Close third — Silas Vane
The cafeteria had a heartbeat.
Silas didn't need eyes to know that. He felt it in the cheap tile under his shoes—the faint tremor of hundreds of bodies shifting, fidgeting, laughing too loud because they were afraid of being laughed at first. He felt it in the air vents, the steady artificial breath that carried grease, ketchup, sweat, and somebody's over-sweet cologne that tried too hard to be grown.
He sat alone anyway.
Not because he had to. Because he wanted the quiet that came from being ignored.
A metal tray rasped across the table. The sound was blunt, deliberate. A challenge disguised as a mistake.
Then another.
Then a chorus of sneakers scuffing the floor in synchronized stupidity.
Football players. They moved like one animal that couldn't decide whether it was a wolf or a herd. Their presence had a particular rhythm: heavy steps, shallow breaths, laughter that came in bursts like someone kicking a broken engine.
Silas kept eating.
Fork. Plate. Chew. Swallow.
His clouded, milky eyes faced forward, unfocused to anyone who didn't understand him. To Silas, the room was not dark. It was a map of flows—vibration threads, heat shifts, pressure changes, the invisible signatures of bodies and moods.
He didn't see them the way they wanted him to see them.
That was why they were here.
A hand snatched a fry from his tray. Another flicked the edge of his carton of milk so it wobbled. A third tapped the table in a lazy rhythm that tried to mimic his calm.
Their confidence tasted like cheap sugar. It spiked fast and crashed faster.
"Yo," one of them said, leaning close enough that Silas could feel the warmth of his breath on his cheek. "The freak eats alone."
Laughter.
Silas lifted his fork. Took another bite. Didn't turn his head.
"Hey, freak," another voice added, louder. "How you see without—what's that thing called—without eyes?"
More laughter, louder because it got the group approval.
Silas let it slide past him like wind.
Arrogance was a common disease. Treatable, sometimes. Fatal, often.
A knuckle knocked the side of his tray. Silverware clinked. A kid at another table sucked in a breath too sharply, like the room had collectively noticed the scene and decided to pretend it hadn't.
"Bet he can't even tell who's talking," the first one said. "He's blind, right? Blind boy?"
Silas's fork paused halfway to his mouth.
He could tell the speaker's weight by the frequency of the chair creak. He could tell the speaker's insecurity by how quickly his heartbeat climbed after each laugh. He could tell the speaker's friends didn't actually like him—only feared being left out.
He could tell the exact distance between his tray and the edge of the table without touching it.
He could tell that if he responded, the entire cafeteria would become a stadium.
So he didn't.
He kept eating.
That, apparently, was the wrong answer.
The carton of milk was lifted. He heard the soft crumple of cardboard under a too-hard grip. Heard the tiny slosh inside, the surface tension breaking as it tilted.
He knew what was coming the same way he knew when someone was about to throw a punch: a small shift in breath, a quick spike of thrill.
But milk had no intent. It was just a thing.
Cold liquid poured over his hair and face. It ran down his forehead, along his jawline, soaked into his collar. The cafeteria sound blurred into a distant echo for half a heartbeat.
Silas set his fork down.
Slowly.
Carefully.
His fingers, already chilled from the milk, flexed once. The world tightened into sharp lines and hot points.
He didn't move because he was blind.
He moved because he was deciding.
A laugh burst right next to him—too close, too proud. "Aww, look at him. He's gonna cry—"
Silas stood.
The chair slid back without scraping. He didn't push it. He simply rose, and the space around him adjusted, as if the room remembered it was supposed to give him clearance.
His hand reached forward.
Not searching.
Not guessing.
It closed on fabric, collar, skin beneath.
The head jock's throat jumped in surprise.
And Silas let the world's kinetic truth speak.
He pulled.
No—he redirected.
The jock left the ground like gravity had forgotten its job. A burst of force, clean and contained, launched him across the cafeteria. He hit a table hard enough that a metal pan jumped, skittered, and clanged against the floor.
Everything went quiet.
The kind of quiet that hurt people's ears because they weren't used to hearing their own fear.
Silas walked.
