Nova and the Edge of Everything

If Nova could go back, he wouldn’t have run.
He would’ve turned himself in.
Taken the suspension, the arrest, the fingerprinting, the lecture from his parents— whatever punishment the adults had lined up.
Anything would’ve been better than what came next.
Because everything that followed, from the storm to the missing boy to the mark on his wrist, started with something small.
A handshake.
Ask him when things started getting weird, and he wouldn't say the dreams or the heat in his chest. He'd say it started with a handshake.
Or, he'd say it was Sunday. The last one before everything ended entirely.
At the time, the goal for Nova was simple: survive one more Sunday at St. Mary's without becoming a headline.
One peaceful Sunday. That's all Nova wanted. He didn't want chaos, or anything strange clawing at his dreams, and he certainly didn't want that quiet, creeping sense of being watched.
Just one hour where he could sit still and stay somewhat invisible.
Redden, of course, had other plans.
This town—Redden liked to pretend it was quiet. Nothing big ever happened here now. The streets ran thin between redwoods and fog, old cabins leaning toward the road like they wanted to listen in. It was all surface calm, woodsmoke in the air, and the slow rhythm of a town too tired to change.
But apparently the longer you stay, the more you start to believe it: that there was a time when things slipped. Not because people forgot, but because Redden buries things deep—and gets better at pretending they're gone.
Still sometimes, it cracks. And that Sunday, it cracked just enough to let Bardon in.
And Lincoln.
And a handshake that would go down in history.
Nova was the smallest eighth grader in the room. Coffee-toned skin, narrow shoulders, and thick curls combed flat but always fighting back. His eyes were amber—bright, and strange, and never quite explained. Most times they looked golden, like they were holding back some other truth. No one else in his family had them. Which he found odd, and sometimes made him feel out of place.
His parents had said that's why they named him Nova, because when he was born, his eyes reminded them of a star about to burst.
Stars or not, Nova never really found Sundays to be so glamorous. Most of the time he'd be across the lot in the youth building—juice boxes, half-sermons, dodgeball as theology. But after a late night at Bardon's and sleeping too long, they'd gotten rerouted to the main sanctuary.
Bardon had always been Nova's best friend. Since kindergarten. The kind of friend who finished your sentences and started your bad ideas. He was tall for his age, all limbs and motion, with skin a few shades lighter and curls that stood up like he forgot to brush them—which he usually did.
Though ever since summer, there was always that empty seat between Bardon and Nova. It used to be a dumb rule. Now it just reminded them who wasn't there anymore. 
Elian Rodillo. 
He used to sit right there. But that was before the mid-summer barbecue ruined everything.
Elian had been the one who made them both shut up. The translator. The glue. When they were seven, Elian taught them both how to skip stones at Miller's Creek.
So now that gap didn't just feel like an empty seat anymore. It felt like a trap door, ready to give way at any second.
And today, for some reason, the universe filled it with Lincoln Pluckett.
Lincoln was a good child. Just—a lot. Runny nose. Couldn't fully close his mouth. Speech impediment. The kind of offbeat that made Nova and Bardon—two chaos magnets, tickled in the worst way, like the universe had sent them a prank with a pulse.

The church smelled faintly of wax and dust, like prayers that had dried out years ago. Light slipped through tall, narrow windows in faded streaks of red and gold, painting soft patches across the floor. Rows of wooden pews filled the room. Some straight, some a little crooked but each polished smooth by years of hands and knees. Up front, the altar stood on a raised platform, simple and pale under the light, with a cross that cast a long shadow across the wall behind it.
Still, to Nova, sitting beside Lincoln didn't feel…right. Because across the room, Elian was at a different row of pews, and the sight of him there hit harder than it should've.
So Nova stayed quiet.
He used to be louder and would tend to talk too fast. Always on the verge of boiling over.
But that was before the nightmares. Before the psychiatric medicine. Now people saw the tucked shirt and small frame and thought: quiet. Safe.
Sometimes, he wondered if that's all he'd become.
At 10:45, the church choir had come to a brief stopping point. The elder priest stepped up with a jar full of youth and confidence. He had lightning-strike gray in his slicked-back hair.
"Before we get on with our worship," he said warmly, "let's stand up. Take a moment to greet our neighbors. Ask them how their morning's been."
Nova and Bardon both stared straight ahead. They didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't even twitch their necks—like turning their heads might summon fire from heaven.
