Chapter 8
EIGHT
EMMA
Maurice’s absence was like a shadow hanging over the classroom.
Now, a man named Philip observed our class, flanked by Matthew Conners, who was in charge of recruiting Offensives for the Advanced classes. Both of them were watching me intently, their stares heavy with scrutiny.
"Focus, Emma. You’ve got this." Nino’s voice cut through the fog of exhaustion and doubt, both clinging to me after a restless night spent battling ghosts instead of finding sleep.
Memories of Coastal had followed me into my dreams, and even James’s arms wrapped around me hadn’t kept away the cold, sterile walls closing in as Logan Stark’s words curled around me like smoke—taunting, relentless.
“What’s your secret, Emma?” His laughter had echoed, his hands gripping my arm—too tight, too real.
Fire had seared through my skin, spreading like venom.
I had jolted awake, drenched in sweat, my arm burning as if his touch had followed me into reality. Thank the gods I hadn’t woken James.
Even now, standing in class, the phantom pain clung to me, a cruel, unshakable reminder of what Logan had done. It coiled beneath my skin, waiting, lurking. I exhaled sharply, giving my head a small shake as if I could dislodge the memories forcing their way to the surface. Not now. I had to focus.
Still stuck at 1.01 seconds, my interface might’ve been the fastest of every Superior Offensive at Cyclos, but it still wasn’t enough.
I tried to center myself, to block out the noise and the pressure. I homed in on my emotions, desperately trying to avoid the darkness threatening to seep through, but it was no use.
The harder I fought, the more it consumed me.
I tried to think of James, but Logan’s face surfaced instead.
I wanted to focus on love, but fear cut through me like a knife.
I tried to banish the memories of Coastal, the pain in my arm, the memories of my life force bleeding out at the hands of the Radicals—but again, I failed.
In a moment of utter despair, I thought, screw it. If the darkness was going to win, then fine. Let it. Maybe it would fuel my energy enough to drop my interface below the second mark.
So for a second, I gave in. Let the darkness seep in, flood through me, consume me whole.
I shut my eyes, tuning out the room, the people, the weight of their scrutiny. And focused on the man already occupying every thought. Logan.
The hatred surged so violently I could almost taste it—acidic, bitter, all-consuming. He had ruined my arm, shattered my nights with endless nightmares, carved himself into my skin like a scar I could never erase.
I hated him. I hated him.
His cold obsidian eyes came into view, sharper than ever, and I could feel the tremor in my hands.
"Emma, you’re in control." Nino’s voice was clear, but it didn’t exactly reach me.
She was right there, standing a few feet away, but her words sounded like they were coming from miles underwater.
Pressure closed in from every side—a hammering pulse, shallow breaths, pain ricocheting through my skull.
Logan.
Coastal.
Being bound to a tree, blood dripping from my arm.
I fought to breathe, to focus on anything other than the intense hatred ingrained in my skin, but it was useless. The darkness surged up from everywhere at once, raw and wild, and I let it take me.
I heard people gasp but I could barely register it.
Suddenly, the room shifted, and the temperature dropped. I sensed the change before I saw it—the energy coiling and snapping around me like a beast. I opened my eyes, and frowned, searching for the change I’d clearly manifested.
Then the walls began to drip.
At first, it was only a few drops. I blinked, thinking maybe it was some weird kind of sweat or condensation from the cold air. But it wasn’t.
Thick, red streaks began to run down the walls, seeping from cracks and corners, pouring onto the floor.
It spread faster and faster, coating everything in sight—the walls, the ceiling, the floor beneath my feet, slick and warm.
The air filled with the metallic stench of iron, thick and suffocating.
I stood there, paralyzed, watching the blood fall, splatter, and pool around me.
And it wasn’t stopping.
It was everywhere. Rushing down the walls, filling the space. Nino had stepped back, her lips parted like she was about to say something but couldn't find the words. Philip and Matthew were no different, stiff and unmoving, as if afraid to even breathe.
Before I could properly process what I had done, the entire floor was covered in warm, thick blood.
My blood.
I knew it in my bones. It wasn’t an illusion—it was real, a reflection of what had been done to me last year. The blood I’d lost, the life they nearly drained from me, twice, was here, pouring out of every surface like the room itself was bleeding on my behalf.
