Elias woke to the shrill ring of his alarm before dawn's pale glow had seeped past his curtains. For a moment he lay still, listening to Sophie's steady breathing in the next room. His side felt completely normal—Celestia's healing magic had erased every bruise and cut. To everyone else, he was just Elias Cross: top student, quiet, unremarkable.
He slid out of bed and headed to his desk by the window. Textbooks lay open in neat stacks, notebooks filled with careful handwriting. From the hallway came the soft clatter of dishes—his mother in the kitchen, already preparing breakfast.
In the cramped warmth of the Cross family kitchen, his mother placed a steaming bowl of oatmeal before him while Sophie chattered about her school project.
"Big day today, Elias," his father said over toast, lifting his briefcase. "Your job-shadow at Whitman Industries. Remember to make a good impression."
Elias nodded, forcing a smile. "Got it, Dad."
Sophie grinned at him. "Do you think they'll let me visit?"
He ruffled her hair. "Maybe on the weekend."
No questions about bruises. No bandages. Just a normal morning.
After sending Sophie off on the bus, Elias set out for town. The sigil on his left palm was dark now—he'd practiced hiding its glow even in daylight. He passed familiar shops and cafes, greeting neighbors who only saw a studious teenager with his backpack slung low.
His mind, however, hummed with other thoughts:
Celestia's instructions on masking their bond
The hunters who'd tried to tear them apart
The safehouse beneath Blackthorn Library
First Period: Calculus
In Mr. Patel's class, Elias solved differential equations swiftly, but his focus flickered to the constellations of energy he could feel under his skin. He tapped his pencil on the desk, counting breaths. In… out… When he answered a tricky problem correctly, his classmates glanced at him with polite nods. He tucked his notebook closed.
Between classes, Elias slipped into the quiet corner of the school library. He opened his chemistry book but didn't read. Instead, he let his mind replay Celestia's words:
"More hunters will come. You must be ready."
He closed his eyes. The faint hum of the sigil pulsed once. He pictured it dimming—empty mind, steady breath—until it blinked out for a heartbeat.
A soft cough made him start.
Arielle Winters slipped into the seat across from him, her auburn hair catching the lamplight. She balanced a stack of books and smiled.
"Elias, hey! Ready for the science fair? I need your reaction-rate curves."
He blinked away his tension and slid her the page. "Here you go."
She studied the numbers. "Perfect, as always. I'll handle the presentation slides. You want to watch my rehearsal for the spring concert tonight?"
He hesitated—half tempted to say yes—then remembered. "Maybe tomorrow. I have that internship meeting after school."
Her smile flickered with disappointment but remained bright. "Next time, then." She gathered her books and gave him a quick wave before slipping back into the stacks.
The final bell rang. Elias packed his bag and headed for the bus, nodding to classmates who called his name. Whitman Industries loomed ahead—glass and steel offices that smelled of coffee and ambition. He checked the time: ten minutes early. Enough to clear his mind.
By supper, he was back at the dinner table with his family. Conversation drifted from Sophie's homework to his father's latest business deal. Elias answered in clipped tones, polite and calm. Later, he helped Sophie with her bedtime story, watching her eyelids grow heavy.
As he turned to leave, Sophie mumbled, "Don't stay up too late, Elias."
He smiled. "I won't, promise."
That night, Elias sat by his bedroom window, staring at the moonlit street. He flexed his hand—sigil still hidden beneath skin. He was juggling two lives: a normal schoolboy by day and a bonded warrior by night.
A soft click behind him made his blood run cold. He spun around, lantern light trembling across his walls.
In the doorway stood a single black feather, fluttering to the floor—impossible in a closed room.
He reached for it. The sigil on his palm flared.
And then a whisper, cold as iron, curled through the darkness:
"You cannot hide from us, Cross."
His heart thundered as the lantern guttered.