So of course Lincoln turned first. Facing Nova. Full pivot. Chest out. Hand extended like he was running for office. "Good moowning," he beamed. Nova reached out—hesitated—shook. And got hit. Spit. Right on the lapel. A glistening dot. Nova stared, first at the dot, then at Lincoln, then back again. It clung to the fabric, wobbling as if it might drip.
Bardon then began to shake. Hand over mouth. Shoulders convulsing. Desperately fighting for silence.
And that's when Lincoln then turned to him, eyes wide with delight. "Bawdon! A vewy good moowning to you as well. I sincewely hope you slept excellentwy."
There was a pause. Then the handshake. Then— Spit. Again. Mid-grip. Not just a drop this time. A full glob of warm, stringy drool—like his mouth had been saving it.
It landed squarely across Bardon's knuckles with an audible plip.
Bardon made a noise, somewhere between a cough, a choke, and a dying animal. Nova bit his tongue.
In the short moment of silence that followed it felt like the earth was deciding whether to let them live.
Nova could only hold in his laugh for so long. Unfortunately for him, that time was officially up.
He broke out a laugh he couldn't stop. Definitely couldn't contain.
And Bardon yelped, like someone had stabbed him in the shoulder with a fork.
Heads turned. A mom dropped her bulletin. The priest jumped into a hymn, sharp and urgent, like a damage-control siren. For a second, even the stained glass seemed to flinch.
Then there was Lincoln. He stood frozen and oblivious, a piece of toilet paper stuck to his shoe—as always. That same smile on his face, wide and unbothered, as if he'd just solved world peace and was waiting for applause.
For a second, Nova almost laughed again. Almost. The sound caught in his throat and thinned into nothing. Around him, silence arrived in layers, each layer turning the room down one sound at a time.
The air grew heavier, warmer, pressing against his skin until breathing felt like work. This didn't feel like it was just quiet anymore; it felt like the sanctuary was holding its breath.
He suddenly felt paralyzed. Struggling just to twitch his head. His eyes were the only part of him that still obeyed, flicking side to side while the rest of his body stayed locked. He wanted to close them, to shut it all out, but couldn't.
Something shifted at the edge of his vision. A blur. A movement that didn't look like it belonged in a church. He tried not to look, tried to convince himself it was a trick of the stained glass, but the harder he fought it, the clearer it became.
A figure of pure darkness slid along the far wall, slow and deliberate, stretching longer than it should have. It drifted between the pews, never quite solid, yet enough to bend the edges of the room around it.
As it moved, Nova caught a glimpse that rooted him to the pew. The shadow had a head, a height, a presence, but no face—only smooth darkness where features should have been, the world refusing to give it identity.
Nova's mouth filled with the sharp tang of metal. The shadow kept pacing, patient and steady, until it faded into a corner that looked darker than the rest.
Even though Nova didn't feel paralyzed anymore he still couldn't move. All that was going through his head was fear, and now, a terrible thought that pressed against him:
Not here. Not again. Not while everyone was watching.
This was the feeling from the dreams. The wrongness that followed him even after he woke up. And now it was here. In the holiest place.
The doctors had a word for this. A long one that always made his mother's face tighten. But this wasn't that. This didn't feel like madness. It felt real.
Slowly, the volume began to return, one layer at a time. A cough somewhere in the back row, the creak of pews, the soft shuffle of shoes. The world for Nova, was waking up again, piece by piece, and with it came breath. Air rushed back into Nova's lungs, sharp and cold. When he looked up, Lincoln was still smiling, watching him with the calm patience of something that had been seen too soon.
Nova's hands gripped the wooden pew until his knuckles went white.
Then someone coughed again, and the moment shattered.
Nova didn't remember much of the rest of the service. What stayed with him was the way Coral and Maximus N. Astrek each had a hand on his shoulder—steady in a way that said more than words, holding back like a question neither of them wanted to ask. His Dad drove in silence the whole way home, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping a slow, nervous rhythm against the turn signal lever. Every few seconds, he'd glance at Nova in the mirror, like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.
And Bardon? Yeah. He was mad. Wouldn't look at him for the rest of the service. Didn't say a word through lunch. But later, after everyone left, after the leftovers were packed and the church got too quiet—Nova found him in the parking lot, shooting pebbles at the fence. And Bardon turned, finally. Rolled his eyes. "Lincoln Pluckett is gonna be the death of us." Then he laughed. And it was okay again. Mostly.
When Nova and his family stepped out into the daylight, his eyes caught on the bulletin board by the door—the same row of missing posters that had been there for as long as he could remember.
The posters were hanging there, with edges curling and colors fading, worn thin by weeks, some even years, of weather and neglect.
