Chapter 13 AFTER HIS SILENCE.

Chapter 13 AFTER HIS SILENCE.
STORM’S POV

The hallway buzzed with noise again — footsteps, laughter, the hollow clang of lockers — but none of it felt real. Cole’s words still echoed, soft yet unshakable.

“ Because I used to look the same way.” 

I should’ve brushed it off. Just another comment from someone who didn’t know me. But something in his tone; steady, unjudging, felt like a mirror I hadn’t asked to look into.

I walked faster, weaving through the crowd. The noise pressed in, too loud, too close. My heart thudded like it was trying to outrun something heavier than footsteps.

Lucian’s silence.

That same silence had been swallowing me for weeks now — the kind that didn’t just fill a room, it replaced it. The kind that made me wonder what I’d done wrong this time. What I’d said, or hadn’t said, to make him vanish like I’d dreamed him up.

He hadn’t returned to the dorm. He hadn’t looked at me. It was as if I’d been erased from his world, and he’d never existed in mine.

Sometimes I’d catch myself reaching for him in memory, and it felt like pressing my hand against smoke.

I hated how much space his absence took up.

By the time I reached the courtyard, my chest felt tight. I stopped beneath the old oak — the only place in the Academy that still felt alive. Its roots broke through the pavement like veins refusing to be buried.

I tilted my head back, letting the wind sting my eyes. The bark smelled like rain and something older — like a reminder that not everything here was caged.

For a fleeting second, the ache quieted.

Then a voice cut through the hum of chatter.

“ Hey. You’re… Andrew, right?”

My breath caught. Andrew.

For a heartbeat, I almost looked over my shoulder, half expecting someone else to answer. That name still didn’t sit right against my skin. I’d worn it long enough to survive, but it always felt borrowed. Thin.

Still, I forced a small nod. “ Yeah,” I said, the word scraping out of me.

The girl smiled. A flash of warmth and mischief. Pink streaks ran through her dark braid, and a silver hoop glinted at her ear. She had the kind of energy that made the air shift — like she could start a fire and laugh while it burned.

“ Thought so,” she said easily. “ Saw you in Mrs. Clayborne’s class. You zoned out so bad I thought you were astral projecting.”

“…What?”

She laughed, bright and unbothered. “You know, spacing out so hard you leave your body? You looked like that.”

I felt the corner of my mouth twitch. “Guess my mind needed a break.”

She dropped her books onto the bench beside me and sat down without asking — like she already knew I wouldn’t stop her. “I’m Mira,” she said, tucking a braid behind her ear. “Third dorm, same block as you, I think.”

“ Mira,” I repeated quietly, grounding myself in the sound.

She leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “ So, Andrew,” she said, teasing, “You’ve got that mysterious loner vibe going on. Makes sense.”

I didn’t answer. My gaze drifted past her, to the training field beyond the oak. Empty now, but I could almost hear the crack of weapons, the sharp commands, the steady breath of people trying to control what they couldn’t.

Mira followed my stare and grinned. “You hear about the new transfer student?”

“ Cole?”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Oh, so you’ve already met him.”

I nodded once. “ He’s in my class.”

“ Figures.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice like she was passing along a secret. “ They say he’s from the South Sector — no behavior tags, no shock protocols, top-ranked academies. Paradise, basically.”

Her voice dimmed, almost wistful. “People like that don’t end up here unless something went really wrong.”

I studied her for a moment. Beneath her        grin, her eyes looked older — like she’d already learned how to bleed quietly. “You’ve been here for long?” I asked.

She huffed a laugh. “ Long enough to stop pretending redemption means anything.”

Her words hung between us; heavy, honest, and a little too close.

For a while, we just sat there. Two strangers pretending the wind could keep the world from closing in.

Then she stretched, groaning. “ C’mon, ghost boy. Cafeteria’s open. And you look like you haven’t eaten since the last moon cycle.”

“ I’m not hungry,” I murmured.

“ Sure,” she said, already walking off. “And I’m the Headmistress’s favorite student.”

I sighed and followed.



The cafeteria was chaos — trays clattering, voices colliding, the metallic tang of reheated protein filling the air.

Mira darted to the line. “ What is that supposed to be? Burnt meat or a war crime?”

The cook grunted. “ Eat it or starve, Mira.”

She flashed him a grin. “ I’ll take both.”

I slipped to a corner table near the window — sunlight spilling halfway across it, shadow claiming the rest. The noise dulled here, like the world was happening somewhere far away. 

I set down my bag and pulled out the handbook Mrs. Clayborne had handed us that morning.

I hadn’t opened it once in class. Maybe now I could lose myself in something boring enough to quiet my thoughts.

Rules. Regulations. Lists of behavior codes designed to cage your mind before your body.

Then I noticed the bulge on the back cover — too thick, uneven. I frowned, running my fingers along the seam until they brushed a ridge of folded paper.

I tugged gently. A small, wrinkled note slid free. Not Academy print. The handwriting was jagged, pressed too deep like the writer wanted the ink to scar.

I unfolded it.

How long do you think you can keep pretending? They’ll find out soon, Andrew — or should I say, Storm?

My stomach dropped.

The sound around me dissolved. Laughter, footsteps, everything — gone, replaced by a ringing void. My pulse roared in my ears.

Someone knew.

I scanned the room, faces blurring into a smear of noise and movement. No one was looking at me, yet I felt eyes everywhere. Watching.

I folded the note and slipped it under my tray just as Mira returned, balancing two plates.

“ Mission accomplished,” she said cheerfully. “ The fries are 60% edible today. That’s a new record.”

I managed a nod. “ Thanks.”

She paused mid-bite, her brow creasing. “ You okay?”

“ Yeah,” I lied. “Just tired.”

She studied me for a moment longer, then let it go — maybe because she’d learned not to pry into ghosts.

Across the room, Cole was walking toward the exit, bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. His head tilted, just slightly — like he’d felt my stare before I’d even looked. Our eyes met.

For a heartbeat, something flickered there. I couldn’t tell.

I looked away first.

The rest of lunch blurred. Mira’s laughter, the clatter of trays, the hum of lives pretending they weren’t broken.

But one thought stayed, echoing beneath it all:

Someone knew.

And the way the handwriting carved my name into that page told me they were close.

Close enough to ruin me.