I DON'T REMEMBER MUCH about walking at first. My body was moving, yeah, but it wasn't me who willed my feet forward. I was hollow, like my heart had slipped out of my chest and refused to return. The only thing I could hear was the sound of my breath and the echo of flames from last night still crackling in my head. But then the air changed. It wasn't the soot or smoke that clung to my lungs when the mansion burned—it was fresh, earthy, and sweet in a way that almost hurt. I lifted my head, and for the first time, I noticed the garden here.
It wasn't like any garden I'd ever seen. I mean, our estate's gardens back home had been neat, sterile, always clipped into the same old patterns by our gardeners—hedges squared like puzzle pieces, flowers arranged by color in rows that looked more like soldiers than blooms. This garden, on the other hand, was mystical.
The hedges rose higher than me, trimmed not into flat walls but into animals, as if they were frozen mid-motion. A stag stood with its antlers stretched wide, as though listening for some unseen danger. A horse reared, hooves curled. A rabbit. A swan lifted wings that curved upward like outstretched arms. And then a towering owl. My hand lifted before I could stop it, brushing against the leaves. They weren't stiff or brittle like back home. They were soft, tender, and cared for. Whoever shaped these hadn't just worked—they had loved.
"You're staring at our topiaries," Eleanor's gentle voice floated behind me, tinged with amusement.
Heat rushed up my face, and I snatched my hand back. "I wasn't," I muttered, the words tumbling out sharper than I meant them to.
An elderly lady right beside Eleanor then chuckled lightly.
"Hello, dear. My name is Byrd Whetherell. But you can call me Miss Byrd. I'm the matron of this home. What's your name?" she asked. She had that grandmotherly air, like she'd weathered more storms than most people could imagine. Her dark eyes glimmered beneath silver lashes.
"Alice," I simply replied.
"I see that you're looking at our plants, Alice. Well, everyone stares their first time. These gardens like to be noticed."
Her words landed strangely in me. Gardens liked to be noticed? I wanted to ask what she meant, but I bit my tongue. Questions felt dangerous.
We then walked deeper, and the air grew even sweeter. Flowers spilled across the path where roses, lilies, irises, even wildflowers I didn't know the names of bloomed. They tangled together as if they'd grown freely, but somehow it didn't feel messy. It felt whole. Beneath them, vegetables sprouted in careful rows where corn stalks swayed tall, beans curled around poles, and leafy greens quivered in the faint breeze. The soil smelled rich, damp, and alive.
Eleanor noticed my gaze and smiled warmly. "We also grow our food here, Alice. Our medicine, too. Everything we can. It keeps us safe."
That word again. The word my father had always wanted to give me but couldn't. Safe.
I clenched my fists against the ache swelling in my chest. My home hadn't been safe. My father hadn't been safe. I wasn't safe. And yet, here, the world seemed untouched by fire. Untouched by death.
When the house finally came into view, I stopped breathing. Massive wasn't the word for it. The mansion before me looked like it had been pulled straight out of a fairytale or a nightmare, I couldn't decide which. Its stone walls climbed high into the sky, veined with ivy that clung like veins of green to pale gray skin. Towers jutted upward, piercing the clouds. Balconies also jutted like watchful eyes, each window gleaming faintly in the muted light.
It was larger than anything I'd ever seen. It was larger than my own home, larger even than the state halls I'd once accompanied my parents to. And yet it didn't feel showy. It felt enduring, as though it had been here long before me and would remain long after I was gone.
"And this, Alice," Eleanor said, her voice hushed in a way that made me think she was speaking to the house itself, "is Willowmere."
My lips parted, but my throat was too dry to let words pass. All I could manage was a whisper: "Where… where are we?"
Eleanor glanced at me, her smile tender. "Willowmere Valley. We're currently hidden away from the world of ordinary men. Protected and secret. Only those who are meant to find it can."
For the first time since last night, I felt the tiniest flicker of something other than grief. Not hope. Not yet. But maybe curiosity.
Then Miss Byrd spoke, and her words shifted everything again.
"You should know, Alice." Her tone was warm but steady, like she had been waiting to tell me. "I can sense that you also have a gift. That is my ability. I can feel the gifted. That's why I found this place long ago."
"You can tell I'm like you?" The word scraped my throat raw.
Miss Byrd nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. "Yes, child. It's no accident you survived what happened. Power runs through you. And I can feel it like sunlight on my skin."
My breath came quick, shallow, too loud in my ears. Because suddenly, everything—the force field, the men in black, Sebastian's warnings—snapped together like jagged pieces of glass.
And my father, he'd always been so cautious. He had dismissed my questions about riots, about land disputes, and about the enemies. He had buried gold in the hill and told me to be brave. I thought it had all been politics. But now, I realized it wasn't politics. It was this.