One of the posters caught Nova's eyes. The poster showed a blonde little boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, with kind green eyes and a gap-toothed smile that looked too real to be forgotten.
Ryder Queens. Last seen June 15th, 1998.
Nova had seen it a hundred times. But today, the name—Queens—stopped him cold.
He'd seen that word everywhere: on gas stations, construction trucks, even the stadium scoreboard. Somehow, this one felt different. Personal.
And maybe it was the diagnosis talking. But what if it wasn't? Even after the BBQ, after everything that went down, Nova still couldn't shake the question—did Elian feel it too? But they weren't talking. And Nova wasn't going to be the one to open that door.
Despite all the noise they made, what came after was unknown—the kind of thing that waits for you on the first day of school, pretending nothing ever happened, even when you know better.
There's the regular kind of punishment—no phone, no TV, maybe a silent dinner and an "I'm not mad, just disappointed." But Nova didn't get grounded. Not officially. His mom didn't even raise her voice—she went quiet in a way that made everything else feel louder. Bardon didn't text. Elian still hadn't looked at him since the service. And Nova spent the rest of that Sunday trapped in a house that somehow felt smaller than it had that morning.
Nova barely slept. What kept him up wasn't confusion over his punishment, but the moment in Saint Mary's church itself. How the handshake, the shadow, and the silence, still felt lodged under his skin like a splinter he couldn't reach.
And now, not even twenty-four hours later, it was Monday, August 13th—the first day of eighth grade, humming with that mix of nerves and pressure that always came with starting over.
By dawn, Nova was already sitting up in bed, arms over his knees, eyes open. When his mom's voice sliced through the dark—"Nova! Up! Now!"—he was already moving.
His room was small, barely enough space for a bed, a desk, and the narrow path between them. The walls were a pale baby blue, the same color they'd been since he was born—his parents had never bothered to repaint. His bedspread was deep blue, patterned with faint galaxies—stars fading from too many washes, but still there, scattered like they meant something. A lamp sat crooked on his desk beside a stack of notebooks, each one filled halfway before he'd started another. Near the window, the blinds bent just enough to let in a thin slice of early light that painted the floor in gold.
He pulled on his new maroon blazer, the color that marked him as eighth grade now. Last year's red one was still folded on the shelf—too small to wear but too heavy to throw out.
Nova tugged at his new collar, the white-and-yellow trim itching against his neck. The crest stitched over the pocket caught the dim light, brighter than he felt. Pinned just above the crest was a small badge. The badge was an enamel compass that was ringed in silver, and its needle stayed fixed at true north. The Advanced Learners emblem. Supposedly a symbol of direction and excellence, though nearly every student at Columbus Hall was a part of the Advanced Learners program.
Columbus Hall sorted its students by blazer color, each shade a rung on the ladder. Seniors in black and gold strutted like they owned the place. Juniors in emerald that tried too hard to look chill. Sophomores wore royal blue and called themselves the Royals. Seventh graders—last year's Nova—were known as the Blazers: bright, restless, always pushing limits.
Nova, now in maroon, joined the Harbors. Supposedly steadier. Supposedly wiser. Mostly tired.
The kindergartners, though, were everyone's favorite. Their bright yellow blazers earned them the nickname Fireflies. They moved in packs, glowing and darting through the halls, and if you weren't fast enough they were too quick to catch.
Downstairs, the house moved on autopilot. Lights off and coffee brewing. Nova's mom flipped eggs at the stove, robe half-tied, phone at her shoulder.
Amber was already at the table, swinging her legs like she'd had a gallon of sugar before sunrise. At ten, she had the energy of three people, and she crunched through a bowl of cereal loud enough to echo. Her hair was tied in two puffballs that bounced every time she moved, and her pajamas were mismatched—one sleeve with unicorns, the other with planets. A few crumbs dotted her chin, and her smile stretched wide enough to make it impossible to stay annoyed.
"Nice blazer," she said with a grin. "You look like a hotel butler."
"Shut up," Nova muttered, grabbing an apple.
Nelson was Nova's older brother. He drifted in behind Amber, earbuds in, hoodie half-zipped, a smear of paint still dusting his knuckles. He was sixteen, tall enough to make doors look shorter, and always carried himself like Redden's resident cool older brother. He snatched a piece of bacon straight off the pan before their Mom could swat him.
Unlike Nova, both Nelson and Amber went to public school across town. Nelson said it gave him "more space to breathe," and Amber liked not having to wear a blazer. Nova's parents had insisted on Columbus Hall for him instead—structure, they'd called it. A better chance. But to Nova it mostly felt like he'd been shipped off somewhere that never really fit.
