Close Third — Silas Vane
Morning at Nevermore did not arrive gently.
It crept.
Silas knew it was morning before the bells rang, before footsteps crowded the halls, before Ajax's alarm buzzed weakly from across the room and was immediately slapped silent. The building itself shifted pitch as the sun rose—stone warming, old pipes adjusting, the faint exhale of a place that had survived too many mornings to care about any single one.
He lay still for a moment, cataloging.
Ajax's breathing was slow and even, his emotional frequency steady as a lake with no wind. Somewhere down the hall, a werewolf's heartbeat spiked and fell again—late, probably. Outside, birds tested the air like scouts sent ahead of something larger.
Nevermore was old enough to remember worse mornings. Fires. Funerals. Lockdowns disguised as assemblies. The stone held it all without complaint.
Silas swung his legs off the bed and planted the Vane Sentinel beside him. The ferrule kissed the floor with a soft tap.
The building answered.
Information returned instantly—distance, density, the subtle vibration of pipes in the walls. Nevermore acknowledged him the way predators acknowledged other predators: without panic.
"Morning," Ajax mumbled, sitting up and shoving his beanie on halfway. One of his snakes hissed lazily, unimpressed by the concept of dawn.
Silas smiled faintly. "You drool when you sleep."
Ajax froze. "What?"
"Kidding," Silas said smoothly. "Mostly."
Ajax groaned and rolled out of bed. "You're evil."
"Efficient," Silas corrected, rising with that same unsettling grace. "There's a difference."
Ajax bumped into the dresser on his way past it, muttering under his breath. Silas didn't reach out. He didn't need to. Ajax's irritation flared and smoothed just as quickly—predictable, grounding. In a school full of emotional spikes, Ajax was a steady frequency. Silas filed that away, the way he filed away anything that made survival easier.
By the time they stepped into the hallway, Nevermore was awake.
Not loud—Nevermore never wasted energy on noise—but alive in layers. Students moved in clusters, their emotional signatures brushing past one another like weather fronts. The Flux buzzed with anticipation, irritation, curiosity.
Hierarchy hummed beneath it all. Attention bent around certain figures. Others shrank without realizing they'd done it. Power here wasn't loud. It was inherited. Practiced. Expected.
And somewhere in it—
A void.
Silas angled his head slightly.
Wednesday Addams stood near the stairwell, already dressed in black like the day itself had personally offended her. Enid Sinclair bounced beside her, energy bright and fluffy and almost painfully loud in the Flux.
"Oh my god, good morning!" Enid chirped, spotting them instantly. "You're Silas, right? And Ajax—hi! I was literally just about to start the official Nevermore Tour™."
Wednesday did not look pleased to be part of anything with a trademark symbol.
"Ah," Silas said lightly. "A guided experience. My favorite kind."
Wednesday's head turned toward him with precise disdain. "You survived your first night."
"Barely," Silas replied. "The pillows were emotionally unsupportive."
Enid laughed. Ajax snorted.
Wednesday blinked once, recalibrating.
"Okay!" Enid clapped her hands. "Rule number one—don't wander off alone until you know where you're going. This place is huge and kind of… murder-adjacent."
Silas tapped his cane once, sending a quiet sonar pulse through the stone. The map returned instantly.
"I'll be fine," he said. "But please. Lead on."
They moved through the castle like travelers crossing disputed land.
Each corridor carried a different weight. Ownership. Precedent. Students didn't simply walk—they claimed space with posture and silence, with who stepped aside and who didn't. Silas felt it all, the invisible borders pressing just beneath the stone.
Enid talked as she walked, bright voice skimming the surface, while Ajax filled in the gaps with quieter warnings.
"Those are the Scales," Ajax murmured, nodding toward a group of sirens lounging near a balustrade. Their laughter harmonized just enough to tug at the air, subtle and invasive. Silas felt it immediately—the pressure, the pull.
He adjusted his grip on the cane, grounding himself through the floor. Ajax shifted half a step closer without comment.
"Over there," Enid added, lowering her voice, "the Fangs." Vampires stood motionless in a patch of shadow, their presence cold and stagnant in the Flux, like statues that breathed only when no one was watching.
Laughter erupted farther down the corridor—jagged, overheated. Ajax winced. "Werewolves. Furs. Try not to run near them."
Silas smiled faintly, cane tapping once against the floor as the castle mapped itself beneath his feet.
Nevermore wasn't a school. It was a kingdom—territories, alliances, invisible borders drawn in instinct and blood.
He paused near a vaulted archway as another group passed. "Interesting," he murmured.
