in shock, my hands trembling as Eleanor clutched her stomach, her face pale and glistening with sweat.
Her breath came out in broken bursts. "It's—Ryan—it's happening—"
Ryan's face went rigid. "Miss Byrd! Get the linens—now!"
Miss Byrd scrambled into motion, her usually calm demeanor cracking under urgency. I rushed to fetch a glass of water, my pulse hammering in my ears. Harriet appeared from the hall, eyes wide, while Dwight and Riven came running after her.
"Is she—?" Dwight began, but his words trailed off the moment he saw Eleanor.
Riven froze beside me, his posture awkward—caught between wanting to help and not knowing if he should. Hunter barked once, then sat down obediently by the doorway as if even he understood the gravity of the moment.
Ryan looked over his shoulder, his voice clipped but controlled. "Dwight, Riven—step outside. Give her space."
They both nodded immediately. Dwight guided Riven toward the door, his usual composure breaking into nervous silence. The sound of the door shutting behind them left a strange stillness in the room, broken only by Eleanor's strained breathing and Miss Byrd's hurried footsteps.
I knelt beside the bed, holding the glass of water to Eleanor's lips. She took a trembling sip, whispering, "It hurts—"
"I know," Ryan murmured, his hand brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead. For all his strength, his voice shook slightly—a crack of fear behind his calm.
Miss Byrd returned with a bundle of white sheets and towels, her face flushed. She began giving quick, precise instructions, her voice steadying as instinct took over.
"Miss Whitlock, keep the cloths warm. Mr. Haye, stay by her side—she'll need your voice."
Ryan nodded, gripping Eleanor's hand tight. "You're doing great, love. Just breathe. Focus on me."
Eleanor nodded weakly, her breaths short and fast. I dampened a towel and pressed it gently to her forehead. Her skin burned beneath it.
Then came the moment—an ache, a cry, a sound so raw it cut straight through the walls. Eleanor's body tensed, and Miss Byrd leaned in, her voice calm but commanding.
"Push, Eleanor. Now."
Time seemed to stretch thin.
Her cries mingled with the storm of footsteps outside—Harriet shouting something down the hall, the faint scrape of Dwight's boots pacing. And then—after what felt like forever—a sharp, piercing wail filled the room.
Everything stilled.
Miss Byrd lifted the newborn into the light—a tiny, squirming thing, pink and perfect, her cries cutting through the silence like music.
"It's a girl," Miss Byrd breathed, her eyes shining with relief.
Eleanor collapsed back against the pillows, exhausted but smiling, her tears glimmering. Ryan laughed—a quiet, disbelieving sound—and bent to press his forehead to hers.
"She's beautiful," Eleanor whispered.
"She's you," Ryan said softly, his voice breaking.
I stood there frozen, my chest tight. All the fear, the tension, the sleepless nights—it melted away in that moment, replaced by something pure, almost fragile.
The door opened slowly then, and Dwight peeked inside. "Is it—?"
Miss Byrd smiled faintly. "A healthy baby girl."
Riven stood behind him, his usual guarded expression softening as he looked toward the small, wailing bundle in Miss Byrd's arms.
Neither of them said a word—they didn't need to. Dwight just let out a quiet breath and placed a hand on Riven's shoulder, both of them stepping back to give the family space again.
As they lingered outside, I caught Riven's reflection through the glass—a small, wistful smile tugging at his mouth before he looked away toward the night.
Inside, Eleanor whispered weakly, "What should we name her?"
Ryan turned toward me for a moment, and my eyes caught on the small flower resting by the windowsill—the one I'd plucked from the willow tree earlier that day. A primrose.
When I looked back at Ryan, he was already smiling faintly, as if the thought had reached him too.
"Prim," he said quietly. "We'll call her Prim."
Eleanor laughed softly through her tears, and even Miss Byrd's voice trembled as she repeated it under her breath—"Prim."
Ryan leaned down and pressed a kiss to Eleanor's forehead. "You did it," he murmured.
I thought of the little primrose on my windowsill I had taken to this very room. It looked fragile, but it never wilted. That's what made it beautiful to me—not its color, not even the way it seemed to glow against the gray of its pot. And maybe that's why Ryan chose it. Maybe that's why Eleanor smiled through her tears when she heard it. Because "Primrose" sounded like survival dressed as gentleness. It was hope disguised as something simple.
I looked at the baby in Eleanor's arms then, still pink and wrinkled and impossibly small, and I thought—'if she grows up anything like her name, she'll be unstoppable.'
It was a beautiful name because it wasn't just pretty. It meant something.
A flower that thrives where it shouldn't.
A beginning that follows the coldest winters.
A reminder that even in places like ours, life still dares to bloom.
And then, almost reverently, he reached for the chain around his neck. I recognized it instantly. The silver gleamed faintly in the lamplight as he unclasped it.