"Dad left early for work. Want a ride?" Nelson asked, already knowing the answer.
"Nope," Nova said, biting into the apple.
Nelson smirked. "Figured. Wouldn't want people to think you still like me."
Amber snorted milk out of her nose. "He doesn't like you. No one likes you."
Nelson flicked her forehead on his way past. She yelped and tried to kick him under the table, spilling half her cereal.
Nova slipped out before the argument could get louder, leaving the pill capsule his mom had set out—just this once. It was the first morning he'd ever ignored it, and he wanted to start the new school year clear-headed, not weighed down by the pills.
Bardon got dropped off like clockwork—same spot, same time (7:35), every year. In front of Murray Elementary, where the parking signs still leaned a little from last winter's storm. Nova always waited for him there. It was their routine. They didn't need texting or double checking. Because Bardon always showed up.
His older brother, Caprio, was the one who dropped him off in front of the elementary school. Bardon said he liked the walk, the quiet before the day started. But Nova knew it worked out for both of them. Murray Elementary was on the way to Caprio's girlfriend's place, and convenience had a way of becoming tradition.
Murray was only a few blocks from Columbus Hall—five, maybe six if you hit a red light—close enough that Nova could make the walk in under ten minutes. But now it was 7:36. Then 7:37. Still no minivan. Nova shifted on his heels, stomach twisting. What if Bardon wasn't coming?
Tires then screeched, slicing through the still morning air. A white minivan swerved into the drop-off lane, brake lights flaring. The side door flung open before the wheels even stopped turning. Bardon. He spilled out in disarray: blazer flapping open, shirt half-buttoned, curls defying gravity. He was wearing socks and slides, like his alarm went off seconds ago.
For a second, Nova only stared. It hadn't even been a full day, but somehow it still felt like a reset.
Bardon spotted him and instantly grinned, wide, and shameless, like he'd already been waiting for the moment. He looked Nova up and down, eyes catching on the maroon blazer.
"Hey, look at you with your new color," Bardon said, smirking. "A real Harbor now."
Nova rolled his eyes. "Yeah, barely."
Bardon laughed. "I mean, are you… really a Harbor though. Because technically you don't really umm…..meet the height requirement for it—"
Nova snorted, then went dead serious and slugged him in the arm.
"Ow! It was a joke," Bardon said, rubbing the spot and grinning even wider.
Nova tried not to smile—but failed.
And just like that, they fell into step—shoulder to shoulder, no awkwardness, no apologies.
Christopher Columbus Hall Preparatory Academy loomed ahead, its crest—a faded compass rose behind a coiled rope and a small ship—hanging crooked on rusted poles. The school's sign declared Columbus Hall Prep — Home of the Sailors, bold block letters in peeling navy paint, a streak of bird droppings slashing through the "O" in "Columbus" like nature's commentary. Behind it, the brick façade squinted in the morning sun, while on the double doors a bright poster for the eighth grade trip to Italy—Leaning Tower, Coliseum, Gondolas—clung awkwardly against the peeling paint, like a promise the school couldn't keep.
Nova raised an eyebrow.
"Still haven't changed that name, huh? Maybe they like the controversy."
"Bet the board's still discussing it," Bardon muttered, the kind of line that came with the same wear as the sign itself. He'd said things like that so often it was practically part of his record—one already stacked with faculty meetings and laminated detention slips.
And for Bardon it showed, even in uniform.
Bardon looked up and tilted his head at the building, grin crooked. "Home sweet home."
Nova bumped him with his shoulder.
"Let's kill it this year."
Bardon nodded once, quieter now.
"For us. And for the ones who couldn't."
The breakfast bell echoed through the halls.
A soft wave of voices drifted from the front atrium. It wasn't loud, but it was organized in a way that made Nova slow down. The Seniors were easy to spot, the Captains of Columbus Hall in black and gold, standing in loose circles while the Fireflies, who were even easier to spot, stood crowded around them. The kindergartners looked even smaller up close, yellow sleeves swallowing their arms, backpacks bumping against their legs as they tried to keep up.
The Captains were talking to them in quiet, patient tones. Pointing out hallways. Naming buildings. Showing them which stairs creaked and which ones teachers used to ambush wandering kids. Every so often a little hand shot up with a question, and a senior bent down to answer it like it was the only question that mattered. 
Nova wondered if the Captains had been this gentle when he was four.