A crackle of power, great and uncontrollable, shot up and down my spine. The room pulsed with it, glowing crimson like the rhythm of a heartbeat. My heartbeat. Fast, erratic, each pulse sending more blood cascading down the walls.
This isn’t happening.
But it was. I could see it, smell it, feel it. I had summoned every ounce of blood any Radical had ever taken from me. The room was drowning in it, like I had drowned in my own suffering.
My trauma now visualized. For everyone to see.
I should’ve stopped. I should’ve pulled back. But instead, I let it consume me. A heavy, oppressive stillness claimed the room. No one dared to move. The darkness had taken over, and I had let it.
While I stared at the mess I’d made, the others stood frozen in shock, their faces pale, their eyes wide with horror.
Finally, it was Matthew who broke the quiet, and a faint note of disbelief cut through the thick air. “Well,” he said, glancing around at the drenched room, “you managed to ruin the whole place in less than a second.”
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I was completely numb.
But then Nino spoke instead, her shock hardly concealed. “0.87 seconds,” she said softly. “You’re officially below the second mark.”
What the hell? The entire room was soaked in blood, and that was what mattered? That’s what they cared about—while power still surged through me, raw and untamed, the edges of my control still unraveling?
Philip stepped forward, his voice steadier than the other’s. “Before we deal with…this,” he gestured toward the blood, his expression tightening. “Here.”
He held out a small, five-pronged weapon. “You’ve earned your Skindo,” he said, holding my stare with quiet intensity. “Imbue it and find a Healer to set your tattoo. Congratulations.”
The rest of the class remained in stunned silence, their wide-eyed stares piercing through me. No one said a word. No one moved. They only watched me.
I didn’t wait for permission to leave. I simply took my new weapon, turned, and walked away from them, their gazes trailing after me like a curse I couldn’t shake.
The door opened with a soft hiss, and as I stepped out into the hall, the emptiness swallowed me whole. No words of congratulations. No pats on the back. Only the hollow echo of my footsteps as I retreated into the quiet, into the dark.
I was alone now.
And the darkness was my only company.
I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t in pain. I wasn’t anything. I only…existed.
Lying on my bed, the memories of the day played on repeat in my mind. Blood. So much blood.
Then. A soft knock. Probably James who would’ve heard about the incident by now.
I rose to my feet and walked to the door slowly, not ready to face what I had done just yet. I opened the door, fully expecting my boyfriend to greet me, but to my surprise, it was Sean McGrath who stood there.
His eyes widened at the sight of me, and I remembered the red horror still staining my clothes.
“What the hell happened to ye?” Sean gasped, his accent familiar and warm despite the shock in his voice.
I quickly translated the blood away, my clothes returning to normal, but I shook my head, signaling I wasn’t in the mood to talk about it.
“Ye know, at Crown, we talk ‘bout stuff with our friends,” Sean pressed, undeterred.
I snorted, crossing my arms. “I’ve met you once. ‘Friend’ might be a bit of an overstatement.”
Sean winced, and the flicker of hurt that crossed his features made me immediately regret the harshness of my words. I hadn’t meant to be so cutting, but everything was kind of crashing down on me at the moment.
“Sorry,” I muttered, glancing away. “You caught me at a bad time.”
Sean nodded, his tone instantly softening. “Well, talkin’ might’ve been an overstatement as well. I meant drinkin’. I hear ye like Scotch?”
My head shot up before I could stop myself, and Sean’s grin widened like he’d won the award for most creative idea. “Ah. Seems like I found the magic word.”
I smirked. “Good thing too, for a magician. What did you have in mind?”
He swirled his hand and translated a fourteen year-old Finn Thomson, holding it up like an offering, letting the label do all the talking. And, gods help me, it did. One look at the year, and any intention of denying him my company, evaporated like a gambler’s last chip in a high-stakes poker game.
“All right, let’s go,” I conceded, a little easier than expected. Honestly, I needed the distraction. And Scotch was as good a place to start as any.
I didn’t bother asking where we were headed. Didn’t care, either. If he was leading me into an ambush, well, at least that would be a fun change of pace.
With the effortless confidence of someone who probably portaled in his sleep, he flicked his Nexus, and reality folded around us. The Academy’s dull, suffocating walls vanished, replaced by a familiar riverbank. Peaceful. Serene.