The world was still cloaked in shadow when Ezekiel stirred.
No alarm.
No voices in the hallway.
Only the steady rhythm of breath — soft, fragile.
Amy lay curled beside him, small frame tucked into the crook of his arm. Sam was tangled somewhere beneath a mountain of blankets near his feet, and Eli had half-slid off the edge of the mattress, the plastic lightsaber clutched tightly in one hand like a charm to ward off nightmares.
For a moment, he stayed there. Still. Listening.
There was a sanctity to the silence — not the suffocating, brittle quiet that haunted the house most days, but something gentler. Reverent. As if the air itself was holding its breath, sensing that this morning was unlike the others.
He moved slowly, carefully separating himself from the warmth of his siblings. His footsteps were practiced — deliberate — as he crossed the room, retrieved his worn bag from behind the door, and began to dress in the faint light creeping past the curtains.
He didn't want them to wake.
Not because he couldn't face them —
But because if Amy blinked those already, sad eyes at him or Sam stirred and mumbled his name… if Eli sat up and called out, clutching his toy like it was his heart…
He might not leave at all.
On a scrap of paper, he scribbled a few lines. Jagged, rushed, but enough.
Be good to each other.
I'll be back.
Stronger.
Love you always – Z.
He folded it once, then again, and gently pressed it into Amy's small hand. She would read it to them.
One last glance.
He burned the image into memory — a silent promise to carry with him.
Then he stepped into the hallway.
The cold hit him immediately. Not in temperature, but in essence — a sterile, hospital kind of stillness that made the walls feel further apart than they were. A hollowness, like the house had already begun to forget him.
His mother's door remained closed.
His father's snores — faint, steady — came from somewhere beyond the hallway.
No goodbyes.
None expected.
None wanted.
The front door creaked as he opened it, and he froze, breath caught, until the hinges stilled again.
Then, with careful hands, he pulled it shut behind him.
Outside, the world was filtered in a shadowy grey.
The street was quiet, dimly painted by the earliest brushstrokes of dawn. The sky had yet to ignite, resting in that in-between moment — the color of deep bruise fading into pale steel.
Each step toward the station echoed inside him like a drumbeat,
Dull but resolute.
Familiar houses passed by in silence, the ghosts of childhood memories flickering behind every fence and corner.
It was only a fifteen-minute walk, but today, the distance stretched.
With every footfall, he felt the tether loosen.
At the platform, few shared the space — a man in a crumpled suit, a teen with headphones buried deep, a weary traveler dragging a suitcase behind her. None looked his way. He preferred it that way.
The train approached with a low growl, headlights piercing the morning mist like twin blades. As it slowed, he tightened his grip on the strap of his bag.
One step.
Then another.
He crossed the threshold, and the doors closed behind him with a hiss — final, absolute.
A seat by the window welcomed him. He sank into it, the cushion scratchy beneath him, the scent of metal and old coffee clinging to the air. He leaned his forehead against the glass, exhaling slowly as the neighborhood began to slide away.
Familiar streets blurred into motion.
Houses. Trees. The corner store.
And then—
Gone.
He didn't cry.
Part of him had hoped he would.
He didn't know why.
The train rumbled on.
Sky peeled open slowly, turning from dull grey to soft fire — oranges and golds streaking across the heavens like whispered promises. In the distance, a skyline rose, jagged and strange. The city.
A voice crackled through the speakers. Male. Robotic.
"Arriving at Northcross Station. Please exit here for Velmira City."
Velmira.
Named after a wind-spirit, said to carry lost voices across the lake. Those who followed her whispers found what they didn't know they were missing — or so the story went.
Hours flew by, a flurry of images flashing by the window.
Zeke lifted his gaze as the city unfurled in full view.
It grew from the land like something ancient and dreaming — all blackstone and silversteel, curved bridges arching like spines across narrow towers. Glass walkways shimmered in the dawn, catching fractured light like blades. The towers bore sloped, temple-like rooftops and archways carved with runes that pulsed with soft luminescence.
Windchimes swayed from high balconies, casting crystalline tones into the air.
Modern elegance, with an ancient breath.
And at the center of it all, nestled deep within the city's heart — the academy.
Institutum Virtutis Arcanæ.
The name alone sent a ripple down his spine.
Latin always made things sound like spells. Heavy. Final.
And perhaps it was.
Closer now, the air seemed to change. Buzzing. Charged. As though the city itself could sense his arrival — or perhaps, the arrival of something yet to awaken in him.
The train slowed. Brakes shrieked softly.
Northcross Station.
He rose, slinging his bag onto his shoulder.
The crowd surged — faceless, fast — carrying him through the doors and down the steps.
It hit him all at once.
The noise. The color. The sheer density of life.
Screens flickered on every corner — advertisements, news reels, dramatic footage of students mid-combat or mid-flight, arcs of fire all playing to orchestral crescendos. Pedestrians rushed past him with purpose. Coffee in hand. Luggage wheels clattering. Voices rising and falling in every direction.
He stood still.
Just for a moment.
The chaos didn't swallow him.
It didn't crush him.
It didn't even touch him.
Because it wasn't their chaos anymore.
It was his.
And for the first time in years—
Zeke wasn't running from the storm.
He was walking into it.