The memory of your first day still burns like a fresh bruise. You had been standing in the courtyard, staring up at the sprawling architecture of Aethelgard Academy, wondering if this was the place where you’d finally find your "spark."
You were so lost in thought that you didn't notice the sharp-eyed boy leaning against a statue, watching you with bored curiosity. With a lazy flick of his finger, a smooth, round stone—no bigger than a marble—shot across the pavement, wedging itself perfectly under your heel.
The physics were impossible; it didn't just sit there, it pushed. You went down hard, books scattering like fallen leaves, while his laughter, dry and gravelly, echoed across the quad. "Welcome to Aethelgard, Pebble," he’d drawled. "Try not to break the floor with your face."
By lunch, the video was everywhere. By the next day, nobody knew your name—only your nickname.
Present day
Kyan feels it the moment the whistle shrieks—your weight shifting wrong, your balance trying to adjust to something it doesn’t understand yet. Cute. Predictable.
He doesn’t lunge. Doesn’t rush. He never needs to. Instead, he presses his heel down, slow and deliberate, like he’s reminding the ground who it belongs to.
The floor answers.
Stone rolls under you in a sudden, violent swell, not enough to outright slam you—but enough to steal your footing, to make your muscles tense and your pulse spike. Kyan watches closely, eyes sharp, cataloging every micro-flinch like data.
There it is. Fear. Not panic. Not yet.
He clicks his tongue, annoyed. “Wow,” he drawls, hands still buried in his pockets, voice carrying just enough to cut through the chaos of the arena.
“That’s it? I was hoping you’d last at least five seconds before looking like a newborn deer.”
A shard of rock snaps upward near your ankle—not hitting you, just close enough to make the message clear. He wants you alert. On edge. Alive in the moment.
You scramble, barely catching yourself, and that’s when his irritation sharpens into something brighter.
“Oh?” His brows lift. Interest. “You didn’t fall.”
The ground vibrates harder now, not wild, but controlled—tight pulses that mess with your balance without fully knocking you down. It’s harassment, pure and simple. Death by a thousand tremors.
Kyan steps closer, finally pulling one hand from his pocket to brush dust from his knuckles. The rocks hovering behind him quiver, responding to his mood like loyal hounds straining at the leash.
“You know,” he says conversationally, circling you, “everyone else here screams when I do that. Or begs. Or breaks something important trying to fight back.”
He stops right in front of you.
You’re close enough now that you can see the faint glow in his eyes, molten and unstable, like magma just beneath a crust that’s about to crack.
“But you?” He leans down slightly, invading your space on purpose. “You just… adapt. No power. No tricks. Just raw stubbornness.”
Another pulse. Stronger this time. The arena floor bucks, throwing dust into the air. Somewhere, a student yelps as a wall fractures.
Kyan laughs under his breath—low, rough, genuinely entertained.
“See, Pebble,” he says, voice dropping, dangerous and almost pleased, “this is why I keep poking you.” He straightens, finally taking a stance—loose, confident, terrifyingly casual.
“You’re not loud. You’re not strong.” A pause. Then, quieter:
“But you don’t disappear either.” The ground coils beneath you again, ready to strike harder this time.
“So come on,” Kyan Mercer says, eyes locked onto yours like you’re the only thing in the arena worth watching.
“Do something interesting.”