Aftermath

"Ian?"

The classroom was still. Most of the students had already trickled out, their voices fading down the corridor like smoke.

Tomas hovered in the doorway, one foot still in the hall, unsure if he was meant to stay or disappear.

"Ian?" Isabelle tried again, softer this time.

Ian sat against the far wall, knees up, elbows resting heavy. He stared down at his hands like they didn't belong to him.

Isabelle moved to his side and knelt gently. "Talk to us, sweetie."

She ran her fingers slowly through his hair. He didn't flinch. But he didn't move either.

"They believed it," Isaac muttered, pacing like a caged dog. His fists were raw, blood dripping faintly from a split knuckle. "No proof. No pause. Just—'Oh, yeah, sounds about right.'"

He turned fast. Pointed.

"I should've killed all of them."

Ian mumbled something too low to catch.

Isaac's eyes snapped to Tomas. "And you. You stood there. You could've said something—anything. That was pathetic."

Tomas threw his hands up. "Hey, I warned him way before this happened. You were there when I did."

Isaac glared at him, jaw twitching. Then looked away.

"…Still."

Isabelle was watching Ian's face — the absence in it, the blank stare. She pulled him into a hug, close and warm, rubbing the back of his neck with her palm.

"Oh, Ian," she whispered. "It's alright. None of us believe them. I promise."

Tomas tried for levity. "Yeah. You're not a creep. Just… you know, weird."

Isaac gave him a look that could've knocked his teeth out. "You really have a gift."

Ian exhaled a soft, startled laugh. Barely more than breath.

"These freaks were laughing with you two weeks ago," Isaac said. "Now it's like you've been cursed since birth. People never surprise me."

He crossed the room and extended a hand. "C'mon. You weren't the one getting your face smashed in."

Tomas stepped forward too, hand open.

Ian looked up. His eyes were red and wet and still.

"I didn't do anything wrong," he said.

"I just wanted her to be safe."

Isabelle touched his cheek, thumb soft. "We know."

Ian took their hands and stood slowly. His gaze swept across the classroom like he was trying to remember where he was.

Then: "Where is she?"

He turned fast. "Cala—where is she?"

Isaac blinked. "I don't know. I was a little preoccupied getting my head punched into the chalkboard."

Ian's eyes landed on Isabelle. Then Tomas.

Isabelle frowned. Tomas shrugged.

Then Ian bolted.

He was in the hall before they could stop him, calling out.

"CALA!"

No answer.

"CALA!"

The hallway echoed the name back to him like a dare.

Isaac caught up first, hand clapping onto Ian's shoulder. "Hey. Cut it out. Your head's not right right now."

"CALA!"

Isaac turned him around, firm. "Ian. Relax. She probably went home with the rest of the kids."

Ian stared back, eyes wide and vacant.

Isabelle hesitated. "Actually… I think I saw her talking to Cera earlier. Just before class."

Ian's face tightened. "Cera?"

"Yeah, you know—kind of weird, doesn't blink much?" Tomas added. "Honestly, if anyone here's a creep, it's that guy. He's felt off since day one."

"I know who he is." Ian's voice was low. Cold. "I just… I don't like it.I have a bad feeling"

"Well, I'd have a bad feeling too if I'd just been accused of—"

Smack.

Tomas recoiled. Isabelle had slapped his arm hard.

"Enough."

A pause. Then Isabelle spoke again, steady this time. "Look… class is over anyway. Do you want to check on her? Just in case?"

Ian nodded. "Yeah."

"Alright," Isaac said.

They started down the corridor together. Quiet. Focused. The kind of quiet that holds its breath.

Then a voice met them from ahead.

"You four."

They stopped.

Jack stood at the end of the hall near the exit, coat half-buttoned, eyes unreadable.

"Let's go," he said.

He walked them back to the classroom.

The classroom door creaked as Jack leaned into the frame, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable—stern, but not cruel.

"What the hell happened in here?"

Jack stepped in, eyes scanning the overturned chairs and the faint streaks of blood drying on the tile.

He looked to Isaac. "Gaius said there was trouble. That I should find you." He paused. "Was he here?"

Isaac shook his head, jaw tense. "No. But somehow he knew."

Jack let out a long breath, then nodded toward the benches. "Sit. All of you."

They sat without arguing. Ian took the furthest spot, hunched forward with his hands dangling uselessly between his knees. Isabelle stayed close beside him. Tomas leaned against the window frame, arms crossed but nervous.

Isaac didn't wait. He launched into the story—Cera's cryptic comment, Ellion twisting it into a spectacle, the class dogpiling Ian, the teacher doing nothing. The punches. The silence. Cala vanishing before anyone could stop her.

Jack didn't interrupt. He just listened, watching each of them with that unreadable gaze. When Isaac finally ran out of breath, the room went quiet.

Jack dragged a hand over his mouth. Then he looked up.

"So... that's what we're doing now, huh? Eating our own."

No one replied.

"Isaac." Jack's voice softened. "You didn't hold back. And I'm not saying you should've. But don't lose your head for someone else's lie. You get too used to fighting, it's hard to remember how to stop."

Isaac looked down. "I know. I just—he said—"

"I know what he said," Jack cut in. "And I know why you hit him. But the next time they try this? Hit smarter."

