“Now, as you can see”—she paused to clear her throat, steadying her voice—“root systems are not only essential for water absorption but also for structural stability. In poor soil conditions, certain species will adapt—sometimes aggressively—by extending lateral roots far beyond their usual range. Some call it survival. I call it ... an act of will.”
Another flash of lightning lit the window, so bright it seemed to shatter the edges of the room. Isla blinked hard, her grip tightening on the chalk.
“In fieldwork, we’ve found instances of plants breaking through stone foundations, even manipulating the ground around them to anchor deeper during storms or droughts—”
The thunder came again, louder now. Her stomach turned. The sound of it wasn’t just overhead—it was below, behind, allaround. Somewhere in her chest, the pressure of memory bloomed.
A moment passed. Her mouth was still moving, but she wasn’t speaking anymore. She was six again. There’d been a storm that night, too. A storm that followed the night the bombs dropped.
The orphanage matron had screamed at them to stay in bed as sirens called out a warning, but Isla had already thrown herself beneath the iron cot, the darkness around her oppressive. Her hands had clutched Patchy to her chest, the wooden spoon that was her imaginary dog and friend. The one with the dirty string tied around so she could drag it behind her and take Patchy on walks. The hard wood wasn’t giving her the comfort she longed for.
A loud blast had torn through the air, blowing the roof away as debris flew in every direction. She screamed and clamped her hands over her ears to block the sound. Dust choked her lungs and left a gritty taste in her mouth. She lay trapped, blocked in by the collapsed building. Lightning followed soon after, flashing through a small gap to the outside world, threatening as it leapt toward her. Rain fell, soaking her shoulder—the one exposed part of her body—making her shiver. Every peal of thunder made her body clench, bracing for another bomb.
A sharp crack of thunder brought her back to the present; she glanced at her students, then inhaled sharply and turned to the board again, though her fingers trembled.
“As we’ll see in next week’s reading,” she continued, voice thinner now, “root competition often results in the decay of weaker systems ...”
She didn’t finish the sentence. She felt a strange pulse under her skin. Like the pressure beneath the earth before a sproutbreaks through, desperate for light—for escape. Her arm itched, and when she looked down, the skin along her inner wrist was glowing faintly—lines of heat coalescing, shifting into form.
She heard a few murmurs from her students and turned her back to them more fully. A mark—a symbol—seared itself into her skin. The lecture room blurred as the storm, both inside and out, kept building. Isla clutched her wrist and, moving stiffly, sank into the chair behind her desk. A hush had settled over the room; rows of university students stared back at her, waiting, looking uncomfortable at her odd behavior.
“Jimmy, please come take these papers and hand them out.”
Her voice remained calm, but she could feel the panic tightening in her chest. A wave of nausea followed. What was happening to her? Had she imagined the mark on her wrist? Yet she could still feel the tingling heat, almost like something alive.
“These papers are your next assignment,” she continued, keeping her tone as steady as possible. “Please complete the worksheet provided by Friday.”
Jimmy rose and crossed the room, glancing at her as he gathered the handouts. Isla straightened her shoulders, holding his gaze, and gave the young man an encouraging nod. She worried she was showing weakness. Being one of the few female professors in the country didn’t allow for it. In a male-dominated world, she had to be sharper, more intelligent, more capable—always better—just to justify her presence. The effort of it weighed more heavily on certain days.
Was it just the storm? Or was it the storm plus the fact that she was due for her period that had dragged her nerves closer to the edge than they would be on another day? Another obstacle. Another thing to master in a world that expected her to perform like a man. Maybe, maybe not. Storms were always a trigger forher panic attacks. It was just her luck that this one had come during her lecture.
Her students, having received their assignments, filed out of the room in a quiet stream. The door clicked shut behind the last of them, then Isla took a steadying breath and slowly lifted her hand from her wrist. She inhaled sharply. There, against her pale skin, was a small symbol—no longer red and searing, but smooth and dark, as if it had always been a part of her. She barely had time to process it before a voice startled her.
“Here, Professor. The leftover papers.”
Jimmy stood by her desk, a few of the papers in his hands. He was in his early twenties, not much younger than her twenty-nine years, and observant—too observant. His gaze flicked to her wrist just before she covered it again with her hand. He looked away, studying her desk.
“Thank you, Jimmy,” she said, her voice composed despite the rush in her chest. “Have a good week.”
His eyes lingered on the spot where her hand gripped her wrist, then he gave a brief nod and turned to leave. Jimmy was one of the men studying disciplines critical to the war effort—engineering, physics, medicine, chemistry, even theology were all needed. Students like him received military deferments. To fill the gaps left behind, universities had begun admitting more women. Not all fields welcomed them, but the war had forced open a few doors.
Isla had stepped through one of them—and had worked relentlessly to prove she belonged. She couldn’t afford to falter in front of men like Jimmy. Because when the war ended ... would there still be a place for her?
Standing, Isla smoothed down her pleated skirt and straightened her blouse. She forced herself to stay an extra hourto complete a few final preparations for the next day’s lessons. Thank goodness that had been her last lecture of the day; she would mark her students’ papers at home—in peace. Maybe with a cup of cocoa. She wasn’t going to talk to anyone about how the storm had affected her. Or the strange mark on her arm. She would cover it with a watch strap ... and hope that she could figure out what had happened. On her own.
Pulling on her coat, she buttoned it to the neck and glanced out the window. Rain still fell in relentless sheets, though the lightning had passed. Typical weather for York this time of year. The clock neared five, but darkness had already settled—deepened further by the storm.
She picked up the papers that needed marking and a couple of research journals, placing them in her bag. Slinging the satchel over her shoulder, Isla stepped out into the corridor ofOsbaldwick University. Looking around, she decided to take the less-used route to exit the gothic building. She did not wish to see anyone as she left.
The halls were long and vaulted, lined with stone archways and flickering wall sconces that cast a moody golden glow over the worn flagstone floors. Oil portraits watched in silence from their frames—stern-eyed founders and forgotten benefactors whose names were etched beneath in flaking gilt.
Her footsteps echoed softly beneath the high ceiling as she passed ancient oak doors, each carved with symbols of forgotten disciplines. The scent of old paper, damp wool, and something faintly metallic clung to the air—a smell as much a part of the place as its ivy-covered exterior walls. Even as she walked the empty passages, the university never quite felt still.
As she neared her chosen exit, a sound made her pause. She turned, glancing over her shoulder. No one was there, butsomething else was that made her heart clench. Thick, shadowlike smoke was unfurling across the corridor, stalking toward her with slow, unnatural purpose. It moved, low and deliberate, creeping along the flagstones like it had weight, like it was hunting. There was no smell of fire—no crackling, no heat—just that dense, eerie mass rolling steadily closer.
Isla took a step back, confusion tightening in her chest. Was there a fire? But the smoke didn’t behave the way it should. It twisted and coiled with intelligence. This wasn’t something science could explain.
She turned to run, but the smoke coiled tightly around her ankles. Isla couldn’t scream—the terror gripping her was too intense. The shadowy mass held her fast, solid and powerful. She lunged forward, desperate to break free, but the force yanked her back and she fell hard, her head striking the cold stone floor. Pain flared, and she curled in on herself, pulling her body into a fetal position. Memories of her childhood surged—of being trapped beneath the iron bed during London’s World War I bombing. She hugged herself as her fear deepened.
