Chapter Ten – Scarlet
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The training hall was colder than I remembered.
Not freezing. Just… unfriendly.
The kind of cold that wasn't in the air, but in the walls. In the floors. The way the light didn't fully touch the corners, the way the silence echoed like it wanted to be something else.
I stood at the edge for a full minute, holding the bucket and rag I'd been given like some medieval punishment cliché. It smelled like herbs and rust. Probably enchanted to dissolve grime. Or hope.
The spell-suppressant charm was already buzzing faintly under my skin. A small grey rune etched on the inside of my wrist like a burn — a constant reminder that even if I did have powers, they weren't going to work here. Not today.
I dropped the bucket on the nearest wooden tile. It landed with a wet thud. Water sloshed over the side.
"I'm not even sure what I did," I muttered to myself.
But that wasn't true. I knew.
It wasn't about what I did.
It was about what I was becoming.
And I think he saw it.
I sank to my knees, rolled up my sleeves, and dunked the cloth in the bucket. My fingers went numb instantly. I started scrubbing — slow at first, then faster when I realized how long this would take if I didn't move.
Each stroke brought up grime. Dust. Bloodstains, maybe. Who knew what this place had seen. This was where the elite trained. The Alphas. The powerhouses.
The ones who looked like they were born in command and slept on thunderclouds.
And I was scrubbing their dirt.
"Great," I whispered. "Exactly where I imagined myself."
The rag scraped across old scuff marks — likely from a sword, or claws, or some magic duel gone wrong. And the more I scrubbed, the more I felt… dizzy.
Like the air here wasn't just stale. It was watching me.
Every so often, I'd pause and look over my shoulder. Nothing. Just the empty space stretching all the way to the arched windows above. The stained glass dragons carved in each one looked more awake than I felt.
Damian.
The name lodged itself in my brain like a thorn. His voice still rang in my ears — dry, calm, controlled. Like he wasn't trying to scold me. Like he was measuring me.
No, weighing me.
I didn't know which was worse.
And then there was what he said: Don't call me that.
Like his name wasn't his. Like he belonged to something else.
I sat back on my heels, the rag dripping between my fingers. My wrists ached. My knees felt bruised through the uniform. I blinked fast — but the haze didn't lift.
And then I heard it.
A whisper.
Not loud. Not clear.
Just the softest scrape — like breath against stone.
I froze.
"Hello?" I called, voice tight, already regretting it.
No answer. But the air shifted.
The lights above flickered once, then stilled.
I stood slowly, holding the rag like it would help if something charged at me. My heart thudded in my throat. I knew what I heard. I wasn't crazy.
The training hall remained empty.
But I wasn't alone.
My hand moved to my wrist, tracing the edge of the spell-suppressant charm. Still active. Still humming. So whatever that whisper was… it didn't come from me.
Unless it did.
Unless it wasn't a voice at all.
I stepped toward the center of the room. Dust rose beneath my shoes.
There was a scorch mark in the middle — faint, circular. Old. Like something had exploded there. Or awakened.
I moved toward it slowly, every breath sharp in my chest.
And then I felt it.
Not heard. Felt.
Like heat curling around the back of my neck. Not physical heat — emotional heat. Rage. Desperation. A heartbeat that wasn't mine.
She is not ready.
The whisper again.
I gasped, stumbling backward. The words didn't come through my ears. They hit inside my chest, like they'd always been there, waiting to be said.
My hands shook.
The bucket tipped.
Water spilled across the tile, soaking the cuff of my uniform.
I knelt down to grab it and stopped.
My reflection in the puddle didn't match me.
The eyes looking back were gold. Flickering. Unfamiliar.
I blinked — hard.
They were gone.
Just me again.
Just Scarlet.
Sweaty. Scraped. Still confused about what the hell was happening.
I sat there for a while, knees on wet wood, staring at the floor like it had answers.
Maybe this was the punishment.
Not the scrubbing. Not the charm.
The punishment was having to sit still long enough for the noise to catch up to me.
Because underneath all the questions about Drizella, the uniform, Damian, Dexter, the stares — underneath all that noise was a terrifying silence.
A feeling that none of this was new.
That I'd done this before. Or been here before.
Or was made for it.
And that? That was worse than detention.
That felt like fate.