One Week Later
I stare at the exam paper in front of me, my pen moving almost automatically across the page.
Constitutional Law. Mid-term. Professor Morrison's notoriously difficult exam that everyone's been dreading for weeks.
The test I've been studying for over the past week between celestial gatherings and processing the reality that I might become a Celestian soon.
It feels surreal to be sitting in a lecture hall doing something as mundane as analyzing precedent cases and writing about judicial review after everything that's happened.
But life goes on, apparently.
Even when you're potentially on the verge of a divine transformation.
The question in front of me asks about the separation of powers and checks and balances in constitutional democracies. I've written three pages already, citing cases, drawing connections, making arguments about the delicate balance between branches of government.
It's almost meditative, in a way. The familiar rhythm of legal analysis. Building arguments brick by brick, supporting each claim with evidence, anticipating counterarguments.
So different from the celestial realm where logic sometimes takes a back seat to divine will and ancient magic.
I finish the last question and set down my pen, glancing at the clock. Forty-five minutes into the two-hour exam period.
Not bad.
I could leave now, or I could stay and review my answers.
I'm about to start reviewing when movement catches my eye.
A girl a few rows ahead of me—I think her name is Sarah, we've had a few classes together—is gripping her pen so tightly her knuckles are white.
Her shoulders are hunched, her breathing rapid and shallow even from here.
And she's pale. Unnaturally pale.
I watch her for another moment and notice her hand shaking as she tries to write something, then stops. Tries again. Stops.
Her other hand moves to her chest, pressing against it like she's trying to hold something in.
I recognize that gesture.
I've done it myself enough times.
Panic attack.
I watch for another moment, waiting to see if she'll raise her hand, ask for help, signal to the professor that something's wrong.
But she doesn't move. Just sits there, frozen, clearly struggling to breathe.
The professor is at the front of the room, absorbed in grading papers from an earlier section, completely oblivious to the student silently falling apart in row three.
No one else seems to notice either. Everyone's too focused on their own exams, their own stress, their own problems.
Sarah's breathing gets faster. More desperate.
I should mind my own business. Focus on my own exam. Let her handle it herself.
She's an adult. She can ask for help if she needs it.
But I can't look away.
Because I remember what it feels like to be trapped in that spiral, unable to breathe, unable to think, unable to ask for help because your throat is too tight and your brain is screaming that you're dying even though you know logically you're not.
I remember sitting in class feeling like the walls were closing in, like everyone could see me falling apart, like I was the only person in the world who couldn't handle something as simple as existing.
I remember how alone it felt.
How terrifying.
Before I consciously decide to move, I'm gathering my things and standing up.
The professor looks up from his grading. "Finished already, Mr. Hartley?"
It still feels strange to be called by my legal name here. In the celestial realm, I'm just Cecil. But here, in the mortal world of law school and formal addresses, I'm Cecil Hartley.
"Yes, sir. May I use the restroom?"
He nods absently, already returning to his grading. "Leave your exam on my desk on your way out."
"Actually, I'd like to review my answers first. I'll just step out for a moment."
"Fine, fine. Just be quiet about it."
I make my way down the aisle, deliberately passing by Sarah's row.
As I get closer, I can hear her breathing—fast, irregular, desperate little gasps that she's trying to muffle.
Her exam paper is mostly blank. A few scattered words in the first answer, then nothing.
She doesn't look up as I pass, too lost in her panic to notice anything around her.
I pause at the end of her row, pretending to adjust my bag, and speak quietly enough that only she can hear.
"Hey."
Her eyes snap to mine—wide, terrified, pupils dilated.
"I know what's happening," I continue in that same quiet tone. "You're having a panic attack. You're going to be okay."
She makes a small sound—not quite a word, more like a whimper.
"I'm going to wait for you outside," I say. "When you're ready, come find me. Okay? Take your time. There's no rush."
She manages the smallest nod, her eyes welling with tears.
I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile and leave the exam hall.
The corridor outside is empty and quiet, the sound of my footsteps echoing off the polished floors.
I lean against the wall near the exam hall door and wait.
