The wall of screens bathed the room in a cold, shifting glow. Three academies rotated through my displays, each report layered with tactical notes and updated schedules:
Duskfall Academy – United States
Crimson Spire – United Kingdom
Azure Bastion – Japan
Beside each emblem, the faces of their parliamentary representatives stared back at me — polished smiles masking layers of political decay. They were not my concern tonight.
I was combing through the last operational overlays when the door slid open with a hiss.
Hexdrive strolled in without knocking, mechanical arms folded tight, her humming ocular implants locking on me like I was the one under scrutiny.
"Nice little light show you've got here," she said, voice edged in sarcasm. "Hope it looks just as pretty when the place is burning."
I spared her a glance. "Hexdrive."
"Yeah, yeah — 'Tech disruption and temporal threading.' I know my job." She stepped closer, eyes flicking over the screens. "Duskfall's net is already gutted. Wards, cameras, gates — dead on my signal. Took me half a night. You're welcome."
I let a small smile tug at the corner of my mouth. "Efficient work. Thank you."
Her expression soured, like gratitude was an insult. "You really plan on doing this during the Hero Festival? You do realize half the Hero Bureau will be there. And you're not exactly bringing an army."
Before I could respond, the door opened again.
Bleaktide ambled in, tall and lean, wearing that perpetually casual smirk. He gave me a small, almost mocking bow. "Evening, boss. Stealth and explosives — still your guy."
He glanced at Hexdrive, then back at me. "Gotta say though… I'm with her. This is insane. And Nyxshade? Sure, she's useful, but she iced Tempestrike and the others. Yeah, yeah, they were Bureau moles, but they were still warm bodies we could've pointed at the Academy."
"They were liabilities," I said simply. "And we don't carry dead weight."
Hexdrive snorted. "And what about our precious Nyxshade? We don't even know her real name. What happens when one of us kills her mid-op? She's still a student, isn't she?"
I chuckled, low and quiet. "Nyxshade isn't careless enough to die because of a rookie's mistake."
I let my gaze settle on them both, my voice still almost friendly. "But you two… if you don't want to end up like Tempestrike, you'll follow her orders to the letter. And if you ever feel like you're about to die — listen to that instinct. Don't hesitate. Move. Run."
The flicker in their expressions told me they understood. That last part wasn't a general safety tip. It was a warning — about her.
Bleaktide lifted his hands in mock surrender. "Message received."
Hexdrive gave a terse nod. "Fine. Your funeral."
They both turned to leave.
"Good luck," I said, watching them disappear down the hall.
Some of them would need more than luck.
—
The dorm is quiet. Too quiet for the night before the Festival.
The others are likely sleeping, dreaming of cheers and medals, oblivious to what's coming.
I sit at my desk, the blue glow of the tablet painting the walls in cold light. Whisper's plan scrolls in front of me, neat little directives and insertion points. His mind is meticulous — predictable, if you know where to look.
And I do.
Every line of his design has already been dissected and rerouted in my head. I've left no move unaccounted for, no escape unblocked — except mine. Whisper thinks I will shepherd his operatives through the gates of Duskfall like some dutiful pawn. Let him think it.
I lean back, fingertips pressing together, crimson eyes reflecting in the glass. I know what the heroes will do when the attack begins — their patterns are as ingrained as the chants of their adoring masses. The crowd will scream for them. And they will come running, capes snapping, armor gleaming, playing the saviors they've been trained to be.
Deluded.
Blind.
Drunk on their own image.
They parade themselves as protectors, yet they crush without hesitation when it serves them. They destroy quietly, and the world applauds.
If they cannot see their own rot… then I will show them. Especially after—
The thought stops.
The memory spikes, a raw edge tearing through my composure.
My fist hits the mirror before I can stop it. The glass spiderwebs, the sound sharp in the silent room. Blood slides warm over my knuckles, dripping onto the desk. One of my eyes flickers — crimson giving way to the familiar dark of Calla's gaze.
The air tastes metallic. I breathe once, twice, slow, forcing my face to smooth again. My heartbeat settles into something quieter, colder.
I raise my bloodied hand toward the mirror, watching the two different eyes staring back. "Goodbye," I murmur — not to Whisper, not to the heroes, not even to my enemies.
To me.
When I lower my hand, it's Calla who's left in the reflection, staring at her palm, at the sharp stinging cuts, wondering — what did I just do?