Ajax glanced at him. "What?"
"Everyone here moves like they already know where they belong," Silas said, tapping the stone once. "That usually means no one's tested the borders in a while."
Wednesday didn't turn. But her void sharpened—acknowledgment without agreement.
They reached the fencing hall as the bell rang.
Metal sang inside.
The fencing room thrummed with anticipation.
Silas stood near the wall, cane planted, listening as blades cut air and shoes scraped stone. He felt Bianca Barclay before she spoke—confidence honed sharp, ego polished to a shine.
Then Wednesday stepped onto the strip.
The duel unfolded like a thesis defense.
Silas didn't interfere. Didn't comment. He listened to footwork, breath, the exact instant Bianca realized she had underestimated her opponent. When Wednesday's blade drew first blood, the room reacted before Bianca did.
Silas waited.
Until Bianca stepped back, forced composure snapping into place like armor pulled on too late.
Then he tilted his head.
"Hm," he said thoughtfully. "That looked easy."
A beat.
"For us."
Heads turned.
"Oh—right," Silas added mildly, tapping one clouded eye. "I should clarify. I'm blind. So if I could tell how that was going to end…" His smile sharpened. "That's unfortunate."
A ripple of laughter moved through the room, quickly smothered.
Silas inclined his head toward Bianca, all perfect manners and surgical cruelty. "You fought beautifully," he said. "Just… predictably."
Wednesday glanced at him.
Not approval.
Recognition.
Bianca did not respond.
Silas stepped back, content.
Rowan found them afterward, lingering like someone unsure he was allowed to exist in the same space.
"You're… new," Rowan said. "Both of you."
"Unfortunately," Wednesday replied.
Silas angled his head, listening to Rowan's emotional signature—lonely, brittle, burning with resentment that had nowhere to go.
"Outsiders tend to find each other," Silas said. "It's efficient."
Rowan nodded slowly, like the words mattered more than he wanted them to.
They spoke quietly for a few minutes. Nothing important.
Everything important.
Then the air shifted.
The stone path outside felt wrong.
Silas walked beside Wednesday, the Vane Sentinel tapping in a soft, rhythmic pattern—not for balance. For information.
"Your presence is surprisingly tolerable," Wednesday said. "Most people here leak desperation."
"That's because I'm not trying to be your friend," Silas replied. "I'm just looking for somewhere the werewolves aren't howling."
The gargoyle cracked.
Silas's head snapped up.
No intent.
No warning.
Just gravity.
CRACK.
Xavier Thorpe lunged from the shadows, tackling Wednesday clear as stone exploded where she'd been standing.
Dust filled the air.
Silas stood perfectly still, heart pounding faster than he liked.
"Well," he said calmly after a beat. "I didn't see that coming. Interesting. Very interesting."
He angled his head toward Xavier. "Nice save, boy with the ponytail."
Wednesday collapsed.
The world went wrong again.
The infirmary smelled like antiseptic and restraint.
Wednesday lay unconscious, caught in whatever nightmare had claimed her. Xavier hovered nearby, pacing—two steps, stop, breath held too long.
Silas leaned on his cane, listening.
"So," he said conversationally. "Ponytail."
Xavier jumped. "How do you—"
"You're feeling a lot right now," Silas continued. "It's very expressive. Cute, even."
Xavier blinked. "You think I'm cute?"
"Your emotions are," Silas clarified. "Physically? You're a seven. With baggage."
Silence.
"And I don't do baggage," Silas added gently. "So while I might root for you, nine times out of ten this ends badly."
Wednesday stirred.
Her breath changed.
Silas felt it first—the void sharpening, condensing.
Wednesday's eyes snapped open.
Xavier moved instantly. "Wednesday—"
She sat up in one smooth motion, expression already annoyed. "I had a vision."
Silas smiled faintly. "Welcome back. You missed the riveting discussion about your dramatic timing."
She ignored him, eyes locking onto Xavier.
"You," she said flatly. "Why were you there?"
Xavier swallowed. His emotional frequency spiked—hope, fear, something older underneath it.
"I was trying to protect you," he said. "Do you remember me?"
Wednesday frowned, clearly searching her memory.
"No."
The word landed harder than Xavier expected.
Silas tilted his head slightly. "In her defense," he said mildly, "we all just met. Memory requires exposure."
Xavier shot him a look. "This isn't about you."
Silas's smile sharpened. "Everything's about context."
Xavier turned back to Wednesday, forcing himself to breathe. "We met when we were kids. At my godmother's funeral."
Wednesday didn't react.
Silas listened.
