None of them asked if I was ready.
I exhale, slow and shaky.
This isn’t just about channeling power or training anymore. This is about keeping the realms frombleeding together. It’s about preventing the kind of tear that lets monsters crawl through someone’s bedroom wall.
My bedroom wall.
I press a hand to my sleeve, to the place where the mark still hums faintly—a quiet reminder that whatever’s in me doesn’t belong to one world. Not entirely.
And maybe that’s the real problem.
What if I don’t belong anywhere?
I exhale, slow and shaky. My ribs feel too tight. My skin too thin.
A folded white garment rests at the foot of my bed, with white slip on shoes to match, and white undergarments. Ritual whites, I guess. I hadn’t noticed them when I walked in, but they’re here now, along with a small basin of salt water and a slip of paper with instructions written in that same curling script that seems to follow magic around this place like a perfume.
Cleanse. Focus. Present intent.
I rub my hands down my face. Because yeah, sure, that sounds simple. Just scrub off the fear and show up calm and glowy and mentally balanced for the magical binding ritual I didn’t ask for.
I glance toward the beds around me. Curtains pulled shut. No eyes watching. Still, I feel like someone is.
My pulse refuses to settle. I stand up before I can talk myself out of it and head toward the small washroom tucked behind a privacy screen.
One hour.
Just one.
How bad can it be?
…Right?
I followthe path back toward Combat Casting like the headmaster explained, a couple doors from Professor River’s class.
A single rune glows faintly above the door frame. My pulse kicks up. I draw in a breath, then push the door open.
The ritual chamber is circular, stone walls etched with layered runes that pulse faintly in the dim light. The ceiling rises high above, open to the sky beyond a lattice of warded cold iron. A small bench is off to the side of the room.
The air smells faintly of something sharp and green, like moss after rain and smoke caught in ancient paper.
And Raiden is already here. He stands near the center of the chamber, barefoot and shirtless. White pants hanging loosely to his hips.
Holy shit, he’s gorgeous.
Lean muscle ropes down his frame, honed and fluid, every inch of him shaped by combat. His skin is marked with ink—lines of deep black and burnished red wrapping across his chest, spiraling down his ribs, coiling around both biceps.
The designs aren’t decorative. They hum faintly with magic, old and wild. Symbols I can’t place: claw marks, rune-like curves, and threads of glowing light that flicker between them like they’re alive. Almost like fire. But not fire.
A shiver prickles along my spine. I force my gaze up, and his fiery eyes are already locked on me.
Before I can speak, Professor River steps from the shadows.
“You’re here. Good. The binding begins shortly.” His gaze flicks once toward Raiden. “Tsukino. Help her prepare.”
Raiden’s jaw tightens. For a beat, he doesn’t move. Then he exhales slowly and steps forward, each motion deliberate, controlled.
When he stops in front of me, his eyes sweep over the ritual whites I’m wearing—thin fabric, plain cut, no enchantments.They feel like they weren’t made for warmth or comfort, just…exposure.