Straight line. No hesitation. No stuttered steps. No fumbling. Milk dripped from his hair onto the tiles as he crossed the room, his shoes cutting through the silence like a blade through paper.
He reached the jock, who was trying to sit up, stunned, pride scrambled.
Silas crouched.
Took the boy's throwing arm in a grip that was more gentle than anyone expected.
Then he twisted.
The break was not a wild snap. It was a precise, surgical betrayal of bone.
A scream tore through the air, raw and animal.
Silas stood again and turned his head toward the remaining jocks. He didn't need to look at their eyes to know what they were doing. Their heartbeats were a drumline of sudden panic. Their muscles had gone stiff, indecisive.
He let the silence hang long enough to let it become a lesson.
Then he spoke, calm as prayer.
"Who's next?"
For a heartbeat, nobody moved.
Then the cafeteria exploded.
Chairs screeched. Feet slammed. Trays crashed. Someone screamed "Monster!" like they'd just discovered an ancient truth.
Doors banged open. Bodies poured out.
Silas remained still at the center of the storm, milk-soaked and perfectly composed.
He listened to the chaos flee him.
And wondered—very briefly—why it always took violence for people to understand boundaries.
A siren wailed somewhere outside, distant but approaching.
Silas exhaled through his nose, slow and measured.
He turned back toward his abandoned tray.
Sat down.
Picked up his fork.
And finished his lunch while the world fell apart around him.
---
"The Echoes" did not forgive noise.
The house was built to swallow sound like a grave. Brutalist walls. Heavy, clean angles. Floors designed not for comfort, but for truth—vibration-conducting plates beneath polished stone that carried every footstep to anyone trained enough to listen.
Silas walked in without being asked.
Milk still faintly sour in his hair. The collar of his uniform shirt stiff with dried humiliation.
The dining room was lit with a soft, controlled glow. Not warm. Not cold. Neutral, like a courtroom. A long table stretched between shadows like a blade on display.
Alistair Vane sat at the head.
He didn't stand. Didn't rush. Didn't ask, What happened? because he already knew. Information always arrived at The Echoes before emotions did.
Elara Vane sat to Alistair's right, violet eyes gleaming as if the evening were a performance written for her amusement. She held a teacup with the delicacy of a woman who could collapse governments with a well-timed whisper.
Mordecai stood behind them, perfectly still in a tailored tuxedo that made his seven-foot frame look even more impossible. His metallic jaw didn't move. The voice that came from him was a low hum that seemed to rise from the floor itself.
Vesper—fourteen and uncontainable—was sprawled sideways in her chair, practically vibrating with curiosity.
Silas took his seat with terrifying grace, because he'd been raised in a home that treated sloppy movement like profanity.
Dinner began without ceremony.
The first clink of cutlery sounded like permission.
Alistair spoke once, as always.
"The boy's arm," he said, tone flat. "Was it a clean break?"
Silas chewed slowly. Swallowed.
"Spiral fracture," he replied. "He won't throw a football again until spring."
Vesper made a delighted noise, sharp and messy. The vibration of it buzzed through the table. "That's my brother."
Alistair didn't look at her. But the floor beneath her chair sent a tiny warning tremor as Mordecai shifted his weight—a reminder of house rules.
Elara laughed, bright and quick, like glass catching sunlight. "Oh, I knew there was a reason I bought that black silk suit for your enrollment photos." Her eyes flicked toward Mordecai. "Pack the rapier. Our son is going to Nevermore."
Silas's fingers tightened around his knife for half a second before relaxing. He didn't ask what Nevermore was. The Vanes didn't ask questions they'd already studied.
Alistair set down his fork.
The sound was soft.
Final.
"Columbia High is finished," he said.
Silas didn't correct him to say it had been finished long before today.
Alistair continued, voice precise. "Normies are fragile. Their institutions are built for comfort, not containment. They will call you a monster because it is easier than admitting they were wrong."
Elara sipped her tea. "And because it's dramatic."
Alistair ignored that, as he did most things that weren't useful. "Nevermore will appreciate your theatrics more than Columbia High did."
Silas felt Mordecai move. A faint vibration carried up through the floor. A travel bag was placed beside Silas's chair without a sound.
Alistair rose. Came around the table. Placed a heavy hand on Silas's shoulder.