Eleanor watched him, exhausted but smiling. "Ryan…"
"She'll need it more than I will."
The necklace began to glow faintly as he placed it against the baby's small chest. The light pulsed before dimming again.
"Part of my gift is bound to it," Ryan said quietly. "It will protect her. If anything ever happens to us."
Augustus had crept closer without anyone noticing, as his small eyes fixed on the pendant. He looked up at me, then at the necklace again, fascination shining in his face.
"It's glowing," he whispered.
I crouched beside him, my voice low. "Yeah."
Lucy appeared seconds later, her face still weary from the earlier panic. "Augustus, Cornelius," she called softly. "Come on now—it's late."
The twins hesitated, reluctant to leave, but Lucy gently took their hands. Before turning away, Augustus glanced back one last time, eyes lingering on the pendant that now rested near the baby's heart.
Ryan handed the infant back to Eleanor, who was already whispering to her daughter, tracing her tiny cheek with a trembling finger. I stood back, watching. The scene felt fragile—like a fleeting miracle in a world built on cracks. When Ryan finally looked at me, he smiled faintly.
"Remember that necklace, Alice," he said, his tone oddly deliberate.
I nodded, though I didn't quite understand why he emphasized it. "I will."
And beside me, Augustus's eyes were still fixed on the faint glimmer of the silver chain, the curiosity in them deep and wordless.
Outside, thunder rolled again.
Eleanor was resting with the baby cradled carefully in her arms. Ryan sat beside her, one hand on her shoulder, the other absently brushing Prim's tiny fingers. The rest of us lingered near the doorway. For the first time in months, the home felt new.
And then—
A shadow swept past the glass, so fast it could've been imagined—except for the gust of cold wind that followed. Riven's hand instinctively went to the weapon at his belt. Hunter's growl rumbled low from the hall. Before anyone could react further, something struck the veranda outside with a heavy thud.
"Stay here," Ryan said sharply, already on his feet.
But the door burst open before he could reach it.
Sebastian stumbled in—no longer the poised creature of air and feather, but a blur of exhaustion. His owl form dissolved mid-step, feathers peeling back into fabric and skin until he stood before us, hunched and panting. His face that was half-human and half-avian was drawn tight with fear. And I had never seen him like that.
"Sebastian?" I breathed, stepping forward.
He looked up. "They're coming," he rasped. "Five—maybe six."
"Who's coming?" I asked.
"The Others," he replied, causing everyone to stop.
"Are you sure?" Ryan asked.
"Yeah. I saw them crossing the eastern ridge."
The warmth that had filled the room seconds ago shattered instantly.
Ryan's expression hardened, all tenderness gone. "How far?"
"Too close," Sebastian said, his breath ragged. "They're armed—moving fast. I tried to divert them, but—" He winced, clutching at a gash on his shoulder that I hadn't noticed until then. "Didn't work. They've been tracking something. Or someone."
Miss Byrd's face went pale. "The baby," she whispered.
Eleanor instinctively clutched Prim tighter, her trembling hands drawing the child close to her chest. My pulse was thundering in my ears. The shift from peace to panic was so sharp it made my stomach twist. Just minutes ago, we were smiling. Now, the air itself felt thinner.
Ryan's voice cut through the chaos. "Harriet, Dwight—get everyone to the lower hall. Miss Byrd, take Eleanor and the child. Keep the youngest together and stay out of sight."
"What about us?" Riven asked.
Ryan turned to him, then to me. His eyes were grave but resolute. "You two stay close. I'll need you ready."
The gravity in his tone left no room for argument.
Sebastian swayed slightly, and I reached out before he could collapse. His skin was cold, his breathing shallow. "You shouldn't have flown this far," I said, helping him sit.
"I couldn't not warn you," he muttered, his feathers trembling as they receded. "They were too close. I could feel their presence even in the air."
"Then we don't have much time," Ryan said grimly. He turned toward the hallway, his shadow stretching long against the wooden floor. "Everyone—prepare yourselves."
Around us, the house stirred into motion.
Harriet and Dwight hurried off to gather the others. Miss Byrd lifted Eleanor carefully, supporting her as they made their way toward the nursery, where Prim's faint cries echoed softly. The primrose I'd left on the table had fallen, its petals scattered across the floor. I bent down, picked it up, and tucked it into my pocket without thinking. Only, it withered.
A collective silence fell over the room. The sound of thunder rolled above us.
Ryan didn't waste a second. "Eleanor, Miss Byrd, stay hidden until I say otherwise."
Eleanor nodded, already ushering the smallest children toward the stairs. Miss Byrd followed, whispering reassurances that felt paper-thin.
Ryan turned to the rest of us. "The perimeter needs to hold. We've fortified the west side before, but the north remains weak. Dwight, take the east hall with Harriet. Sebastian, you're with me."
