The crimson flare tore open reality and dropped Quish into the heart of a memory that should not have existed.
The safehouse was gone. Where he expected cracked concrete walls and war tables scarred by years of secret planning, he found sunlight streaming through vaulted ceilings of glass and steel. Children's voices echoed through corridors lined with classrooms. Gifted students—barely teenagers—sparred in training yards, their laughter colliding with bursts of flame, streams of water, and fractured light.
But Quish's arrival twisted everything. The crimson flare rippled outward, bending light and air. Chalkboards screeched, glass panels vibrated, and a sparring match ended in panic as a boy's fireball spiraled into the rafters. Students froze mid-motion, staring at the stranger wreathed in stormlight at the center of their sanctuary.
Acuent was the first to appear, her presence cutting through the chaos. Her tone was measured, precise, each word clipped like a command.
"Students, clear the floor. Now."
Behind her, Aldus Fel emerged, her calm voice steadying the younger Gifted even as she carried the weight of dread. With a quiet gesture, faint memories flickered around her like ghostly silhouettes of past battles—a warning to all present of what intruders brought.
Astegger's blades of rift-light flashed into existence before Quish could take a step. Cold eyes locked onto him, her stance screaming distrust. "He's no student."
Colon's voice followed, smooth and disarming even in tension. "Maybe not. But he didn't walk in, did he? Let's not skip introductions before we bleed."
Kudin moved in close behind them, his soft eyes measuring Quish the way a healer measures a wound. He didn't speak, but the prayer under his breath was almost audible.
From the rafters, Slha's voice broke in, fast and sharp. "Already pulled him on the grid—no record. Nada. He's a ghost." Screens of code shimmered briefly in the air around her before vanishing.
Then Brakkon stepped forward, his frame towering, his uniform ragged with old insignia. His eyes narrowed, his senses drawn tight like a hunting animal's. Bone flickers twitched at his wrists, unformed blades eager to erupt. "I know that smell," he muttered, low and dangerous. "And I don't like it."
More Ampers gathered in a widening circle. Uncors flickered into sight only to vanish again, watching from the edges. Gule split in two, one form flanking, the other edging toward the students. Xylo leaned on an icy construct with a smirk that barely hid his tension, while Nullis lingered in the shadows, her gaze locked to Quish with an intensity born of both suspicion and unease.
And then, almost last, Anna—Glÿph—emerged from the crowd, her gloved hands trembling at her sides, her eyes fixed on the crimson flare's residue clinging to Quish's skin. She didn't speak, but recognition flickered there, quiet and raw.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Students huddled at the edges of the courtyard, panic simmering beneath their awe. Ampers braced for a fight, powers drawn tight like bowstrings.
Quish stood in the center of it all, silent, the multiverse pressing behind his eyes, the storm of his return burning in his chest.
Among the noise of crackling powers and the taut silence between breaths, Anna's gaze dropped to the intruder's feet.
The crimson boot.
Her chest tightened before her mind could catch up. That shade of red was seared into her memory—not because of the stranger standing before her, but because of the boy she had once watched disappear in a flare of light. Grant. That same impossible flare. That same damned boot.
Her breath hitched, and before she could stop herself, the word broke free from her throat:
"Grant!"
The name rang out like a bell struck too hard. The students froze mid-whisper, wide-eyed. The Ampers, tense and coiled, shifted uneasily. Brakkon's scowl deepened, bone shards threatening to burst through his knuckles. Astegger's blades wavered but didn't vanish. Even Acuent faltered, her precise composure bending under the crack of doubt.
Anna took half a step forward, her voice sharper now, desperate. "That's his boot. It's him—it has to be."
The stranger didn't answer. He stood silent in the stormlight, unreadable.
Colon's eyes flicked between Anna and Quish, his voice velvet but edged. "If he's Grant… why does he look like that? And if he's not… what's his game?"
Xylo crossed his arms, hiding tension under a smirk. "Boots don't make the man. Could be a trick, could be worse."
Kudin murmured a prayer, his brow furrowed, already bracing for wounds that hadn't yet come.
Brakkon growled low, barely audible. "If it's him, then something's wrong. Dead wrong."
The air grew heavier, each Gifted caught between disbelief and threat. One wrong move and the fragile line between recognition and violence would break.
Quish's crimson lightning shimmered faintly along his arms, and for the first time, his gaze shifted—settling on Anna.
The storm outside the Zenith Watch had followed him here, and now it was ready to break loose inside the school.
