BLACKWOOD ACADEMY 

There are moments in life that define your very existence. For some, it’s how they die, going out in a glorious final “hurrah.” For others, it’s the quiet legacy of raising a family, planting the seeds of a new generation that might leave an even greater mark.

For Thomas, it was the moment the bullies pushed him just a little too far.

Thomas Aldric was a 14-year-old boy preparing to start his first year of high school. His most notable feature was the streaks of white that ran through his bangs, contrasting against the auburn hair that hung flat over his forehead. His eyes were a matching auburn with a glimmer that often went unnoticed. By all accounts, Thomas was considered “average”, just another kid. Except, he lived in an orphanage.

Like many kids, Thomas was bullied. Most of it was mild: name-calling and teasing about his looks or personality. But sometimes it cuts deeper, jabs at his self-worth, cruel remarks about being passed around the foster system like a hot potato. Families rarely kept him long. Emotional flare-ups seemed to follow him, triggered simply by his presence. It was like there was an aura around him, heavy, unshakable, and beyond his control.

The most recent incident happened six months ago. The family had been foster parents for quite some time—one of the most respected in the system, having taken in hundreds of children over the past 20 years. But they weren’t as they had been described. The father was quieter than expected and seemed irritated whenever he made eye contact with Thomas.

Thomas could never figure out why.

One day, he accidentally knocked over a glass of water at the table. The father exploded, shouting without restraint. His temper snapped. That night, Thomas was taken back to the orphanage with little to no explanation.

A few days later, the family contacted the orphanage to apologize. Like many before them, they claimed not to understand what had come over them. They described it as a slow-burning rage that built up inside.

Regardless, Thomas was back at the orphanage—and they never tried to take him in again.

He used to dream of finding a forever family. But the older he got, the less likely it seemed. Older kids were rarely adopted, and without siblings, his chances felt even slimmer.

“Thomas? Earth to Thomas.”

A woman’s voice cut through the haze, and Thomas blinked back to awareness. He looked up, meeting the warm gaze of the woman seated in front of him. The quiet tick of a wall clock filled the room. He sat sunken into a memory foam couch, fingers digging into the cushions.

Across from him sat a young brunette woman with tan skin and glasses, smiling gently. She held a clipboard with a pencil clipped to it. When Thomas met her brown eyes, he tensed and blushed.

“Thomas, hon, it’s okay,” she said softly.

Still, the tightness in his chest didn’t ease.

“Right. I’m sorry. What was the question again, Ms. Riley?” His words came out tentative, embarrassment creeping over him.

“No, no, it’s fine, sweetheart. I was just asking if the dreams have stopped.”

Her voice was kind and calm, but her reassurance didn’t reach him. His eyes flicked away, either because of her beauty or because of the secret he was too scared to tell.

“No… my dreams stopped,” he said.

It was a lie. One that only hurt him more. She scribbled on the clipboard—harsh, scratchy sounds that felt like needles in his ears. Her tentative smile, her happiness—it was all because of his lie.

His throat tightened. His mind buzzed, but the thoughts were scrambled, unreadable. Just the weight of the lie, pressing down.

“Good! Then the medicine’s working!” Her face lit up with joy.

She was one of the few people who seemed to care. But the medication wasn’t working. His body didn’t respond to it; it was like he was immune.

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to tell her the truth.

The nightmares were getting worse. They always ended the same way: bloodshed and collapse. The world is crumbling in on itself.

He could never remember all the details, but the feelings lingered. The scent of roses, the stench of burned flesh. He always woke up crying, knees buried in imagined rubble.

He’d reach instinctively to his chest pocket as if expecting to find something that was never there. Something always felt missing.

“How’s your head? Still getting headaches?”

“On occasion.”

“When your routine is disrupted?”

Thomas hesitated, then nodded.

They said he had autism, high functioning, whatever that meant, and also diagnosed him with paranoid schizophrenia. Shadows. Whispers. Voices. They called them symptoms.

But to Thomas, they felt at home, like someone was watching over him as a parent might.

“What about the outbursts?”

“It’s been a week since I snapped.”

“The school board said you flipped a desk. Is that true?”

Thomas froze. He didn’t remember doing that, but she was right. The desk flipped. Everyone stared. The pressure in his head, the pounding behind his eyes.
One of the kids started harassing him—he couldn’t even remember what it was about. But he remembered the swelling in his stomach, the tightness in his chest, and how his breathing grew heavy.

