Chapter 9 – The Warning
The echo of Amara's proud declaration — "You a badass and a problem child" — still hung in the air, a rare flicker of levity.
It shattered instantly.
The shed door rattled violently, the sound jarring and sharp, like a warning bell. Jordan's hoarse laugh died mid-breath. In an instant, their training drained from memory. Every instinct screamed: danger.
The pounding intensified — steady, deliberate, and loud. Each thud reverberated through the fragile structure, dust drifting from the rafters and swirling in the golden shafts of afternoon light.
Then came the voice.
Cold. Commanding. Cutting clean through the wooden door like a blade.
"I need to speak with Jordan Carter."
All three froze. Jordan, Naomi, and Amara exchanged tense glances — a silent exchange of the same unspoken questions:
Who was this girl? How did she find them? And why did her voice feel like a threat wrapped in silk?
Naomi and Amara instinctively shifted into defensive positions. Amara pushed off the crate she'd been leaning against, her easy posture replaced by tense readiness. Naomi's hand brushed her satchel, fingers grazing the hilt of the blade hidden inside.
Jordan's heart thudded as a fresh wave of anxiety rolled through him. Whatever calm they'd gained from training evaporated in an instant.
Then, three knocks slammed against the door.
Loud. Rhythmic. Intentional.
Amara vanished through the door without hesitation, her body phasing like smoke through cracks. A breath later, she reappeared, brows furrowed.
"It's not a teacher," she said lowly.
Naomi exhaled sharply. Jordan followed suit.
Amara hesitated. "It's one of the students they made Elite last year."
Jordan's head snapped up. "An Elite?"
Naomi's brows knitted together. "Why would one of them come here?"
Amara shrugged, but her jaw was tight. "Beats me. But I don't like it."
Jordan's fists clenched. "What do they want?"
"I don't know," Amara said, her eyes flicking between them. "But we need to be ready."
Naomi's fingers returned to the blade hidden at her side. Her lips moved in a silent prayer to Gabimaru.
Then the door creaked open.
And there she stood — framed by the golden afternoon sun.
Deborah Anderson.
Tall. Calm. Unshakably composed.
She wore no Elite cloak, but the authority she carried made it clear — she wasn't just anyone.
Her dark hair was twisted into a messy bun, and her sharp green eyes scanned the room with laser precision, locking instantly onto Jordan. Her dress — an almost obnoxiously bright pink — clashed harshly with the decaying, dim interior of the shed.
And the Converse sneakers squeaking on the old wooden floor only made her presence more surreal. It was as if someone had taken two different people and stitched them together — the softness of a schoolgirl outfit wrapped around a soul carved from stone.
Jordan didn't speak.
None of them did.
The silence was electric — charged with confusion, suspicion, and a growing sense of dread.
She stepped inside slowly, the light behind her casting her shadow across the floorboards.
She didn't belong here.
But she acted like she did.
And whatever she'd come to say, none of them were ready to hear it.
"I've been watching you," she said plainly, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
Jordan stepped forward. "Yeah? Got a front-row seat to my trauma or just dropping in for some tea?"
Deborah raised an eyebrow. "Still got jokes. Good. You'll need that humour to survive."
Naomi moved protectively between Deborah and Jordan. "What do you want?"
Deborah's gaze passed over Naomi, then Amara, then back to Jordan. "I'm not here to play games. I came to give you a warning."
Jordan didn't blink. "About what?"
She took a step closer. "Next week, during the Hand-Over Ceremony… they're going to offer you a position among the Twelve Elites."
Jordan stared at her. "What? I'm a Form 5. That's not even—"
"—supposed to be possible?" Deborah interrupted. "Yeah, I know. But apparently, rules don't apply when it comes to you."
He blinked. "So, I'm what? A special snowflake?"
"You're strong, Jordan," Deborah said evenly. "Too strong. And they've noticed. That's why they're making room."
"Room?" Amara echoed. "So what? He joins the cool kids and gets a black cloak? Big deal."
"No," Deborah said. "He gets picked. And then he disappears. Just like the others."
Naomi's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
Deborah paused. Then she spoke, softer now. "The Elites aren't just school champions. They're pawns. Pieces in a ritual that's been happening under our noses for years."
Jordan's jaw tightened. "You're saying the school is… what? Using them?"
Deborah nodded. "Some students—especially the top ones—just vanish. The school acts like it never happened. But I've seen the pattern. The higher you rise, the more likely you are to fall."
Amara scoffed. "You're one of them. So why warn us?"
Deborah looked her square in the eye. "Because I didn't know what I was signing up for. And by the time I did, it was too late. But Jordan still has a choice."
Naomi stepped forward, her voice trembling. "What happens in the ritual?"
"No one knows all of it," Deborah admitted. "But every year, at least one Elite goes missing. Some say it's for sacrifice. Others say something's being fed. Either way—people don't come back."
A chill ran through the room.
Jordan shifted, his voice quiet. "So why stay?"
Deborah's expression hardened. "Because once you're in, you can't leave. You don't just get to walk away. I've tried. I've been punished for it."
Amara crossed her arms. "And now you're what? Playing hero?"
Deborah didn't flinch. "I'm doing what I can. I can't save myself, but I might be able to save someone else."
She turned to Jordan again. "Say no, Jordan. Refuse the cloak. Refuse the badge. Walk away."
Jordan stared at her, the air thick with tension. "And if I don't?"
"Then you'll never walk away again," Deborah whispered.
The silence returned. Heavier now. Unbearable.
Deborah moved to the door. "The ceremony's in a week. That's your deadline."
She opened it, letting the fading afternoon light spill in, casting a long shadow across the shed.
Then she left.
No one spoke for what felt like minutes.
Finally, Jordan broke the silence, voice hoarse. "What do we do now?"
Naomi stepped beside him, laying a hand on his arm. "We find out the truth. All of it."
Amara muttered under her breath. "Well, if we weren't targets before, we definitely are now."
Jordan exhaled, eyes fixed on the now-closed door. Deborah's words echoed in his mind, each one like a drumbeat growing louder.
The Hand-Over Ceremony was coming.
And nothing would ever be the same again.