The memory hit me like a hammer. So that also means Dad knew about me not being normal. He had always known.
My knees buckled. My chest burned as though the fire from last night had reignited inside me. My father wasn't just a man with enemies. He was one of them. And that was why they killed him.
A sob ripped out of me before I could stop it. My fists trembled at my sides, nails cutting into my palms. Tears blurred the garden, the mansion, and the faces of Eleanor and Miss Byrd until everything became a watercolor smear.
"So my Dad knew," I whispered, though my voice was barely audible. "All this time, he knew."
Eleanor's hand brushed gently against my arm, warm and steady. "Alice…"
But I shook my head violently. "No. He—he could have told me, he should have—" My throat closed around the words.
Miss Byrd's eyes softened, though her voice was firm. "He probably hid things from you to protect you, Alice. Sometimes the greatest act of love is silence."
I hated it. I hated him for it and loved him more because of it all at once. My heart felt like it was splitting in two, pulled apart by grief and fury.
I pressed my hands against my face, sobbing quietly. Every breath hurt. Every tear dragged me back to the sight of him falling, of the injection, of the gunshot.
I then tried to steady my breathing. My chest rose and fell too quickly, every inhale trembling, every exhale brittle. The question had clawed out of me before I could stop it.
"But the men in black, w-who are they?" My voice was softer than I intended, barely more than a whisper. "Those beings, what are they? And why do they hunt gifted people?"
For a moment, silence filled the area. Eleanor's hand, which had been resting gently on my shoulder, stilled. Miss Byrd's eyes flicked toward the door as though she were expecting someone. And then, as if summoned by the question itself, Ryan appeared.
His steps were measured. His presence filled the space in a way that made me feel smaller somehow—not because he was intimidating, but because he carried something heavy, like storm clouds that pressed down on the earth. His expression was stern, though not unkind.
"You're asking the right questions, Alice," he said as he entered. His voice was calm, but beneath the calmness was steel. "But the truth is dangerous."
My heart hammered in my chest. Wasn't everything already dangerous? My father had been murdered before my eyes. My home turned to ashes. What truth could possibly be worse than that?
I swallowed, my throat dry. "I want to know anyway."
Ryan studied me for a long moment, as if weighing whether I was strong enough to carry what he was about to give me.
"The Men in Black aren't just men. They're operatives who are trained, conditioned, and stripped of humanity. They serve one purpose only: to capture the gifted. They don't just hunt. They don't just kill. They experiment on those they capture."
My stomach lurched. "Experiment?"
Eleanor flinched, her hand tightening slightly on the fabric of her dress. Miss Byrd's jaw set firmly, though her gaze lowered to the floor.
Ryan's eyes didn't waver from mine. "They twist science, though I don't know how. They cut apart what should never be touched. To them, gifted are not people. They're resources. Subjects. Tools to be taken apart, studied, and replicated. If they could, they'd bottle every ability, wring it out of us until there's nothing left."
The air felt suddenly heavy against my lungs. Images clawed through my mind.
I wrapped my arms tightly around myself, trying to hold together the pieces of me that wanted to break apart again.
"But why?" I whispered. "Why go that far?"
"Because they believe in balance. Or rather, in false balance," he replied. "They claim their purpose is to make gifted and humans equal. They see our abilities as unfair and unnatural. To them, we are an imbalance in the order of the world. And imbalance…" His lips pressed thin, voice dropping lower. "…must be corrected."
Equal. Balance. Correction.
The words made my skin crawl. My father had spoken about equality, about people deserving better. But this—this was not the same. This was hatred dressed up as reason.
My voice cracked as I forced the next question. "And who orders those men to capture gifted people? Who leads those men?"
Ryan hesitated. His silence was louder than any sound. He glanced toward Eleanor, who gave him a subtle shake of her head. Miss Byrd looked at him, her brows drawn together as though urging caution. But Ryan's eyes came back to me, and in them I saw something raw. A truth he didn't want to share but knew he had to.
"Before I answer that," he said, his tone shifting, heavier, "you should know how they began."
I stiffened, but I nodded.
Ryan's voice grew darker, like the weight of every word cost him. "They call themselves CYGNUS. A covert organization. It started with one man—a man consumed by hatred for the gifted. He saw our existence as a flaw in creation. He believed power belonged to no one, that if the world was to be fair, then the gifted must either be stripped of what they had… or destroyed."
My pulse pounded in my ears.
"This man gathered others," Ryan continued. "Scientists who wanted to play God. Soldiers who wanted control. Politicians who wanted power. Together, they built CYGNUS—an organization hidden in the darkness, dedicated to one goal: dismantling the gift that makes gifted beings unique. They experiment on those they capture to get the abilities of any gifted because the person who controlled them was angry over an accident caused by his brother, who was gifted, that cost them the lives of their parents."
