2. Kaia
The walk home is quiet—too quiet. The morning bustle of the city seems muted as if the world is holding its breath. An unnatural chill creeps into the air, making my skin prickle beneath my coffee-stained uniform. My shadows twitch and writhe around my feet, their usual playful shenanigans replaced by something more urgent. Mouse's fur bristles as he continues to pad beside me, and a low growl rumbles again from his tiny chest.
That's when I hear it—a sound like dying leaves scraping across pavement, but wrong somehow. Distorted. The shadows around me seem to move with warning, and something tugs at the edges of my memory—a half-forgotten nightmare stirring awake.
I turn slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The creature towers over me, its form flickering like a bad TV signal. It looks almost human, but stretched wrong, its too-long limbs ending in gleaming claws. Empty sockets fix on mine, and when it opens its mouth, the sound that comes out is like glass grinding on bone.
"The Heart calls," it rasps, reaching for me with those twisted fingers. The words sound wrong in its mouth, as if it's forgotten how to speak properly. "She lives... she lives..."
The jewel around my neck glows brighter than I’ve ever seen. My shadows surge forward instinctively, forming a barrier between us. Mouse—my quiet, unassuming Mouse—launches himself between us with a snarl that sounds impossibly deep for his size. His violet eyes blaze with an intensity I've never seen before, and for a moment, I swear there's something more to him—something bigger, more ancient. I wish I could say I had anything to do with their actions, but I can barely think straight.
"Stay back," I say, backing away slowly. My voice sounds steady despite the fear clawing at my throat. But the thing moves like smoke, too fast, too fluid. Something about the way it moves, the way its voice scratches at my mind, feels horribly familiar. But the memory stays maddeningly out of reach, like a nightmare I can’t wake from.
It lunges, its claws tearing through my shadows like mist. I stumble backward, my carefully constructed normal life crumbling as quickly as my shadows reform. They lash out wildly, more defensive than coordinated, while Mouse weaves between my feet, his fur standing on end, that unnaturally fierce growl still rumbling from his tiny form.
"The Heart remembers," it hisses, its voice scratching at my mind like fingernails on glass. "The blood remembers..."
My hand flies to the amethyst necklace I’ve worn for as long as I can remember. It throbs warmly against my skin, and for a moment, I swear I hear whispers—see fragments of a memory just out of reach. A woman’s voice, golden light, the beat of wings... The images slip away like water through my fingers, leaving only an ache of loss I can’t explain.
The creature strikes again, and this time my shadows aren’t fast enough. Pain blazes across my arm as its claws catch me, the touch sending ice through my veins. I cry out, more in shock than pain, and my shadows respond explosively. They surge outward in jagged spikes, forcing the creature back. The necklace throbs against my collarbone, its usual comforting warmth now a fierce heat.
A silver light flares bright, forcing the creature back into the shadows. The same light washes over me, healing the claw marks on my arm as if they never existed. When the glow dims, a man stands where the darkness had been, his staff still humming with residual energy. His dark robes ripple without wind, and his eyes fix on me with unsettling intensity.
"H—How?" I stammer trying to keep my voice level. I hate looking weak and something tells me this man is the last person I want to look weak in front of.
"That," he says calmly, as the creature retreats into the shadows, "was a Nightwraith. And that was not your victory. Merely survival."
"A what?" I demand, trying to keep my voice steady despite the way my hands shake. The word feels familiar, though I know I've never heard it before. It echoes in my mind like a half-remembered lullaby.
My shadows coil defensively around my legs as Mouse shrinks back to his normal size, though he continues to growl softly, ears down and eyes trained on the man. The stranger studies me like I’m a particularly interesting science experiment, his gaze lingering on the shadows that refuse to stay still.
"Who are you?" I ask, lifting my chin despite the tremor in my voice. "What was that thing?"
"Professor Thorne." He lowers his staff but doesn’t extinguish its light. The runes cast eerie patterns across his sharp features. "And that was a Nightwraith—drawn to your power like a moth to flame. You can’t hide forever, Kaia. The shadows around you grow stronger each day, and you barely maintain control."
I stiffen, my heart skipping a beat. "How do you know my name?"
His smile is sharp and knowing, reminding me uncomfortably of a predator sizing up its prey. "I know many things. Including the fact that you need proper training before your power destroys you—or worse, draws something far more dangerous than a lone Nightwraith."