Not a hug.
A claim.
A command.
"Don't embarrass the name," he said.
Silas nodded once.
Yes, Father.
No, Father.
Maybe, Father.
All in the same motion.
Elara leaned forward, violet eyes wicked with affection. "I'm going to miss having you at home," she said, voice bright. "Who will I verbally destroy at breakfast now?"
"Vesper," Silas said without hesitation.
Vesper threw a roll at him. It curved midair like it had a mind of its own and smacked him in the chest. She hadn't mastered control yet; her kinetic bursts always carried emotion first and aim second.
Silas caught the roll without looking and set it neatly on his plate.
Elara sighed, pleased. "I love this family."
Mordecai hummed once, low and approving.
Silas finished dinner.
He washed his hands.
He changed into black clothes that didn't show stains, because the Vanes didn't let the world see their mess.
Then he went to his room and packed with the same calm precision he used to break bones.
When he reached for his weapon, it was already waiting.
A sleek, jet-black rapier—gifted, not earned, because Alistair believed birthrights were real.
Silas lifted it and felt the balance.
Then, as the last light bled across the Hudson, he took the Vane Sentinel—his cane—and ran his thumb over the obsidian raven head.
Raw diamond eyes caught the glow, sharp and cold.
The raven's beak fit his palm as if it had been carved from his bones.
He smiled faintly.
Not because he was excited.
Because he was ready.
---
The drive north was silent except for the world.
Tires hummed against asphalt. Wind pressed against glass. Far-off city noise faded into wide stretches of darkness broken by occasional headlights and the soft thud of highway expansion joints.
Silas sat in the back of the towncar, posture perfect, travel bag at his feet, Vane Sentinel resting upright between his knees like a staff.
Elara spoke in quick bursts, as if the future was a song she couldn't stop hearing.
"Nevermore has history, darling," she said, violet eyes flicking toward him even when the road was still hours away. "Real history. Not normie-school fake plaques and sports trophies. There are things in those halls older than your father's worst habits."
Alistair, beside her, said nothing.
He didn't need to. Silence was his language. Elara was just the translation.
Mordecai sat in the front passenger seat, still as a statue, the perfect shadow.
Silas listened.
Not to their voices.
To the world outside.
As the city fell behind them, the Flux changed. New York's vibrations were chaotic, layered, relentless. The farther they went, the more the world started to breathe in longer, cleaner waves.
But under the calm, there was something else.
A distortion.
Thin at first—like a hairline crack in glass.
Then stronger as Vermont's mountains rose around them and trees pressed closer to the road.
Silas tilted his head.
The distortion wasn't a person. Not a heartbeat. Not a mind.
It was… hunger, maybe. Pressure. A wrongness in the flow of the air, like the world had swallowed something sharp.
His fingers tightened around the raven handle of the cane.
Elara noticed immediately. She always did.
"Oh?" she murmured. "You feel it, don't you?"
Silas didn't answer.
Alistair's voice came once, low and controlled. "Nevermore sits on old ground."
Elara smiled. "And old ground is always lively."
Silas leaned his head back against the leather seat. The cane remained upright, steady as a promise.
He closed his eyes—not because he needed to, but because it made no difference.
The world was already lit in his mind.
---
Nevermore's iron gates groaned as if they resented being opened.
The sound rolled through the gravel, up the stone stairs, into the air like a warning.
The towncar stopped.
The door opened.
Cold evening air kissed Silas's face. It smelled of damp stone, old leaves, and something metallic, faint and distant, like a blade left too long in rain.
Mordecai stepped out first. His massive frame shifted the gravel beneath his polished shoes. The ground carried that vibration to Silas like a reassuring hand.
Then Alistair. Controlled, immaculate.
Then Elara, smiling as if the school were a party she'd been invited to ruin.
Then Silas.
He stepped onto the gravel without hesitation and adjusted his collar as if he were arriving at a gala rather than an institution built to contain him.
The Vane Sentinel planted itself with a soft tap.
A ripple of kinetic energy traveled through the ferrule into the earth. It returned information in a clean wave: staircase height, stone density, nearby bodies, distance to the doors.
