My shadows swirl restlessly, forming shapes that look suspiciously like schoolbooks and graduation caps. One even manages a pretty decent impression of what I assume is supposed to be a wizard's robe, complete with a pointy hat.
Traitors.
"Alright, alright," I mutter, swatting at the shadow display. "I get it. You want to go to magic school and become the next Harry Potter. But have you considered the very real possibility that I'll end up being the magical equivalent of the kid who eats paste?"
Mouse gives me a look that clearly says, "You already eat paste, what's the difference?" before starting to groom his paw with exaggerated indifference.
I stick my tongue out at him. Real mature, I know.
But as I lie there, I can't shake the memory of the Nightwraith, its twisted form reaching for me with those impossibly long claws. The way my shadows had lashed out, more panic than purpose. And then there was Thorne, with his knowing smirk and his talk of my power growing stronger. The amethyst at my throat pulses gently, as if reminding me it has secrets of its own.
"I'm probably going to regret this, Mouse," I mutter. He purrs encouragingly, and my shadows ripple with what feels suspiciously like excitement. They swirl around my feet in patterns that look almost like dancing. "Looks like we're going back to school."
I fish Thorne's card out of my pocket, eyeing it warily as if it might bite. The elegant script shimmers slightly in the dim light:
"Professor Rylan Thorne, Arcanum Academy - Where Shadows Meet Light."
Pretentious much?
With a deep breath that's equal parts resignation and "what the hell am I doing," I dial the number. My shadows cluster around the phone, as if they too want to hear what happens next.
It rings once. Twice. On the third ring, I'm seriously considering hanging up and pretending this whole day was just a weird dream brought on by too much diner coffee and those questionable eggs I sampled during my break.
"Ah, Kaia," Thorne's smooth voice answers, sounding entirely too smug. "I've been expecting your call."
Of course he has. Because apparently, I wasn't just joining a magic school, I was diving headfirst into every fantasy novel cliché imaginable. Next thing you know, he'll be telling me I'm the chosen one.
"Yeah, well," I say, trying to sound nonchalant and probably failing miserably, "turns out my social calendar was looking a bit sparse. Thought I might pencil in 'learn not to accidentally destroy the world with my freaky shadow powers' between 'laundry day' and 'existential crisis.'"
There's a pause, and for a moment I worry I've offended him. Then I hear a low chuckle. "Your humor will serve you well at Arcanum, Kaia. It's not an easy path you're choosing."
"Who said anything about choosing?" I retort. "This is clearly a last resort. My shadows are—" I freeze mid-sentence, the words dying in my throat as something finally clicks. Something that should have registered immediately but got lost in the chaos of nearly dying and being recruited for magic school.
He saw my shadows. Not just saw them—he knew what they were doing. He saw them steal the wallet, saw them trying to read his magical signature. No one sees my shadows. Ever. Even Joey, who's known me for years, only notices when people suddenly shiver or things mysteriously fall off shelves.
"How..." I start, then clear my throat and try again. "How exactly can you see my shadows?"
Another pause, longer this time. When Thorne speaks again, the amusement in his voice has been replaced by something darker, more calculating. "There are more people in this world who can see what you are than you realize, Kaia. I'll see you tomorrow morning. Pack light—shadows prefer to travel unburdened."
The line goes dead before I can sputter out a response. Mouse chirps questioningly as I stare at my phone. My shadows writhe uneasily, coiling closer like they're seeking comfort. I get the distinct impression they know something I don't.
"Well," I mutter, watching as they form abstract patterns of worry on my wall, "that wasn't ominous at all."
"Oh, and guys?" I say, glancing around at my naughty shadows, "no more stealing." They droop dramatically, like scolded children, but I catch one not looking the least bit phased by my words.
Figures.
Chapter 3
Professor Thorne
I watch Kaia's retreating form from the shadows, noting how her darkness trails after her like loyal pets. The Nightwraith's attack went exactly as planned—though its fascination with the Heart of Eternity was unexpected. Her shadows didn’t just defend—they anticipated. They lashed out like living things, each strike guided by an intelligence that shouldn’t exist. And that panther construct... its eyes held an awareness that no mere shadow should possess.
Fascinating.
That particular detail will require a report to Alekir.
As if I have nothing better to do.