* * *
Morning light slices through the blinds, dust motes drifting lazily in the beams. I'm still sitting at the desk where Nyxshade left me. The cracked mirror stares back — jagged and accusing — and the cuts on my hand are already beginning to scab.
I remember everything.
The planning. The adjustments to Whisper's strategy. The cold certainty in every decision. The way Nyxshade looked at the heroes, like they were already corpses.
But there's a gap.
A single fragment missing.
Right before the mirror broke, there was… something. A thought. A memory. I can almost feel it — sharp and raw — but the edges blur when I try to hold it. Like a voice just out of earshot.
I lean back in the chair, pressing my palm against my thigh. "Can she really pull it off?" I whisper to no one.
The thought of it — the Hero Festival erupting into chaos — should terrify me. Instead, it's just… inevitable. The only question left is who survives it.
My friends.
If I should even call them that.
Juno, Ari, Rhea.
The ones who've made me laugh, taught me, pushed me, bruised me. They've been… constants. But constants can become obstacles. Will they try to stop Nyxshade? Try to stop me?
Will they be okay?
I don't know anymore. And I hate that I don't know.
I stare down at my hand again. The blood is gone, but the sting remains. A reminder that whether it's me or her in control, the line between us is already too thin.
One thing is certain — it's far too late to turn back now.
* * *
The morning air tasted like copper and sugar. Copper from the tang of the great iron gates being swung open, sugar from the vendors lining the main avenue, hawking candied fruit and steaming bread rolls to the throngs pouring into Duskfall Academy.
I kept my hood up despite the heat of the day, moving in the slow current of bodies toward the central arena. From every balcony, banners fluttered — the deep midnight blue of Duskfall, the crimson-and-gold lattice of Crimson Spire from the United Kingdom, and the pristine silver waves of Azure Bastion from Japan.
The festival had a scent to it — one I'd never realized until now. Smoke from grilled meats. The perfume of too many flowers arranged in too-tight bouquets. The faint, sterile tang of alchemical warding spells woven into the air for "safety." It was intoxicating and suffocating all at once.
Above it all, the announcer's voice boomed through crystal amplifiers.
"Welcome to the Hero Festival! A celebration of courage, skill, and unity across nations!"
Unity. The word rolled through my mind like a dull blade.
The parades began first — heroes old and new walking down the procession route, their armor polished, their smiles fixed. Children screamed their names, reaching for a brush of their gloved hands. The crowd leaned forward as if this were divinity in motion.
Rhea walked a step ahead of me, head high, her training uniform swapped for a formal academy jacket. Juno and Ari flanked me on either side. Juno was already analyzing match brackets in the program pamphlet; Ari looked like she was barely holding back the urge to sprint into the dueling arena right now.
Friends. The word surfaced unbidden.
Should I even call them that?
Friends wouldn't be standing across from me on the day it mattered.
Friends wouldn't need to be outmaneuvered.
The opening speeches followed. Headmaster Silas Marrow of Duskfall — poised and confident — spoke of the "unbreakable bonds forged through competition." Next, Headmistress Caldwell of Crimson Spire — sharp as a knife in her red velvet coat — promised a "demonstration of British precision and honor." Then came Chancellor Moriyama of Azure Bastion, whose quiet voice still carried through the crystal network, speaking of "balance, discipline, and the blade."
I studied the other academies' arrivals. Crimson Spire's students marched in perfect sync, every step deliberate. Azure Bastion's team wore ceremonial armor that shimmered like still water under moonlight. Each of them was a potential obstacle, a potential casualty — the lines blurred.
Will they get in the way?
Will Juno, Ari, and Rhea?
And if they do… will they survive it?
The Combat Showcase would begin soon. Duels — raw and direct — no hiding behind elaborate illusions or drawn-out strategies. This was where elementalists flared brightest, where martial adepts broke bones, where summoners turned the tide in a blink.
I was supposed to be excited. Supposed to feel some rush of pride or at least the electric hum of competition. Instead, all I could think of was the plan. Whisper's timing. Nyxshade's steps. The gaps in the academy's defenses I had memorized like scripture.
The opening match was called. Two students I didn't know stepped into the duelling ring — an expanse of sand and arcane runes surrounded by a barrier dome. The crowd roared as the signal flared overhead.
Rhea glanced back at me, her eyes sharp but not suspicious. "Try to enjoy the day," she murmured.
I gave her a smile I'd practiced for years — the kind that reached my eyes but not my heart.
Somewhere, behind the cheering and the pageantry, the countdown had already begun.