To a normie, it would've looked like a blind boy testing his ground.
To Silas, it was sonar.
He lifted his head slightly.
The school was ancient.
Not in appearance—though it certainly looked old—but in the way its vibrations carried a weight that modern buildings never had. As if the stone remembered every footstep that had ever crossed it.
At the top of the stairs waited Ms. Aristhina "Ris" Glass.
Her voice was dry parchment. Her presence was sharp order. The snakes braided beneath her silk headscarf held perfectly still, disciplined like soldiers.
"Mr. and Mrs. Vane," she said, charcoal tablet in hand. "And the… notorious Silas."
Silas's mouth twitched.
"Ms. Glass," she continued, as if reading from an invisible checklist. "Intake logistics and liability waivers for Nevermore Academy. If you'll follow me, the grounds are currently at peak social density."
Alistair's silence responded.
Elara's smile widened. "Delightful."
Silas followed without asking permission.
Ms. Glass led them through the Quad like a woman guiding predators through a zoo.
"To your left is the Quad," she said, monotone. "We maintain a strict policy against inter-clique violence, though the 'Fangs' and 'Scales' currently have a pending mediation regarding fountain rights."
Silas's cane tapped once more. The vibrations returned with a map of bodies: a cluster of werewolves nearby, their energy jagged and hot like sparks; a group of vampires standing too still, their signatures cold, stagnant, predator-calm; a handful of gorgons whose emotional frequencies felt oddly sedated—stoners, as the students called them.
"Silas," Ms. Glass noted without looking back, "your incident at Columbia High has been classified under 'Self-Defense via Outcast Manifestation' for insurance purposes."
Silas could hear the smirk she refused to allow her tone.
"However," she continued, "should you use a 'Sky Slash' on the gargoyles, the repair costs will be deducted from your family's trust."
Elara laughed softly. "Oh, Larissa has budgets now. How thrilling."
Silas kept his face calm, but he stored the information. The school wasn't just watching him socially. It was watching him financially.
Even monsters had invoices.
They reached heavy oak doors.
Before Ms. Glass could announce them, the doors swung open.
A different kind of energy hit the hallway—old and dark and alive with theatrical misery.
Gomez Addams stepped out first, beaming like he'd never met a stranger he didn't want to duel with affection. Morticia followed, elegant and lethal. Wednesday trailed behind them, a small storm cloud in black, face deadpan, energy… strange.
And behind her, Lurch lingered like a shadow with a heartbeat.
The air froze.
Not physically.
Socially.
Two powerful families crossing paths in a narrow corridor was not a coincidence. It was a statement.
Alistair tipped his head slightly. "Gomez. Morticia. I haven't seen you since the solstice gala in Zurich."
Gomez's mustache twitched with delight. "Alistair! Elara! What a delicious surprise. I see the Vane bloodline has finally brought its… kinetic charm to Nevermore."
Elara's smile sharpened toward Morticia. "Long time no see, Morticia. I see your daughter is starting today as well? A mid-term enrollment… how scandalous. Just like our Silas."
Morticia's gaze moved to Silas's clouded eyes. It lingered, curious rather than pitying. "A lovely choice of school," she said softly. "I hope your son finds the misery here as refreshing as Wednesday will."
Silas didn't speak.
He listened.
Wednesday's presence in the Flux was wrong.
Not empty.
Not quiet.
A void.
A cold, silent center of gravity that didn't broadcast the way other people did. Even vampires had a pulse of hunger. Even gorgons had a lazy emotional haze.
Wednesday was… still.
Silas angled his face toward her with perfect accuracy and let a tiny, mocking smirk appear.
He felt her stare return, unimpressed, as if smirking was something she'd already evolved past.
Ms. Glass cleared her throat, tapping her tablet. "The reunion is touching," she said, "but the schedule is non-negotiable. Gomez, Morticia—Lurch is waiting at the gate."
Then she turned to the Vanes. "Silas. The Principal will see you now."
Alistair's hand settled on Silas's shoulder again—heavy, directive.
"Don't let the Principal win the debate," he said.
Silas's smile widened just enough to be dangerous.
"Yes, Father."
The Addams family moved away down the hallway, their presence leaving like a chill.