He turned to Isabelle. "You stayed calm. That matters more than you think. Sometimes kindness is louder than shouting. You kept him grounded. That's not small."

Isabelle gave a slow, tired nod.

Jack glanced at Tomas. "And you—well, you stayed. That counts for something. Next time, speak louder. Half-truths don't help anyone."

Tomas muttered, "Wasn't sure I had the right words."

"Then borrow someone else's. Just don't borrow their silence."

He looked at Ian last. Ian still hadn't spoken.

"You're not broken, Ian. I need you to hear that. Whatever this is... it wasn't your fault. And it doesn't get to define you. Don't let it."

Ian blinked, slowly. "I just wanted her to be safe."

"I know," Jack said. "That's why this hurts. But you've got people who believe you. Start there."

Another long pause. The kind that lingered.

Finally, Ian spoke again. "I need to check on her. Cala. I need to see her face and know she's alright."

Jack shifted, like he'd been expecting that. "You should. And it's good timing. I was just about to send someone out that way."

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small parcel wrapped in waxed cloth. The corners were bound in twine, the seal faintly smudged. He handed it to Isabelle.

"That's for the girl's house. Down by the creek. You'll recognize it. Little fence, fallen post, old vine crawling up the left side."

Isaac's brow furrowed. "That's where Cala lives."

Jack gave a half-shrug. "Then call it a coincidence."

Ian stood up fully. He still looked pale, but more solid. More steady.

Isaac nudged him lightly. "She must be alright. You wouldn't care this much if she wasn't."

"I always wanted a little sister," Isabelle said. "We'll keep her safe. If she needs us."

Tomas sighed. "Guess I'm in too. Not letting you three idiots get eaten by a river witch or whatever lives out there."

Jack opened the door, letting in the cold hallway breeze. "Then get going. Heads low, eyes open. And if anything feels wrong—don't wait for it to get worse."

They filed out slowly, one after the other. Ian was the last to leave. Jack caught his arm gently.

"Hey. Whatever you find out there—don't go through it alone. You hear me?"

Ian gave a quiet nod.

Then he stepped into the hall, and the door closed behind them.

Ian walked ahead. Not by much. Just enough that no one could catch his expression unless they hurried to. He clutched the hem of his sleeve tight in one fist like it might unravel otherwise.

Isaac kept pace beside him. Isabelle and Tomas followed a few steps behind, the wrapped parcel tucked under Isabelle's arm.

At the school gates, the light fell away entirely. Beyond that, it was only dusk and dust and the sound of boots on dirt.

" You sure you remember the way?" Tomas asked.

" Yeah it's just further along this path, the creek isnt too far out from here" 

They followed Ian.

The village thinned as they went. Houses gave way to brush, then returned again, same as before — squat stone bases, sloped shingle roofs, cracked shutters nailed shut in varying degrees of effort. None had signs. None had names.

"How do you even tell them apart?" Tomas muttered.

"I don't," Ian answered without turning around. "You just learn."

They passed one house with a curtain still swaying in the window, even though the wind had stopped. Another had a door left half-open, revealing nothing but blackness and dust.

"You sure we're not going in circles?" Isaac asked. He wasn't out of breath, but there was frustration laced under the question.

"I'm sure," Ian said.

The dirt path beneath them grew thinner — like the village itself was trying to disappear into the trees. Isabelle stepped carefully, her boots crunching over broken twigs and a scattering of bones too small to name.

She glanced at Tomas. "Still want to tag along?"

"Less with every step," he whispered.

The air had that strange stillness again — the kind where sound felt like an intrusion. Every cough or shuffle landed too loud. Even the breeze, when it came, sounded guilty.

Finally, Ian stopped.

The house looked like all the others. Sloped roof. Moss-worn stone. A wooden frame that leaned a little too far forward, like it had been listening for too long.

But the door was wide open.

No breeze. No sound. Just open — like it had been waiting for them.

"This it?" Isaac asked quietly.

Ian nodded, but slower this time. "Yeah."

He didn't wait for the others. He stepped up onto the warped wooden stoop, boots thudding softly, and crossed the threshold.

The others followed.

Inside, the air felt wrong. Not stale — just paused, like something had exhaled and never breathed back in. The light from the doorway stretched only a few feet. Everything beyond that was pitch.

But the table was clear in front of them.

There, in the center, sat a single sheet of parchment. Uneven edges. A child's drawing, freshly inked.

Cala and Ian sat together at the table — smiling. Two plates. Two forks. Ian in his usual coat. Cala with her hair tied up in a messy ribbon. But on Ian's side of the table — the side where Leor was always drawn before — there was no third figure.

No empty chair. No trace of him.

Just the two of them.

The rest of the house was dark. Not dim — black. The kind of dark that refused to make room for light. Beyond the single window near the door, the shadows pressed tight against the walls. No lanterns. No candles. Just the drawing, and the silence that followed it.

Ian stepped closer, staring down at the paper like it had struck him.

"I've seen her draw this before," he whispered. "But it's never looked like this."

He didn't touch it.

No one moved for a long while.

Then the wind picked up behind them, and the door creaked further open — slow, like a warning.