Xavier continued, voice tight but steady. "You were hiding. So was I. Inside the coffin."
Silas raised an eyebrow—just a fraction.
Interesting.
"They were lowering it into the ground," Xavier said. "Everyone was crying. You weren't."
Wednesday's head tilted slightly. "Funerals are inefficient."
Xavier almost laughed. Almost. "We stayed there until someone found us. You said… you said the dead didn't mind the company."
A beat.
Silas felt the emotional residue of that memory bloom in Xavier—grief, connection, something fragile he'd kept sealed too long.
"And now," Silas said calmly, "you're attempting to recreate a bond that only one of you remembers."
Xavier stiffened. "I'm just trying to help."
Wednesday studied him, expression unreadable. "Your motives are unclear."
Silas shifted his grip on the cane, tapping once against the floor. Not loud. Just enough.
"He's telling the truth," Silas said. "His emotional frequency hasn't deviated once since you woke up. Nostalgia. Regret. Hope. No deceit."
Xavier stared at him. "You can tell that?"
Silas smiled. "I can tell many things."
Wednesday looked away first.
"Your past is noted," she said to Xavier. "It doesn't change the present."
Xavier absorbed that like a bruise.
Silas straightened slightly. "And there it is," he said lightly. "Emotional closure denied."
Wednesday swung her legs off the bed. "I need clothes."
The conversation was over.
Xavier stood there a moment longer, the weight of memory still clinging to him.
Silas turned his head toward him as Wednesday left the room.
"For what it's worth," Silas said quietly, "coffin bonding is a strong opener."
Xavier huffed despite himself. "You're unbelievable."
"Frequently," Silas replied.
Xavier huffed despite himself, but the sound came out rougher than he meant it to—caught between embarrassment and irritation. He turned away before either of them could see what it did to him, and the walk back to his dorm felt longer than it should have. The halls were quieter at night, which made thoughts louder. Every step echoed. Every echo brought Silas back—blind and smug and somehow certain about him in a way that felt invasive. Xavier clenched his jaw, replaying it like a bad sketch he couldn't erase: Your emotions are cute. Physically? You're a seven. With baggage. And the worst part was that it hadn't sounded like an insult. It had sounded like the truth. He caught himself slowing, then forced his feet forward again, muttering as if the words belonged to someone else. "Seven with baggage," he said quietly. "Not his type."
Room 204 was warm in a way the rest of Nevermore never quite managed—lamplight softening the stone, curtains muting the draft, the air settled instead of sharp.
Silas felt the shift immediately. The building loosened its grip here. Not safety—Nevermore didn't do safety—but permission to breathe.
Ajax was already there, sprawled across his bed at an angle that suggested he'd collapsed rather than chosen the position, one leg hanging off the side, beanie tossed carelessly nearby.
"So," Ajax said, glancing over, eyes bright with curiosity. "Good day?"
Silas set the Vane Sentinel carefully beside his bed and shrugged out of his jacket. A faint smile curved his mouth. "Very colorful."
Ajax snorted. "That bad?"
"That interesting," Silas corrected, sitting down and stretching his legs out in front of him.
He didn't exaggerate. Nevermore had already tried to measure him. It hadn't decided what to do with the result yet.
He talked then—about the fencing hall, about Bianca's ego snapping under pressure, about the gargoyle and the ponytail and the way Wednesday had looked at him like she was deciding whether he was useful or disposable.
Ajax listened with the kind of attention that didn't interrupt, only reacted—soft laughs, sharp inhales, the occasional muttered no way.
Then Silas mentioned Xavier.
Ajax stared at him for a beat. "Wait," he said slowly. "You actually said that to him?"
"Yes."
"To his face?"
"Yes."
Ajax fell back onto the bed, laughter ripping out of him so hard one of his snakes poked out from under the beanie in protest.
"You told him he was a seven. With baggage," Ajax wheezed. "To his face."
Silas's smile widened just a touch. "I believe in honesty."
Ajax laughed until his stomach hurt, until he had to roll onto his side and clutch at the mattress. "Oh my god," he gasped. "I would've paid to see his face."
"It was… educational," Silas said lightly.
Eventually the laughter faded, settling into something quieter.
Ajax lay staring at the ceiling, breathing slowing, the room easing back into stillness.
Silas reached for his cane and tapped it once against the floor—soft, deliberate.
The school responded, distant and vast, its many vibrations folding back into him.
"This place," Silas murmured, almost to himself, listening to Nevermore breathe through stone and bone and history, "is interesting."
Ajax hummed in agreement, already half-asleep.
Very interesting.