His eyes finally met mine. "Alice—make sure the south entrance is secured. If they break through there, we lose the house."
I nodded, swallowing hard. "Understood."
And then he was gone, his coat whipping behind him as he disappeared into the storm.
For a moment, the hall stood empty except for the flicker of candlelight and the echo of hurried footsteps. I forced myself to move—grabbed my cloak, my boots, anything to give my shaking hands purpose. But before I reached the door, a voice stopped me.
"Whit."
I stopped and looked back. Riven stood by the stairwell. Hunter pressed against his leg, growling softly as if sensing the shift in the air.
"You heard it too?" I asked. My voice came out thinner than I meant.
He nodded once. "The ground's shaking again. It's not just thunder this time."
I tried to keep my voice steady, but fear slipped through anyway. "Sebastian said they're near."
His jaw tightened, and for a long second, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the distant patter of rain. Then, slowly, he stepped closer. "If something happens…" He trailed off, glancing away like the words were heavier than he could carry.
"Don't," I said quickly. "Don't talk like that."
But he didn't stop. His hand reached into his shirt, pulling out the metal tag that always hung against his chest. The one he never took off—not once since the day I met him. He looked at it for a heartbeat before unclasping the chain.
"Then take this."
"Riven—"
"Please." His voice was quiet, but it left no room for argument. He pressed it into my palm. "So you'll always have light."
The tag was cold against my skin, but it felt alive somehow. I turned it over in my hand:
HYEON, RIVEN
741-99-0012
A NEG
ALL NONE
R T 25
I wanted to tell him to keep it, to say I didn't need a reminder, that I'd rather have him here than any piece of metal—but the words jammed in my throat.
So instead, I nodded. "You'll get it back."
He smiled faintly, the kind that didn't reach his eyes. "You better keep that promise."
Before I could respond, another tremor rippled through the floorboards. The candles flickered violently. Somewhere outside, a tree snapped in the wind.
Hunter barked once. Riven's hand brushed my shoulder. "Go," he said softly. "Do what Ryan asked."
I didn't argue this time. I couldn't.
As I turned for the door, I looked back once—and for a fleeting second, through the blur of rain against the windows, I saw him silhouetted in the light.
The rain came down in torrents, soaking through my cloak almost instantly. The path to the south entrance was slick with mud. I could hear shouting from the east wing—Dwight barking orders, and Harriet's voice strained. Every step closer to the treeline felt like walking into the jaws of something vast and unseen.
I reached the southern gate and crouched, running my hands along the iron latch to check the lock. My palms were trembling so hard I almost dropped the bolt. The metal felt colder than ice. Behind me, the wind howled through the pines. For a moment, I thought I saw movement—just a flicker, a shadow slipping between the trees. My breath caught.
"Sebastian?" I called quietly.
No answer.
I strained to listen, but all I heard was rain.
Then, faintly, the sound of wings.
He appeared out of the dark, feathers slick, eyes burning like gold embers. "They're close," he hissed, landing beside me. "Ryan's forming a line near the north entrance. Dwight's keeping the east secure. But something's… off."
"What do you mean?"
"They're not advancing," he said. "They're circling."
Circling.
The word made my stomach drop.
I looked toward the tree line again. Somewhere out there, I could almost feel them watching—silent, patient, waiting for something.
Before I could respond, another tremor shook the ground, stronger this time. Lightning ripped through the clouds, illuminating the forest for a split second—and in that flash, I saw them. Six figures in black, faces pale and eyes vacant. And then the light vanished, and they were gone.
I stumbled back, heart hammering. "They're here."
Sebastian didn't hesitate. "Go to Ryan. Now."
I wanted to argue, but my body was already moving. My boots pounded against the soaked earth as I ran. The sound of thunder rolled behind me, or maybe it wasn't thunder at all. Maybe it was footsteps. When I burst through the north gate, the scene was chaos. Ryan stood at the center of it, his hands glowing faintly as he anchored a shimmering barrier across the field. Harriet was kneeling nearby, helping Lucy steady the frightened children.
"Headmaster!" I called. "They're at the south line!"
He didn't even turn. "I know."
The barrier pulsed like a heartbeat, bright against the storm. "They're surrounding us."
There was something terrifying about the way he said it, like he'd already decided what he was willing to sacrifice.
Eleanor appeared beside him. "The tunnels are ready. The young ones are safe."
Ryan nodded once, his gaze cutting to me. "Alice. Stay with Harriet and Lucy. Protect the south wing. Whatever happens—don't let anyone breach that door."
"Understood."
But as I turned to go, a flash of light blinded my eye.
'You better keep that promise,' I remember Riven's words.
I clutched the dog tag in my palm, feeling the cold press of the letters against my skin.
HYEON, RIVEN.
Then suddenly, a sharp crack tore through the night. That was the last thing I remembered before everything disappeared into ringing silence and darkness.