Silas followed Ms. Glass into the office.
---
Principal Larissa Weems stood behind her desk like she'd been carved there.
Regal posture. Controlled face. Professional smile that did not reach her eyes.
"Alistair," she said smoothly. "Elara. It's been quite some time since we walked these halls together."
She shook Alistair's hand. The contact made a dull, heavy thud—two controlled forces acknowledging each other without warmth.
Silas cataloged it.
Alistair returned a curt nod. "Larissa. I trust your standards haven't slipped since you took the chair. You were always a stickler for rules, even when we were sneaking out to the nightshades' library."
Weems chuckled dryly. "The rules are what keep this school from burning down, Alistair. Especially when students with… explosive kinetic potential are involved."
Her gaze cut to Silas.
"Take a seat, Silas."
Silas moved with that terrifying grace again, not reaching for the chair, not testing the distance. He simply sat, as if the world always made room for him.
Weems opened a thick manila folder on her desk.
Silas's file. New York. Columbia High.
"Interesting," she mused, flipping pages. "First transfer. Your record was flawless… until Friday at 12:30 p.m. A shattered arm and a cafeteria in hysterics. Quite an exit."
Silas's mouth twitched. "I try to make an impression."
Weems's eyes narrowed slightly—not anger, assessment.
"Regarding your condition," she said, voice smoothing. "Your blindness. Nevermore is fully equipped to accommodate. Braille textures on classroom doors. Sensory-based teaching support. We want to ensure the environment fits your needs."
Silas's clouded eyes fixed exactly on her face.
"With all due respect, Principal," he said, tone polite and razor-thin, "the environment doesn't need to fit me. I already know where the dust mites are dancing on your bookshelf. Just point me toward the training hall and the library."
Alistair's approval didn't need words. It was in the stillness of his shoulders.
Weems raised an eyebrow. "Confidence. A Vane trait."
She closed the folder with a sharp snap.
"Living arrangements," she said. "Mid-term arrival limits options. But I've found a match that will… balance your intensity."
She slid a brass key across the desk.
"You will be rooming with Ajax Petropolus," she continued. "A gorgon. Laid back. Distracted, at times. But steady. His 'chill' energy—" her mouth flickered, faintly amused at the phrase "—may provide necessary contrast to your Flux."
Elara's violet eyes lit with playful delight. "A gorgon," she murmured. "How poetic. A boy who turns people to stone rooming with a boy who doesn't use his eyes to see. You always did have a sense of irony, Larissa."
Weems ignored the tease with practiced ease.
"Ms. Glass will show you to the dorms," she said. "And Silas—try to keep the Sky Slashes to the fencing strip. I'd hate to bill your father for a new ceiling in your first week."
Silas stood, cane in hand, travel bag against his leg. The raven handle felt cool, steady.
"No promises, Principal," he said lightly. "It depends on how much the other students annoy me."
Weems's smile didn't change.
But the room's pressure did.
Silas liked her already.
Ms. Glass led him out.
Alistair's hand landed on Silas's shoulder one last time before they separated.
Not a hug.
A final directive transmitted through bone.
Silas turned away without looking back.
Because he didn't need to.
The Echoes had trained him for this.
---
Room 204 smelled like old wood, detergent, and somebody's attempt at a candle that couldn't decide whether it wanted to be vanilla or regret.
Silas stepped inside with the Vane Sentinel tapping lightly, mapping the space. The vibrations returned with clean lines: two beds, two desks, a window, a dresser. A heartbeat near the far side—steady, slow, calm.
Ajax Petropolus stood by his bed, wearing a beanie and sunglasses like armor. Even through the subdued emotional haze of a gorgon, Silas could taste nervousness in the air, thin and sharp.
"Uh," Ajax said. "Hey, man. I'm Ajax."
Silas set his travel bag down with care. The faint smell of milk still clung to him like a bad memory. Ozone lingered beneath it, the aftertaste of kinetic release.
Ajax shifted. "Just a heads-up… don't look too close at the hair if the hat comes off, or you'll be a permanent paperweight."
Silas turned his clouded eyes toward him, precise and calm, as if he'd been looking the whole time.