Five minutes pass.
Then ten.
I'm starting to worry that I made things worse, that maybe I should go back in and check on her, when the door opens and Sarah stumbles out.
She's still pale, still breathing too fast, but she's moving.
And she's looking around frantically until her eyes land on me.
"Here," I say gently, pushing off the wall and gesturing to a bench further down the hallway, away from the exam room. "Come sit down."
She follows me on shaky legs and collapses onto the bench like her strings have been cut.
Her hands are trembling violently and she's pressing them against her chest again.
"I can't—I can't breathe—" The words come out in gasps.
"Yes you can," I say firmly but gently, sitting beside her. "You are breathing. It just doesn't feel like enough right now. That's the panic lying to you."
I don't touch her—don't know if touch would help or make things worse—but I sit close enough that she knows I'm there.
"I'm going to count," I say. "And I want you to breathe with me. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Can you try that?"
She nods jerkily, tears streaming down her face now.
"Okay. Ready? In—two—three—four," I count slowly, demonstrating with my own breathing. "Hold—two—three—four. Out—two—three—four."
She tries to follow, her breathing stuttering and uneven, broken by small sobs.
"That's okay. Keep trying. You're doing great. In—two—three—four."
We do this for several minutes. I keep counting, keep breathing with her, keeping my voice calm and steady even though part of me is back in my own panic attacks, remembering how endless they felt.
Gradually—slowly—her breathing starts to even out.
The gasping becomes deeper breaths. The sobbing quiets. The color begins to return to her face.
"Better?" I ask quietly after we've done several more rounds.
"A little," she manages, her voice hoarse. "I'm sorry, I don't know what—I'm so sorry—"
"Don't apologize," I interrupt gently. "Panic attacks happen. They're not your fault."
"I just—the exam—" Her voice breaks. "I studied so hard. For weeks. I know this material, I swear I know it, but when I sat down and looked at the questions my mind went completely blank and then I couldn't breathe and—" She presses her hands against her face. "God, I'm such a mess."
"You're not a mess," I say firmly. "You're a law student having a panic attack during a difficult exam. That's actually pretty normal, even if it doesn't feel like it."
She lowers her hands to look at me. "Does this happen to you?"
"It used to. A lot." I don't elaborate on the circumstances. Don't need to. "I learned some techniques to manage it. The breathing helps. So does grounding yourself—focusing on physical sensations instead of the panic."
"I don't know how to do that."
"Five things you can see," I say. "Name them out loud."
She blinks at me, confused.
"Just try it. Five things you can see right now."
She looks around the hallway, her breathing still a bit too fast but improving. "Um. That poster about the law review. The bench we're sitting on. Your bag. The water fountain. That crack in the ceiling tile."
"Good. Now four things you can touch."
She puts her hands on the bench. "The bench. My jeans. My phone in my pocket. The strap of my bag."
"Three things you can hear."
She's quiet for a moment, listening. "The air conditioning. Someone's footsteps somewhere upstairs. My own breathing."
"Two things you can smell."
"Coffee." A small smile. "Someone must have brought coffee into the exam room. And... cleaning solution, I think?"
"One thing you can taste."
"The mint from my gum earlier."
"How do you feel now?"
She takes a careful breath. "Better. Steadier. My heart's still racing but not as bad."
"That's good. It takes time for your body to fully calm down after a panic attack. But you're doing really well."
She's quiet for a moment, wiping at her face with her sleeve.
"How did you know?" she asks suddenly. "What to do? You're not a therapist, are you?"
"No. I'm a law student. Just like you." I pause. "But I've been where you are. More times than I can count. So I learned what helps."
Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed by something that looks like relief. Like she's not alone in this.
"Thank you," she whispers. "Really. I don't even know your name."
"Cecil. Cecil Williams."
"Sarah Chen." She takes another shaky breath. "Thank you, Cecil. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't—" Her voice breaks again.
"You would have figured it out," I say gently. "Maybe not as quickly, but you would have gotten through it. You're stronger than you think."
She gives me a watery smile. "I don't feel very strong right now."