I couldn't breathe. Every part of me recoiled, wanting to deny it, but Ryan's voice left no room for denial.
"And it does not end there." His eyes dropped briefly, then lifted back to me. "Before you arrived here… we intercepted one of their operations. We rescued two teenagers and a child. They had already been taken and are already hurt. Their abilities nearly drained from them through machines I do not care to describe. And one of them—" Ryan's voice faltered, the first crack I'd heard in his composure. "—one of them possesses an unusually powerful gift. If CYGNUS had succeeded, they would have weaponized it. Turned it into something monstrous."
My stomach churned. I then thought of my own near capture, the pale men in black closing in on me before Sebastian saved me. It could have been me. I mean, it could still could be me.
I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. The question slipped out before I could think. "Then… who leads them?"
Ryan's eyes closed for a brief moment. When he opened them, his gaze was steady but haunted. He wanted to answer, but he also wanted to stay silent. But before the silence was shattered, his words sliced the air into pieces I couldn't even imagine.
"My brother."
I stared at him, unable to comprehend. "Your… brother?"
"My brother, Alice," Ryan repeated quietly. "By blood. The boy I once played beside, the man who once shared my family's table. The same person who witnessed the tragedy that occurred years ago."
The words were too big. So Ryan accidentally killed his parents?
Eleanor's eyes lowered while Miss Byrd's lips pressed tightly, as if she had already known but hated hearing it aloud. But me—I could only stare.
Ryan's brother was the reason why I almost died. The leader of the organization that had murdered my father. The man who sent the pale-faced operatives to tear families apart. The reason flames had swallowed my life whole.
"How…" My voice trembled, broken. "How can you still—how can you—"
"I do not forgive him for what he did, Alice," Ryan cut in. "Do not mistake me. He is my brother by blood only. Whatever he once was, whatever we once shared—it is gone. What remains is a man consumed by hatred. A man who sees our kind not as people but as disease."
The room felt smaller, suffocating.
I wanted to scream. To claw the truth out of him until it made sense. But it didn't make sense. It never would.
I pressed my hands against my temples, trying to hold my thoughts still, but they spiraled anyway—flashes of my father's last breath, of the map thrust into my hands, of Sebastian's warnings, of Harriet's dull eyes and Dwight's kindness, of everything I thought I knew about the world collapsing beneath me.
I mean, family was supposed to be safety. Family was supposed to protect you. And yet here was proof that even blood could turn to poison.
I wanted to ask more—I wanted to scream every question tearing me apart. But the look in Ryan's eyes silenced me. A look that said he had given me enough, more than enough, and that any further truth would crush me before I was ready to bear it. So I didn't ask. In fact, I didn't speak at all. I only stood there, trembling, my heart pounding so hard it drowned out every other sound.
And before I could gather myself, before I could force out even a single word, Ryan's voice shifted.
Softer, but no less heavy. "There will be time for more questions later. For now, you have to rest. You have been through more than anyone should endure."
The conversation, just like that, slipped away. But inside me, nothing slipped away. The truth stayed, carved into me like fire branded into wood.
The Men in Black were not random assassins. They were operatives, extensions of CYGNUS, twisting science into cruelty. CYGNUS was not nameless and faceless. It was built by a man who hated people who were born unique—and led now by Ryan's own brother.
***
The sun slanted low in the sky by the time Ryan asked me to join him for a walk. It was already late in the afternoon. We had our lunch earlier, and Miss Byrd accompanied me to my new room. By then, the estate stretched outward like something from a dream—or perhaps a memory I had never lived, yet felt I had always longed for.
The air was cooler here too, crisp with the scent of pine drifting from the surrounding woods, mingling with the faint sweetness of roses and lavender from the gardens. Gravel crunched beneath our feet as Ryan led me along one of the winding paths that cut through the vast grounds.
For the first time since the fire, since the night my world had been torn to cinders, I allowed myself to breathe without the weight of immediate terror pressing on my chest. It wasn't relief. Not entirely. But here, in this hidden valley, I felt a fragile thread of safety weaving itself into me.
Ryan spoke as we walked, his tone more gentle now than it had been earlier when shadows of CYGNUS had filled his voice. "I should also remind you that there are rules in this home, Alice."
He glanced at me, his expression softening, as though aware of how much freedom I had already lost. "We keep to the grounds unless permitted otherwise. No one ventures into the valley without escort, and even then, rarely. The Men in Black have ways of finding us, and I will not risk another attack."
I nodded, though part of me bristled at the thought of more confinement. Homeschooling, restrictions, watchful eyes—I had always fought against those things. Yet now, after what I had seen, I understood too well why walls and rules were necessary.