"I've spent my afternoon being called a freak and a monster, Ajax," Silas said. "A few snakes aren't going to ruin my night."
Ajax blinked behind the glasses.
Silas's mouth curved into something dangerously close to teasing. "Besides… your heart rate tells me you're more nervous than I am. Relax."
Ajax made a sound halfway between a laugh and a cough. "You can—what—hear heart rates?"
"I can hear everything," Silas said, and tapped his cane gently once. "Some things just make themselves obvious."
Ajax hesitated. Then—slowly—he tugged his beanie back just a little, as if testing the air for betrayal. The snakes beneath stirred, curious, cautious. Silas didn't react.
Because he didn't see them with eyes.
He felt Ajax's relief like a soft wave rolling through the room.
For the first time since Columbia High, Silas's mind… quieted.
Ajax's emotional frequency was steady, low turbulence, like water that didn't demand attention. In Silas's constant storm of sensation, it was a calm pool.
Silas exhaled without realizing he'd been holding his breath all day.
Ajax watched him carefully. "So you're… really not gonna… y'know… turn to stone?"
Silas lifted one shoulder. "If I do, I'll let you know. It would be inconvenient."
Ajax laughed, more genuine this time. "Dude. This is wild. This is like—this is the only place I can—"
He stopped himself, embarrassed by his own honesty.
Silas's smile softened, just a fraction.
"Yeah," he said. "I figured."
He leaned the Vane Sentinel against his bed, raven handle gleaming faintly. The cane looked like an expensive walking stick to anyone who didn't understand. In Silas's hands, it was a promise.
Ajax's snakes shifted again, curious.
Silas tapped the raven handle thoughtfully.
"This school," he murmured, mostly to himself, "is… interesting."
Ajax flopped onto his bed with a relieved sigh. "Tell me about it. I've been here since the start of term and I still show up to the wrong building sometimes."
Silas arched an eyebrow. "That seems avoidable."
Ajax shrugged. "Yeah, well. Sometimes I get stoned and lose track."
Silas snorted softly. "That's not an excuse. That's a condition."
Ajax grinned. "So you're like… gonna guide me back when that happens?"
Silas turned his head toward Ajax's heartbeat, amused. "Absolutely."
"Why do I feel like you're gonna make fun of me the whole way?"
Silas's smile widened.
"Because you're learning quickly."
---
Later, when the dorm settled and the sounds of the hallway faded into distant murmurs, Silas lay on his bed with his hands folded over his chest.
Ajax's breathing across the room was slow. His snakes had gone still, tucked into sleep.
Silas tapped the ferrule of his cane once, gently. A ripple of kinetic energy flowed outward and came back with the room's shape, clean and familiar. He didn't need it.
He just liked knowing.
The Flux across campus was louder at night than he'd expected—dozens of lives stacked in one place, cliques shifting, tensions humming.
But inside Room 204, it was quieter.
Not empty.
Quiet.
Silas stared at the ceiling with clouded eyes that didn't see paint or plaster.
He listened to the building breathe.
And then—
A wrongness.
Thin. Subtle.
A distortion in the local Flux, like a thread pulled too tight.
Silas's body went still.
He waited.
The wrongness passed, like something moving under the surface of water.
Then the world returned to normal, as if it had never happened.
Silas exhaled slowly.
Ajax shifted in his sleep, muttering something unintelligible.
Silas's hand moved to the hidden pressure plate beneath the raven's wing without conscious thought—an old habit. A failsafe. A reminder that even in bed, he was never fully unarmed.
He relaxed his fingers again.
In a school full of monsters, he had found one small space that felt normal.
That should have made him feel safe.
Instead, it made his curiosity sharpen.
He turned his head slightly toward Ajax's steady heartbeat and let the quiet settle around him like a cloak.
"Good night," he murmured, not because Ajax was awake, but because saying it made the day feel finished.
Across the room, Ajax's breathing didn't change.
Silas listened to the distant thunder outside, felt it through the stone, and thought—without humor this time—that Nevermore was old.
And old things always had secrets.
Silas Vane smiled faintly into the dark.
"This school," he whispered, "just got a whole lot more colorful."
Then he let himself sleep.