Cale

  Simantha was very talkative once the shock loosened its grip. Once it did, it took her approximately two minutes to decide that I was one of the good ones.

  She was small for ten, all elbows and knees, exhaustion dragging at her in quiet ways she clearly didn’t have words for. She talked anyway—about her shoes, about the lady who’d held her hand, about how loud everything had been before it stopped, and how she was hungry and if we could get food on the way home. That she liked chicken at Wacdonald’s and their crispys, and how their crispys were way better than other places’ crispys and anyone who was anyone thought so. I listened. I let her fill the space and wondered if this was her way of dealing with trauma.

  By the time we reached the MMV, her voice had faded into soft half-questions and then nothing at all. She was asleep again, her forehead pressed lightly against my shoulder, breathing deep and even.

  I layered Illusia over our departure—nothing elaborate, just enough to blur outlines and confuse intent. Footsteps slid past where we had been. Sensors hesitated. The Lattice lost interest. Anyone trying to follow would find themselves very sure they’d gone the wrong way.

  Sarien was waiting when we arrived.

  She took one look at me, then at the child in my arms, and stopped short.

  “You’re…,” she started, then stopped herself. Her eyes flicked to my mask. To the blade. To the way the air around me still hadn’t quite settled. “You’re really him.”

  I shifted Simantha slightly so she was more comfortable. “Him? I am, in fact, a him.”

  Sarien’s eyes narrowed. “That is so not funny.”

  I shrugged. “I thought it was hilarious.”

  Sarien swallowed. “Are you really the Ghost of the Wastes?”

  “That is the rumor, isn’t it?” I said.

  She stared at me for another second longer before saying carefully, “I have questions.”

  I smiled at that—though she couldn’t see me under the mask, which I realized and removed. “Most people do when they meet a ghost. Actually, that isn’t true. Most people are like, ‘Oh shit, I met a ghost,’ and then run screaming. It’s crazy.”

  She looked at my face as if she were trying to memorize it, then nodded once, sharp and professional, pushing whatever disbelief she had back into a place she could deal with later.

  “MMV’s ready,” she said. “Should we worry about being followed?”

  “Probably, but if they can see through my Illusia, then we’ve got greater problems that we’ll have to deal with.”

  Sarien opened the back door. I stepped over and set Simantha down gently, securing her before closing the door.

  Sarien hesitated. “You know,” she said quietly, “there are a lot of people out there right now trying to decide what to do about you.”

  I looked at her. “Rhino roaches have the same lived experience.”

  She gave a thin, almost nervous smile. “You’re a lot more dangerous than a roach.”

  I looked at her. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d ever had to deal with a rhino roach.”

  The MMV doors sealed. The propulsion apparatus hummed to life. Behind us, the Preserve burned with activity and questions. There were lights in the air everywhere—relayers, projectors hovering in the sky, MMVs moving toward the glow like beacons of light and salvation. This was just getting started. It was going to be an absolute shit show.

  Ahead of us, there was a girl who needed to get home.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  And that was enough.

  Simantha woke as we were slowing.

  It was clear that she was groggy. She was battling complete exhaustion and probably fear. This was the correct response to trauma, if there was one. I noticed how her breath caught before settling again. She blinked up at me, her eyes unfocused at first, then widening as the world reassembled itself around her.

  “We there?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep. “Did we make it back?”

  “Yeah,” I said, replacing my mask and altering the structure so the iconic Ghost visage was no longer present. I did allow my eyes to be seen through the scrapsteel. “We’re there.”

  The MMV eased to a stop, systems winding down into a controlled hush as we approached the Headmaster’s residence.

  The mansion dominated the northern edge of the Arclight grounds—a massive structure of runic steel layered with stone and brick. An homage to old wealth while respecting modern design. Its walls rose thick and deliberate, sigils etched deep rather than decorative. This was not a fortress in the emergency sense, but one built durable and meant to display permanence. It was as much a symbol as anything else.