"Strength isn't about not having panic attacks. It's about surviving them." I stand up carefully. "Do you want to go back in and finish the exam? Or do you need more time?"
She looks at the exam hall door like it's the entrance to a haunted house. "I don't know if I can."
"You can," I say with certainty. "But only if you want to. If you need to leave and talk to Professor Morrison about a makeup exam, that's okay too."
"I don't think he gives makeup exams for anxiety."
"He might if you explain what happened. Panic attacks are a medical issue. You can't control them." I pause. "And if he won't, you can talk to student services. They have accommodations for mental health issues."
She considers this, some of the panic in her eyes being replaced by something more practical. More focused.
"I think I want to try to finish," she says slowly. "I know the material. I just need to calm down enough to think straight."
"Then you should go back in. Take your time. If you need to take a break again, take a break. Professor Morrison won't care as long as you finish before the time is up."
She nods, standing up carefully and testing her steadiness. "What if it happens again? The panic?"
"Then you use the breathing technique. Count to yourself if you need to. Ground yourself with the five senses thing." I meet her eyes. "And remember that it's temporary. Panic attacks always end. Even when they feel endless."
She takes a deep breath—steadier this time. "Okay. Okay, I can do this."
"You can," I agree.
She gives me a small, grateful smile and heads back toward the exam hall.
Then she pauses and turns back. "Cecil?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. Seriously. You probably saved my entire semester."
"You're welcome. Good luck with the exam."
She nods and disappears back into the exam hall.
I stay on the bench for a moment, making sure she's actually okay, making sure she's not going to come back out in another wave of panic.
And that's when I feel it.
A strange sensation—like something shifting inside me. Not painful, just... different.
Warmth spreading through my chest, down my arms, into my fingertips.
The flower on my wrist glows brighter for just a moment—bright enough that I can see it through my sleeve—then fades back to normal.
What was that?
I stand up slowly, testing my balance.
I feel fine. Normal. Maybe a little warm, but that could just be from the stress of helping Sarah.
Maybe I imagined it.
I should probably go back in and submit my exam. Professor Morrison is going to wonder where I went.
But as I start walking back toward the exam hall, the sensation comes back—stronger this time.
A pulling feeling, deep in my chest. Like something is trying to surface, trying to break through.
Like something inside me is waking up.
*You will be able to do the same soon.*
Tenebrae's words echo in my mind with sudden, crystal clarity.
Oh.
*Oh.*
This is it, isn't it?
The transformation.
It's starting.
Right here. Right now. In the middle of the law school hallway.
I need to get home.
I need to get to Keith and Dylan.
I manage to make it back to the exam hall and leave my completed exam on Professor Morrison's desk with shaking hands.
He looks up. "Everything alright, Mr. Hartley?"
"Fine, sir. Just not feeling well. I need to head home."
"Alright. Feel better."
I make it outside the building before the next wave hits—this one strong enough that I have to stop and brace myself against a wall.
My vision blurs slightly. The world tilts.
My phone. I need my phone.
I pull it out with shaking hands and manage to pull up Keith's contact.
It rings once. Twice.
"Beautiful! How'd the exam go?"
The sound of his voice is grounding. Familiar. Safe.
"Keith," I manage. "Something's happening. I need—I need to get home."
His tone shifts immediately from cheerful to sharp with concern. "What's happening? Are you hurt?"
"Not hurt. Just—weird. Feeling weird. I helped someone and then—" The pulling sensation intensifies and I gasp, my knees almost buckling.
"Where are you?" Keith demands. "Tell me exactly where you are."
"Outside. The law building. East entrance."
"Stay where you are," Keith says urgently. "I'm coming to get you right now. Don't move, don't try to go anywhere. Just stay put."
"Okay," I whisper.
The line stays connected. I can hear Keith moving, hear the sound of our apartment door opening, hear Dylan's voice in the background asking what's wrong, hear Keith explaining in rapid, clipped sentences.
"Two minutes," Keith says, his voice steady despite the obvious worry. "I'll be there in two minutes. Just breathe, beautiful. Focus on breathing."