His ears rang, filling his head with a sharp, torturous pain—like a dog whistle drilling straight through.

Then he snapped. He raised a finger to speak, but instead, the desk flew off his lap and crashed to the ground.

Had he flipped it? He asked himself that a lot. Maybe he did. Maybe it caught on his button-up. Thomas wasn’t sure.

He nodded slowly. What else could he say?

Their time was up. Relief softened his shoulders as he stood and slipped out the door, back into the towering halls of the private school.

He walked quickly, his flannel jacket draped over his uniform, eyes locked on the floor. He didn’t dare look at anyone.

All he wanted was to get to his next class and finish the day without falling apart.

He had tried to avoid summer school. His grades were passable, but poor attendance and missing assignments backed him into a corner, landing him at Blackwood Academy for the summer. The prestigious hellhole served as a PR move for the orphanage more than anything else. Its insignia, a black pine tree encircled by a thin white stripe, sat proudly on every uniform. And the motto? “The Unseen Shall Lead.” Thomas hated it. It made him feel like he was being groomed for a secret society.

Thomas stood in silence, staring at the motto printed on the banner hanging in the hallway. His eyes flicked over the words again and again, letting them sink in. Around him, kids moved through the corridor—heels clicking against the tile, voices rising and fading.

When he finally looked away, his chest felt tight again.

Students passed him, whispering. Was it about him?

He wondered how it couldn’t be.

He reached up and touched the white streak in the bangs of his hair, letting out a quiet sigh. Then, slowly, he started walking again—blending back into the routine.

The teachers were tolerable. The students? Not so much. They were a chaotic mix of elites, orphans, and regular kids, some of whom mysteriously vanished right before the school year began. The official word was always “transfer,” but the rumors and ghost stories said otherwise.

The hallways gleamed with trophies and accolades, showcasing MVPs across medicine, science, sports, you name it. Students pushed hard to succeed. The girls were book-smart, the boys athletic. At the bottom? Dante is a loudmouthed bully who dumps all his misery on Thomas.

Religious studies was Thomas’ last class of the day. It was laid-back, tolerable, and taught by someone who didn’t care enough to yell. Castel, a student aid from a local college, made it even more bearable.

“Well, there’s the old man,” Castel said, walking in.

“Hello, Castel,” Thomas muttered, trying to stay under the radar. Castel was tall, maybe eighteen, with slick black hair and enough piercings to set off metal detectors. He had that rebellious charm, converse shoes, skinny jeans, and a button-up shirt tucked in like he was trying just enough.

For reasons Thomas didn’t understand, Castel had gravitated toward him on day one. Maybe he saw a loner. Maybe he just liked helping out. Either way, Castel made the days easier.

“What did you eat today? I had chicken strips, extra crunchy, dipped in black peppered ranch, with seasoned fries. Delicioso!” Castel spun a chair backward and plopped down with flair.

“I had PB&J,” Thomas smirked. “Also delicioso.”

Castel grinned. “Next time, my treat. We'll eat real food. Deal?”

Thomas chuckled, catching a few glances from classmates. “Fine, we’ll eat.”

Castel was busy—Thomas knew that all too well. Still, every now and then, they managed to meet up. Castel usually treated him to a burger and fries, depending on what they were in the mood for.

Sometimes, he’d show up with food and share it without saying much. Thomas had asked why a few times, but Castel always gave the same answer:

“Ah, you know. Why not.”

It wasn’t much of an explanation, and even with summer school almost over, Thomas still couldn’t get more out of him.

A ruler tapped the desk. Castel stood and returned the chair to its place, taking a seat up front as the teacher began.

Religious studies weren’t boring. In fact, Thomas found them fascinating. Norse mythology, runes, gods, and old magic all pulled him in. He could imagine being there, feeling the cold air and hearing battle cries echo across snow-covered fields.

Today’s topic was the Algernon, an ancient Viking group said to have been blessed by the gods with extraordinary abilities passed down through royal blood. They’d vanished from history, assimilated or erased. No one knew for sure.

Their belief? That they were pure—gifted with abilities from the Gods. They claimed to have magic granted to them, giving them access to a kind of magical weave. It supposedly enhanced their abilities, and in some cases, gave them control over the elements.

Thomas thought the idea was cool, but way too good to be true.

Still, that didn’t stop him from daydreaming about being one of them—a Viking with fireballs, like in an RPG. He pictured the ocean breeze in his hair as they sailed the seas… minus all the pillaging, of course.