  Security was visible—overwhelming even—but calm.

  I recognized an independent Knight Order when I saw one, but just about anybody with the knowledge would have done so based on their armor alone. The Knights stood along the approach in standard formation, armor dimmed to passive status, blades sheathed, posture relaxed but alert. They weren’t braced for conflict. They were doing what Knights assigned to institutional protection always did; they watched with presence, deterrence, and readiness without escalation.

  Specialist teams occupied elevated walkways and terraces, rifles slung rather than shouldered, powerful advanced Technica and Arcanum tracking movement as a matter of routine. Ward pylons hummed softly near the gate, containment fields cycling at baseline strength.

  I was surprised when we pulled up and there wasn’t a single alarm. They were either really confident or really stupid. It was going to be hard to tell which until we were done with this.

  No raised voices, despite the tension around a place that housed people who mattered.

  I opened the door of the vehicle and stepped out. I moved slowly to the back door and displayed no visible weapon. The last thing I needed was to kill another independent Knight Order.

  No one moved to stop me, but it was still tense; the whole situation was a breath away from violence.

  Headmaster Lonivar Thane was already walking out of the massive house.

  He stepped to just inside the inner boundary, his hands clenched tight at his sides, his posture rigid with the kind of restraint that came from holding yourself together for too long. He looked older than the one time I saw him when I first entered the school.

  The Knights gave him space automatically. The moment he saw her, whatever control he’d been clinging to gave way.

  “Simmy,” he breathed.

  She lifted her head. Recognition hit instantly, bright and unfiltered.

  “Grandpa!”

  I knelt and set her down carefully.

  She took two steps and then ran.

  She ran as a sob broke free from her mouth.

  The Headmaster dropped to one knee to catch the sobbing child, his arms wrapping around her so tightly I thought for a second he might break. He didn’t. He just held her, his forehead pressed into her hair, his shoulders shaking with relief he hadn’t let himself feel until now.

  I stood watching, knowing that this part… this part wasn’t mine. I heard Sarien sniff. I pretended not to notice.

  After a moment, he looked up at me. His eyes were wet, his face open in a way people rarely let themselves be around strangers.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” he said.

  “You don’t have to,” I replied. “Just keep her safe.”

  I hesitated. “Professor. The man who took her…”

  He looked at me, his face calm despite the clear emotion he was feeling. “Yes.”

  “He is a Grade A dark mage. He is a mass event organizer, and he is not the type to forgive and forget.”

  “What are you saying, son?”

  I looked at the girl. “You need to leave. Tonight. Go somewhere safe until—”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Until what?”

  “Until… I can end it.”

  He nodded once, fiercely. “You think we are in danger.”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “We will. We’re leaving tonight. Far from here.”

  Simantha looked back at me, suddenly serious. “You’re really going now?”

  “Yes.”

  She hesitated, then reached into her pocket and pulled out something small and misshapen—a little charm, probably meant to be a star, its edges rounded by years of being carried everywhere.

  “For luck,” she said.

  I took it.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll keep it.”

  That seemed to satisfy her. She turned back to her grandfather, already retreating into the safety of her family’s presence.

  They left without looking back.

  I stood there a moment longer than I needed to.

  Sarien came up beside me, quiet. “He isn’t your responsibility, you know,” she said. Not pushing. Just stating the thought. “You’ve done enough. Anyone would say you’ve earned the respite. The Priest… he is someone else’s problem.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  The night felt heavier now that the urgency was gone. The weight settled in places I’d been ignoring. The ache in my bones. The old pull toward silence.

  It might be time.

  But somewhere far away, I could still feel it—the thin, bitter echo left behind when the Priest slipped through my fingers. A presence that didn’t fade so much as coil, patient and hateful.

  He’d escaped.

  And men like that didn’t forget. Somewhere out there, a grudge was being nursed.

  But that was a worry for tomorrow, because tonight… tonight a girl was safe in her grandfather’s arms.

  And for me, it was enough.