I try to follow his instruction, but breathing is becoming harder.
Not from panic. From whatever is happening inside me.
It feels like every cell in my body is vibrating at a frequency just slightly off from reality.
The world tilts more dramatically and I slide down the wall to sit on the ground, my bag falling beside me.
Students pass by, some glancing at me curiously—probably thinking I'm hungover or sick—but no one stops.
Just another law student having a breakdown during exam season.
If only they knew.
The pulling sensation is constant now, rhythmic, like a heartbeat that's not quite my own.
And then Keith is there, materializing out of thin air right in front of me, dropping to his knees beside me.
Thank god for celestial travel.
"I've got you," he says immediately, his hands on my face, checking me over. "Can you stand?"
"I think so."
He helps me up, supporting most of my weight, and I'm vaguely aware of him grabbing my bag with his other hand.
"Hold on to me," he instructs.
I do, wrapping my arms around him, and the world shifts.
That familiar sensation of celestial travel—like being pulled through space at impossible speed, like existing everywhere and nowhere simultaneously.
We materialize in the living room of the apartment and Dylan is already there, pacing, concern written clearly across his face.
"What happened?" he asks immediately, helping Keith guide me to the couch.
"I don't know," I manage, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. "I was taking my exam, and there was a girl having a panic attack, and I helped her—showed her breathing techniques, grounding exercises—and then I felt—"
I stop as another wave hits, stronger than before.
It's not painful, but it's overwhelming. Like my body is trying to remember how to exist in a completely different way.
"Something's changing," I gasp. "Inside me. Something's changing."
Keith and Dylan exchange a look—one of those silent conversations they have.
"The transformation," Dylan says quietly, and it's not a question.
"Already?" Keith sounds surprised. "It's only been a few weeks since the flower appeared."
"Tenebrae said soon," I remind them, my voice weak. "He knew. When I thanked him for helping you—he looked at me like he could see this coming."
The pulling sensation is constant now, not coming in waves anymore. Just a steady pressure in my chest, growing stronger with each passing moment.
"What do I do?" I ask, and I hate how scared I sound.
"Nothing," Keith says gently, sitting beside me and taking my hand. "Just let it happen. Don't fight it. We're right here."
"It won't hurt," Dylan adds, settling on my other side, his hand finding my other hand. "It might feel strange, uncomfortable even, but it won't hurt. I promise."
"How long does it take?"
"That varies," Keith says, his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand—a soothing gesture. "Could be minutes. Could be hours. Every transformation is different."
The pressure intensifies and I squeeze Keith's hand tightly.
"I'm scared," I whisper.
"I know," Keith murmurs, pressing his forehead against mine. "But you're not alone. We're right here, beautiful. We're not going anywhere."
Dylan's hand tightens on mine. "You're safe, Cecil. This is supposed to happen. You're just becoming what you were always meant to be."
What I was always meant to be.
A Celestian.
One of them.
Forever.
The thought should terrify me.
But surrounded by Keith and Dylan, feeling their solid presence on either side of me, their hands anchoring me to reality, I find I'm not as scared as I should be.
Whatever comes next, we'll face it together.
Just like we promised.
The pressure builds higher, higher, until I can barely breathe with the weight of it.
My vision blurs again. The room seems to pulse with light—or maybe that's just my perception shifting.
"Keith," I gasp. "Dylan—I can't—"
"We're here," they say in perfect unison. "We're right here."
The flower on my wrist blazes bright—so bright I can see it even with my eyes closed, so bright it seems to illuminate the entire room.
I try to hold on to Keith and Dylan's hands, try to stay grounded in their touch, in their presence, in the certainty that they're here with me.
But the light is everywhere now, inside me and outside me, and I can't tell where I end and it begins.
It's not frightening, exactly. Just overwhelming. Like being unmade and remade simultaneously.
Like every molecule of my being is being rewritten into something new.
Something divine.
The last thing I hear before everything goes white is Dylan's voice, steady and sure and absolutely certain.
"We've got you, baby. Always."
And then—
Everything dissolves into light.
And I let go.