Scene 1: The Masked Spark
The first time I truly let power bleed through my fingers on this strange, vibrant world, it was not because I wanted to. It was because I had to.
We were deep into a controlled combat simulation inside one of the Academy's reinforced training domes—a cavernous space of metal walkways, collapsing cover points, and simulated environmental hazards. A test, they called it. A group of senior students, including the Vance girl, had been sent in to "observe promising recruits" and evaluate our adaptability.
I wasn't there to impress them.
And yet… I moved.
Controlled.
Calculated.
My opponents—two speed-types and a kinetic brawler—were reckless but strong. The brawler charged head-on, a slab of living fury. In a blink, I dodged the charge and redirected his momentum just slightly. Not enough to raise suspicion, just enough to let him crash into the reinforced wall behind me. I didn't touch him, not directly—though I could've. My real power itched behind my eyes, behind my hands, demanding I siphon, I consume. I refused it.
A feint. A subtle flick of energy. Enough to lift dust in a direction opposite my movement—an illusion of telekinetic force, mimicked by years of precision control. The two speedsters fumbled trying to flank me. My movements were smooth, rehearsed, a dance I'd been performing in shadows for centuries.
Then came Katherine Vance.
She didn't attack, not at first. She watched—observed the tight angles of my defense, the flow of my weight distribution, the stillness behind every shift of my shoulders. Her gaze was sharp. Too sharp.
She stepped forward, eyes glowing faintly. "Impressive," she said aloud, even as the simulation wound down.
Others nodded. Jax gave a low whistle. Even the quiet elementalist—Jeremiah, I believe—tilted his head, a hint of wary respect in his storm-blue eyes.
I felt... acknowledged.
And I hated how much it affected me.
Then Katherine smiled—not politely, not politically, but genuinely—and said, "We could use someone like you at the Guild."
It wasn't an invitation I could afford to decline. "Lead the way," I said.
And as we walked through the corridors, with her talking lightly about protocols and Guild structure, I focused on one thing—masking the glyphs that coiled beneath my skin, the Martian tattoos of the Obsidian Bloodline. My energy bent subtly inward, reshaping my skin, hiding the truth beneath a cloak of false normalcy.
She didn't notice. No one did.
But the effort left a subtle ache in the base of my skull—a reminder. This mask would not hold forever.
Scene 2: The Guild's Veins
The Guild of Sentinels was nestled behind reinforced gates and minimalist exteriors. Inside, it pulsed like a living organism—smooth passageways of matte steel, wide-open halls buzzing with kinetic force, tactical labs lined with glowing schematics. It felt... familiar. Not in architecture, but in presence. Like the war chambers of the Obsidian Court. Less ruthless, more human, but still humming with quiet violence beneath its polished discipline.
Mr. Vex met us in a wide atrium flooded with natural light. A tall man with a rigid posture, eyes dark and unreadable. There was something in the way he regarded me—like a mathematician trying to solve a variable he didn't like the shape of.
"Markus Thorne," he said, nodding once. "Welcome. Katherine has spoken well of your performance."
"Glad to be here," I answered carefully, matching tone and posture, never overstepping.
He waved a hand toward the lift shaft behind him. "We're currently calibrating a new set of recruits. I'll have Jax take your biometric readings for gear fitting after drills. Andrews," he added, turning toward Jeremiah, "show him the basics after your shift ends."
Jeremiah stepped forward. I saw the weight behind his eyes. Not suspicion, not quite—but recognition. Of pain. Of isolation. He understood something.
We trained for a short while—non-combat drills mostly, enough to let me move among them and learn their rhythms. Their powers were impressive. Not refined like our Royal Guard, but potent. Katherine's blasts echoed like controlled explosions. Jeremiah conjured water into solid ice constructs without effort. Garth was a juggernaut. Jax radiated plasma waves. Lyra, they said, was away on assignment. A shame—I had been curious about the girl I'd seen during orientation. The one who moved like light bending around gravity.
Later, I stood in the forge-lab as Jax clamped a metallic harness to my arms, taking readings. "You've got a weird signature," he muttered.
"Unstable?" I asked, feigning concern.
"Nah. Just... layered. Complex. Like there's something deeper under the surface."
You have no idea, I thought.
He chuckled and tapped a holoscreen. "You'll get your starter gear by the end of the week. Vex moves fast."
When Jeremiah came to collect me, we wandered through the lower wing. A quieter section—observation decks, glass-walled strategy rooms, memorial halls with names etched in dark stone.
He spoke first.
"My family never accepted what I am either," he said, quietly. "Healing is seen as... weakness in my culture. A deviation. I used to hide it."
"And now?" I asked.
"Now they know. The Guild knows. It changes things."
I nodded slowly. "My father wanted something else from me. Something cruel. I couldn't... be what he needed. So I was exiled."
I didn't lie. I just didn't give the whole truth.
Jeremiah paused. "It's not easy being the one who disappoints them."
"No," I murmured. "It isn't."
We stopped at a corner, silent for a moment. That's when it happened.
A burst of motion. Papers fluttered. A sharp gasp. A collision.
She had turned the corridor too fast, arms full of files. She slammed right into me—documents scattering like snow in a blizzard. I instinctively caught her, one hand steadying her shoulder, the other catching a file mid-air.
"I'm so—" she began.
Our eyes locked.
Her iris was a fractured hue, like violet ink spilled into morning frost. Her hair smelled like storm-wind. The shimmer around her—unconscious illusion energy—tickled the edge of my perception.
And she looked at me like she'd seen a ghost.
"Sorry," she whispered.
"Don't be," I said, quietly, almost against my own instinct.
We both bent to collect the papers. Her hand brushed mine.
The touch was light. Bare. But something passed between us. Not power. Not energy. Just… presence.
Recognition?
I didn't know.
But something shifted.
And I was suddenly, painfully aware—I wasn't just infiltrating anymore.
I was entangling.
Scene 3: The Quiet Before the War
Later that night, alone in my dorm room, I stared at the city skyline through the narrow window. Lights blinked like distant stars. The noise of New York drifted in—sirens, laughter, the hum of a city that never stopped.
I sat in silence.
These humans. These Sentinels. They were not what I expected. They weren't weak. They weren't predictable. They weren't anything like the caricatures my father described.
And that girl—Lyra.
Why had she looked at me that way?
Why had I looked back?
I could feel it. The path before me was no longer straight. My mission was still clear—observe, report, betray if needed. But now, threads tangled where there had been only stone.
My mother had said: "Find the good."
Tonight, I didn't know if I had found it.
But I had seen its echo.
And for the first time, I wasn't sure if I wanted to destroy it.