While most students dozed, Thomas sat mesmerized. The bell rang. He hadn’t even noticed the time fly. He packed up slowly, watching Castel chat with the teacher like old friends. Thomas figured he’d catch him later and began walking the halls alone. The rhythm of his footsteps grounded him, helping to dull the restless fire in his head.

Outside, the sun hit his skin like a warm hand. He closed his eyes, brief serenity until a carton of milk smashed against his head. Milk was sprayed everywhere.

It was chunky, and the smell hit him hard—instantly making Thomas’s stomach turn. The liquid was already soaking into his clothes. If he hadn’t seen the carton lying on the ground in front of him, he might’ve thought someone had nailed him with cottage cheese.

The thought alone made him want to throw up.

“Check it out, it’s Thoe,” Dante jeered.

Thomas stayed silent. He knew fighting would get him nowhere, so he kept walking. Dante and his goons followed, taunting him with jabs about his looks, his build, and his unknown family.

As they passed the gates, Dante pushed him hard. Thomas stumbled, his knees scraping the sidewalk. “You’re gonna be one of those missing kids,” Dante sneered.

Thomas didn’t respond.

“Do something!” Dante shoved him again, harder. Thomas fell again. His patience was thinning.

Then, fingers tangled in his hair.

Dante dragged him into a nearby alley. Thomas had taken beatings before, but something about this felt... off. He tried to resist, but Dante hurled him against the wall. His lungs emptied with a painful wheeze.

The alleyway walls felt like they were closing in, his vision narrowing with them. Dante was too close—Thomas could smell the burger he’d had for lunch.

His lungs couldn’t get enough air. Sweat rolled down his palms. His legs felt like jelly.

He needed to get out. Now.

“We’re about to be high schoolers,” Dante growled. “And you’re gonna help me get straight A’s. Make my GPA shine. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you be my assistant someday.”

Thomas stared at him.

Dante’s usual routine shifted. He sent his lackeys away. Just the two of them now. The air felt heavier. A bad omen.

Dante’s fist slammed into the wall beside Thomas’s head. “Do we have a deal?”

On any other day, Thomas might have said yes. But something inside cracked.

“Eat dicks,” he spat.

Dante’s punch came fast, landing on his cheek. Thomas reeled.

“Say that again,” Dante hissed.

Thomas couldn't stop himself. “Eat. Dic”

A punch to the gut cut him off. Vomit hit the concrete. His lunch was smeared on the ground.

Then... something inside snapped.

Staggering forward, Thomas swung. He missed, but something else didn’t.

The world around them flickered for a split second like reality glitched.

The hairs on his arms stood up. Everything around him felt... off, like the world had shifted out of place.

A low buzzing filled the air. Dante’s body twisted unnaturally, like he was frozen mid-movement—glitched.

It was as if the world itself was a computer simulation, and someone had just tripped a bug in the code.

A sickening squelch echoed through the air, like a water balloon bursting.

Thomas braced for retaliation, expecting Dante to strike back after his missed punch. But something was wrong.

Blood trickled from Dante's eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. His skin was pale, and his pupils had lost all focus. Without a sound, he fell backward and hit the ground with a thud.

Thomas froze.

He stared at the boy who had bullied him for so long, now unmoving on the pavement. Panic took hold. He dropped to his knees and grabbed Dante's shoulders, his own body trembling, swelling with a strange pressure like it was filling with liquid.

“D-Dante,” he stammered.

His fingers pressed against Dante's neck. No pulse. The skin was cold.

A frantic scream tore from Thomas' throat as he staggered back. Then he turned and bolted.

It was self-defense! All I did was try to punch him! I didn't do it. He had a heart attack from being fat!

Thoughts slammed through his mind, overlapping and suffocating, but underneath it all, there was… silence. For the first time in forever, the noise in his brain was gone.

Then came the nausea.

He bent over and vomited, bile splashing onto the alley floor. His hands clutched his stomach, his whole body shaking from the flood of adrenaline and horror. He dragged himself forward, crawling before finally pushing to his feet.

And then, he ran.

His legs moved like they had minds of their own, carrying him with the speed of an athlete. Somehow, in all the terror, his mind felt more precise and sharper. His thoughts raced, but, for once, they made sense.

He rounded the corner and spotted the orphanage in the distance.

Should he hide? Turn himself in?

Would they try him as an adult? Was his life over?

The clarity didn't make the answers easier. If anything, the thoughts were clearer but cruel. Still, Thomas had only one plan: get back to his room and figure out what to do next.