Chapter 21: The New Regime
Principal Crane's mandatory power assessments felt like military recruitment disguised as educational evaluation. The gymnasium buzzed with nervous energy as students lined up to demonstrate their abilities for administrative review, each display catalogued with the clinical precision of someone building a weapons inventory.
Database creation. She's mapping every capability on campus.
I positioned myself mid-queue, close enough to observe without drawing attention. Students ahead of me revealed abilities ranging from impressive to terrifying—Bianca's water manipulation that could drown someone in their own saliva, Xavier's psychic art that painted the future whether he wanted it to or not, Ajax's stone gaze that required careful emotional control to avoid accidental petrification.
Combat assessment. Crane's evaluating tactical applications, not educational needs.
When my turn arrived, the gymnasium felt like a tribunal. Crane sat at a folding table with clipboard and stopwatch, expression suggesting she was mentally calculating exactly how useful each student might be in whatever was coming.
"Mr. Bason," she announced. "Shadow manipulation, correct? Please demonstrate your current capabilities."
Calculated choice time. How much do I reveal?
I extended my shadow fifteen meters across the gymnasium floor—intermediate level, respectable but not extraordinary. Basic constructs formed and dissolved: crude barriers, simple tools, nothing that suggested the advanced capabilities I'd developed over summer.
Keep the shadow travel, enhanced range, and semi-solid constructs hidden.
"Impressive control for someone self-taught," Crane observed, making notes that I couldn't read upside down. "We should discuss proper training. There's so much potential for development."
Threat wrapped in opportunity. Classic manipulation.
"Thank you, Principal Crane."
Her smile suggested she knew exactly what I'd omitted from the demonstration, but she didn't press. Smart strategy—confrontation would force me to choose sides, while subtle pressure maintained plausible cooperation.
She knows I'm holding back. Question is: how much does she know?
Eugene watched nervously from the bleachers, probably calculating the same tactical implications I was processing. Our alliance with Wednesday depended on information asymmetry, staying valuable without becoming threats.
Walk the line. Useful but not dangerous.
"Next student," Crane called.
Wednesday arrived at Nevermore like a storm front that had spent summer gathering intensity. New scars marked her hands—thin lines that suggested knife work rather than accident—and something in her posture spoke of investigations that had gone badly wrong.
She looks like she's been hunting things that hunt back.
Her reunion with me was characteristically efficient: corner of the library, minimum social noise, maximum information exchange.
"Crane is hiding something," she announced without preamble. "I need your surveillance capabilities."
Back to business. Good.
"Findings from summer research?"
"Inconclusive. Laurel Gates has vanished completely—no trace, no family contacts, no financial footprint. Either she's dead or she has resources I can't access." Wednesday's frustration leaked through her controlled expression. "Meanwhile, Crane's background becomes more interesting the deeper I dig."
Shared trauma creating partnership depth.
We fell back into alliance immediately, but the weight was different now. Crackstone's battle had forged us through mutual survival, creating trust that went beyond tactical convenience.
"I've been having nightmares," Wednesday admitted with the tone of someone revealing state secrets. "Crackstone burning. Weems dying. Variations where we fail and everyone dies."
Vulnerability. Wednesday never admits vulnerability.
"My voice fails completely sometimes," I replied, offering reciprocal honesty. "Mid-sentence, mid-word, just gone. Cost of using Cursed Speech beyond its limits."
Battle scars. Physical and psychological.
"We survived," Wednesday said simply. "We'll survive whatever comes next."
Probably. Maybe.
Eugene watched our tactical planning from across the library with the expression of someone who'd learned to appreciate dangerous alliances. His best friend and the scary murder girl made a terrifying team, but an effective one.
Found family dynamics. Eugene accepting Wednesday as part of our unit.
"Intelligence sharing protocols," Wednesday continued. "I investigate Crane's history and connections. You provide surveillance of her current activities. We coordinate findings and maintain operational independence."
Professional partnership with personal investment.
"Agreed."
Enid's transformation was immediately obvious to anyone who'd learned to read supernatural body language. She moved differently now—controlled aggression barely contained beneath her usual brightness, eyes that flashed gold when startled, shoulders held like someone expecting attack.
Alpha emergence. Pack politics trauma.
Our reunion happened on the roof that had become our unofficial meeting spot. She appeared without asking, settled beside me with the confidence of someone who'd claimed territory and defended it successfully.
"Pack gathering was hell," she announced, dispensing with pleasantries. "Three weeks of alpha expectations, strategic mate discussions, and my mother treating my transformation like a political opportunity."
Arranged werewolf marriage. Delightful.
"Sounds like prison with better catering."
"Worse. Prisons don't pretend they're doing it for your own good." Enid's laugh held no humor. "Other pack alphas kept challenging me—testing boundaries, seeing if the new girl could handle dominance pressure. Turns out I can. Violently."
Character development through conflict. Enid finding her teeth.
She talked for twenty minutes about summer politics that made Nevermore's supernatural hierarchies look simple, and I listened with the focused attention that had become automatic around her.
She needs someone who hears the subtext.
"I left early," she concluded. "Told them I'd rather be outcast among outcasts than alpha in a cage."
Brave choice. Costly choice.
"Your family's loss," I said, meaning every word. "You're the bravest person I know."
Truth. Complete truth.
Enid's response was sudden, desperate—she kissed me with the intensity of someone who'd been holding back for months. When she pulled away, mortification replaced desire.
"Sorry, I just—"
I kissed her back, deliberate and certain. No hesitation, no calculation, just recognition that some things were worth the vulnerability.
Connection. Genuine connection.
First real romantic moment. Acknowledged and mutual.
When we finally separated, Enid's smile could have powered the campus.
"So," she said. "That happened."
"That happened."
Understatement of the year.
Eugene found me updating our evidence board at two AM, probably because sleeping six hours was apparently too much to ask of my anxiety-driven brain. New information covered the wall: Crane's assessment program, Wednesday's nightmare patterns, Enid's pack situation, tactical assessments of student capabilities.
Intelligence gathering. Pattern recognition. Preparation for unknown threats.
"You know we're supposed to be recovering from last year's trauma, not immediately diving into new conspiracy," Eugene observed with the weary patience of someone who'd learned his roommate's self-destructive habits.
Recovery. Right.
"Crane said 'survive what's coming.' That's not recovery timeline, that's preparation timeline."
Eugene sighed and pulled out his own notes—Defense Initiative recruitment, training protocols, organizational structures that would probably save lives when whatever was coming finally arrived.
"Then we prepare together. But you're sleeping six hours minimum or I'm telling Enid you're self-destructing."
Effective threat. Enid would absolutely drag me to bed herself.
"Five hours."
"Six."
"Five and a half."
"Deal. But only because I know you'll probably manage four anyway."
He knows me too well.
I managed five hours before training compulsion dragged me from bed, but at least Eugene's ultimatum forced some rest. Outside our window, Principal Crane's office light burned through the night, suggesting she was planning something that required extensive preparation.
Whatever's coming, it's big enough to keep her awake.
Time to find out what fresh hell Year Two has in store.
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them (20+ chapters ahead!). No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1