The hum of power still buzzed through the school, every Gifted on edge, when the intruder raised his hands slowly—not as a warrior, but as one who sought no quarrel. His voice cut through the tension, deep and deliberate, carrying the weight of something older than any of them expected.
"Amicus et protector."
The words rolled in Latin, steady and resonant. Friend and protector.
The unfamiliar cadence rang across the hall like a chant of old temples, soft yet commanding. It carried no threat, no sharpness, only a strange solemnity that settled like a quiet spell over the air. The trembling students stilled, their fear giving way to curiosity. Even the Ampers, sharp with suspicion, hesitated.
Aldus Fel's breath caught; her eyes narrowed, not in hostility, but in recognition. "Latin," she murmured, her voice low and reverent. "The tongue of records… of vows. He knows what he says."
And then came another voice—one none expected. John Charleston, broad-shouldered, alive when history had sworn him dead, stepped forward. His presence alone bent the moment into silence. He studied the crimson figure, his weathered face tightening with recognition of intent, if not of man.
"He speaks with truth," John said firmly. His gaze swept the Ampers, cutting down their hesitation with the weight of command. "Stand down. He's no enemy."
Brakkon bristled, bone edges sliding back into skin with visible reluctance. Astegger's blades dissolved in the air with a hiss. One by one, powers lowered, the tension bleeding into wary quiet.
Only Anna's eyes remained locked on the man—her whisper lingering, trembling between disbelief and hope.
"Grant…"
The corridor was thick with footsteps, the scrape of boots and the buzz of hushed voices. John led the way with Quish at his side, but no one stayed behind; the entire team trailed close, students peering from doorways and corners, wide-eyed at the crimson figure who had dropped into their lives.
John pushed open the door to his office—a cramped space lined with old maps, mission reports, and a weathered desk scarred with years of battles fought and lost. He gestured Quish inside, but the others crowded the threshold, unwilling to give distance.
For a long moment, Quish stood in the center, silent. Then, with deliberate calm, he reached up and unlatched the mask. The sound clicked louder than it should have in the quiet room.
The mask came away.
The man beneath was not the boy they remembered. His face was carved by years they had not seen, lines etched by battles across worlds. A short beard framed his jaw. Streaks of crimson threaded through his once-dark hair, not dyed, but burned in as if by some eternal fire. His eyes, though steady, carried the weight of distances unfathomable.
The sight hit Anna like a blow. Her breath caught, her hand half-raised as though to reach for him, then falling back to her side. The boy she remembered—the one who vanished—was gone, replaced by someone stranger, yet undeniably him.
Around her, the others shifted uneasily, their suspicions not gone but shaken. Whispers rippled among the students outside the door.
John, firm as ever, broke the silence. He studied the man's face, then asked the question hanging heavy in every heart.
"Are we in danger?"
For a long time, Quish did not answer John's question. His gaze wandered over the bookshelves, the maps, the relics pinned across the office walls. His jaw tightened as though each word had to be chosen with surgical care.
"I have learned more than how to fight," he said at last, voice low, steady. "I've learned what lies beyond our world. And I've seen the shadow of what's coming."
The Ampers shifted uneasily. Anna's heart hammered in her chest.
"There is a name you must remember," Quish continued. "Tarragon. An ancient force, a man whose power twisted history itself. You know the stories—that he was struck down. But endings are never so simple. I believe he will rise again. Perhaps he already stirs. And where he does, the world begins to fracture."
Murmurs erupted at once.
Slha, leaning against the doorframe with her tablet glowing faint blue, pushed up her glasses and muttered, "Not to spook anyone, but chatter's been flaring in hidden channels. Cult-y forums, encrypted traffic. Patterns that don't match the usual Gifted hate groups. Feels… orchestrated."
Aldus lowered her head, fingers brushing the spine of an ancient tome she carried. "Prophecies spoke of the 'first and last fire,' a cycle unbroken. Perhaps Tarragon was never an end… only an interlude."
Colon scoffed softly, masking his unease with bravado. "Or perhaps this is smoke and shadow, meant to rattle us."
Through it all, Anna never looked away from Quish. Her eyes narrowed, searching his face. Something in his tone, in the gaps between his words, told her he was holding back—that whatever he had seen, whatever he had done since disappearing, was far heavier than he admitted.
The room quieted, but the silence was jagged. Relief at his return mixed with dread of what his warning meant.
For the first time in years, the Ampers stood together again. Yet instead of unity, suspicion lingered in the air like a storm waiting to break.
And as Quish lowered his eyes to the floor, he knew the truth: his homecoming had brought not only hope but burden.