"I don’t need anything," I snap, but my shadows betray me, rippling with interest at his words. They stretch toward him like curious cats, ignoring my mental attempts to pull them back. "I’m handling it fine."
"Are you?" He arches an eyebrow. "Then perhaps you’d care to explain why your shadows are currently trying to read my magical signature without your permission?"
I glance down, mortified to find he’s right. My shadows have stretched toward him, probing curiously at his robes like children reaching for something shiny. I yank them back, and they retreat sulkily, curling around my ankles in a way that feels distinctly unrepentant.
"Arcanum Academy," he says, pulling a card from his robes with an elegant flourish. "Where people like you learn to master their gifts, not just survive them. The choice is yours, but make it quickly." His eyes narrow, and the temperature seems to drop. "Time grows short, and the shadows are calling."
He turns to leave, then pauses, his lips curving into a knowing smirk. "Oh, and Kaia? Next time, try not to let your shadows steal from customers. The man in the suit is missing his wallet."
My shadows squirm guiltily as I find said wallet tucked into my pocket, right next to my measly tips from the morning shift. By the time I look up, Thorne has vanished, leaving only his card and the lingering scent of magic in the air—something ancient and electric that puts me on edge.
Mouse headbutts my leg, and my shadows curl around me like a protective cloak. They feel different now—more alert, more alive. As if Thorne’s presence has awakened something in them.
Or in me.
I stare at the card in my hand, feeling the weight of choice pressing down on me.
My normal life is already in ruins. The words Arcanum Academy hang in the air, heavy with promise and threat. A place to learn control—but at what cost? I’ve fought so hard to build a life, even if it was a fragile illusion and a crap one at that. Can I really let it all go for this?I trudge toward my apartment, my mind reeling from the encounter. Mouse trots beside me, occasionally swatting at my restless shadows as they dance around us, clearly still keyed up from the fight.
"So," I say to no one in particular, "just a typical Tuesday morning. Get up, serve questionable eggs to cranky customers, nearly die at the claws of a nightmarish shadow creature. You know, the usual."
My sarcasm falls flat even to my own ears. The truth is, I'm shaken. That thing—the Nightwraith—felt familiar in a way that makes my skin crawl. Like a half-remembered nightmare or a song you can't quite place. Its words echo in my head: "The Heart calls... she lives..."
I absently touch the amethyst necklace, feeling its comforting warmth against my skin. It's always been there, as much a part of me as my own heartbeat. But now, for the first time, I wonder if there's more to it than just sentimental value. The way it had pulsed during the fight, and those fleeting images...
"What do you think, Mouse? Should we pack our bags for Shadow University?" I glance down at my feline companion. He gives me a look that somehow manages to convey both “ obviously” and “ took you long enough” in equal measure.
I sigh dramatically. "Fine, but if this turns out to be some elaborate prank, I'm blaming you."
As we round the corner to my apartment building, my shadows suddenly go haywire. They shoot out in all directions, wrapping around lamp posts and scaling walls like demented, incorporeal squirrels. A nearby jogger yelps as a tendril of darkness trips him, sending him sprawling onto the cracked sidewalk.
"Sorry!" I call out, frantically trying to reel my shadows back in. They resist like stubborn toddlers refusing bedtime. "Uh... I mean, are you okay?" I pause awkwardly as he glares at me. "Yeah, you're fine, okay good!"
The jogger picks himself up, brushing gravel from his knees and muttering about "kids these days" as he limps away. Mouse watches him go, tail twitching with what looks suspiciously like amusement.
I groan, burying my face in my hands. "This is exactly what I'm talking about," I tell Mouse as we climb the creaky stairs to my tiny apartment. My shadows trail behind us, leaving smoky swirls in the air that fade like morning mist. "I can't keep going like this. One of these days, my shadows are going to decide to play jump rope with a bus or something, and then where will we be?"
Mouse meows in what I choose to interpret as agreement, though he seems more interested in weaving between my legs, nearly tripping me on the landing.
Inside my apartment—all one hundred and fifty square feet of it—I flop dramatically onto my bed, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. "Okay, let's think about this logically," I say to Mouse, who's curled up on my pillow looking supremely unimpressed. "Pro: I might learn to stop my shadows from acting like caffeinated toddlers on a sugar rush. Con: I'll be surrounded by magical prodigies who probably learned to levitate their rattles before they could walk."
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.