Ryan continued, pointing out landmarks as though giving me a tour of a world within a world. "The east wing houses the dormitories. The west, the dining halls and common rooms. The south gardens are for training exercises, though they double as our vegetable plots. The northern halls… well, you'll see."
We turned a corner, and the sight before me momentarily stole my breath. Children darted through the grass, their laughter ringing out like chimes in the wind. A girl no older than twelve was coaxing flowers to bloom with a flick of her hand, their petals unfurling despite the late season. A boy nearby clapped his hands, sending sparks that shimmered like fireflies into the air. Older residents stood in small groups, talking or practicing quietly—lifting objects without touching them, weaving illusions that shimmered like heat haze.
I stopped, my heart stumbling. So there are dozens of them here.
For so long, I had felt like a mistake—terrified of the force that had burst from my hands. Now, I'm being surrounded by others who bore their own strange abilities, I felt something shift inside me. Not relief, not yet, but the faintest edge of belonging.
Ryan must have seen the change in my face. "Don't worry, Alice. They're also like you," he said quietly. "Each one is different. Each one has a different story. Everyone in my home is hurt and traumatized, but that also makes us the same."
For a fleeting moment, my grief loosened its grip. I let myself imagine a life here where I can learn, grow, maybe even laugh again. My father's voice echoed faintly in my mind: Be brave, Alice.
But then my steps faltered.
The air changed as we approached a set of heavy oak doors. A muted scent of herbs and antiseptic wafted through the cracks, and I realized this must be the infirmary. Ryan pushed the door open, gesturing for me to follow. When we got inside, the light became softer, filtered through tall arched windows. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with jars of dried plants and vials of strange liquids. Cots stretched in two rows, most of them empty—but not all.
Two figures sat beneath the care of a tall, bespectacled man who wore a physician's coat. He looked up as we entered, offering a nod. "Dr. Crowe," Ryan said by way of introduction. "Our resident physician. Without him, this home would have fallen long ago."
I barely heard the words. All I could notice is Dr. Crowe's mustache. But when I shifted my gaze elsewhere, I couldn't help but let my eyebrows furrow.
Because there, sitting side by side on the cots, were two familiar faces right next to a little kid.
My heart stuttered so violently I thought it might tear itself apart.
"Alice?" Dwight called, approaching me. Behind him was Harriet, whose dark hair was pulled back in its usual severe style. Harriet's posture was stiff even as she leaned slightly against the cot's headboard. Her expression, as ever, unreadable, though her skin looked pale, her arms bandaged.
"Alice, it really is you!" Dwight said. I couldn't believe it. The boy who had once been the center of my infatuations, and the very football star with his easy smile… he's also here. But he wasn't smiling now. His face was bruised, a cut splitting his brow. Yet even injured, his presence radiated that same unshakable steadiness I had admired from afar.
I froze in the doorway, my body refusing to move. The world around me dimmed, sound rushing to a dull hum. No. It couldn't be.
Harriet and Dwight—here.
How?
Ryan was saying something to Dr. Crowe, but I couldn't hear him. My gaze was fixed, my mind screaming. My feet might as well have been nailed to the floor.
Memories surged, the time I caused the water to fall over Harriet in a petty revenge. My jealousy, my bitterness, my endless need to be seen, all of them came rushing back. And now, they were here.
My chest tightened until it hurt.
Harriet's gaze flicked up then, meeting mine. Her eyes widened ever so slightly—so slight I might have imagined it—but for the first time, her mask cracked. Shock rippled across her face before she smoothed it away.
I wanted to run. To hide. To vanish before they could judge me with their eyes, before they could connect me to the humiliation I had dealt them. But my legs refused to move.
Ryan's voice finally cut through, steady and grounding. "They're recovering, Alice," he said, his eyes flicking to me knowingly. "They were among the ones we rescued."
My blood turned cold.
That meant Harriet and Dwight had been captured. That meant Harriet and Dwight are also gifted beings.
I clutched my arms tighter around myself, fighting the wave of nausea rising in my throat.
Harriet's voice broke the silence, quiet but firm. "Alice."
It was the first time I'd heard my name from her lips without a teacher prompting her. Just my name—plain, unadorned, without malice.
But it cut deeper than any insult.
Dwight's eyes softened, though pain still shadowed them. "How are you?"
The word rang strangely in my ears, as if I hadn't quite believed it myself until he said it. But I couldn't answer. My throat was too tight, my thoughts too tangled.
Instead, I stood there, drowning in the collision of past and present.
Ryan touched my shoulder lightly. "Come, Alice. They need rest. There will be time later."
But as he guided me from the infirmary, my eyes lingered on Harriet and Dwight.
On the girl I had mocked, the boy I had idolized.
On two survivors, like me.