Bardon nodded toward them. "The first light tour."
Nova smiled a little. "I remember that. I got lost twice."
"Twice you told everyone you were exploring."
"Same thing."
One group of Fireflies turned toward the side hall, following their Captain around a bend. The crowd shifted a little, and two of the kids wound up pressed against the wall. Their group kept moving before they realized they were no longer in it. The tiny pair blinked at the empty space where the others had been, unsure what to do next.
Nova and Bardon kept walking as the atrium settled back into its usual rhythm.
Inside, the Advanced Learners hallway gleamed like it had something to prove. The floors were too shiny, the light too white, and the air carried that low hum of printers and whispered equations. A pair of Verdants hovered near the lockers, arguing over a test they hadn't even taken yet. Verdants were sixth graders sporting forest-green blazers, though the way they were going at it, you'd think they ran the place.
Beyond them, at the far end of the corridor, Nova spotted two Fireflies—kindergartners in bright yellow blazers. They were standing frozen amid all that confidence, faces red and wet with tears. Their backpacks looked too big for their shoulders, and they were holding hands like that was the only thing keeping them from disappearing.
Nova slowed. "Bardon," he murmured, nodding toward them. "I think they're lost."
Bardon followed his gaze, already shaking his head. "We're gonna be late. Someone else will find them."
"Bardon, I was four when I was a firefly. Come on." Nova took a step forward anyway. The sound of his shoes against the tile felt too loud. The kids looked up at him, eyes wide, uncertain whether he was trouble or help. He crouched a little, hands on his knees. "Hey, you guys okay? Where's your class?"
One of them hiccupped. "We—we were following the big kids," he said. His voice cracked halfway through the sentence.
Bardon sighed behind him. "Nova…"
Before Nova could answer, the sharp rumble of footsteps echoed from the far end of the hall. Vice Principal Tobias Mull appeared, walking with that quiet confidence that made everyone part for him without being asked. His maroon tie matched the shine of his shoes; his clipboard was tucked neatly under one arm.
He stopped beside Nova, eyes calm but focused. "I'll take it from here, gentlemen." He crouched briefly to the Fireflies, voice softening. "Let's get you two back where you belong, yeah?" Then he stood, turning to Nova and Bardon. "Thank you for helping—but this isn't your problem anymore. And if I'm not mistaken, you're both due in class."
Bardon mumbled a "Yeah, whatever," and the two of them started walking again, the echo of Mull's shoes trailing behind them like a warning and a reassurance at the same time.

When the two boys arrived at classroom 108, two open seats waited for them in the front row, like a trap that had already been set. The classroom buzzed with that restless, first-week noise—chairs scraping, zippers, half-whispered jokes. A group by the window laughed too loudly; someone in the back kept flicking a paper football at the trash can and missing every time.
Nova hesitated in the doorway beside Bardon.
Classroom 108 wasn’t like the others.
 Most rooms at Columbus Hall tried too hard to look academic—posters laminated to an inch of their lives, bulletin boards filled with color-coded reminders, quotes stolen from Pinterest.
But this room felt… curated.
Half the walls were lined with tall, dark shelves filled with battered novels and spiral-bound journals, each spine labeled in Mrs. Watson’s tiny, perfect handwriting. Student essays—real ones—were framed beside old literary maps and annotated pages from books Nova didn’t recognize. A single window stretched across the left wall, smudged from years of hands and weather, the blinds half-open as if the room couldn’t decide whether it preferred light or shadow.
At the front, the whiteboard was spotless except for the nameplate beneath it:
WATSON, EMILY — English, AL Core.
He’d seen the name before—in emails, on the summer reading list—but here, attached to a real person who’d soon look him in the eye, it hit different.
The room felt alive in a way classrooms shouldn’t—quietly watching, cataloging, waiting.
Mrs. Watson was writing the date across the board in clean, looping script when she said, without turning, "You're late."
Nova frowned. "Late? The bell hasn't even—"
The bell rang.
Bardon gave a helpless grin. "See? Technically on time."
Mrs. Watson turned, adjusting her glasses. "Early is on time. On time is late. Take your seats." She picked up her clipboard. "Names?"
"Nova Astrek," Nova said, trying to sound neutral.
Her pen froze mid-note. One brow lifted. "The Nova Astrek."
The room went still. Nova's throat tightened. He nodded, already knowing what this was about. He tried to breathe past it, muttering under his breath, "Fame's exhausting."
Her eyes narrowed. "What was that?"
"Nothing," he said quickly.
"And you wouldn't happen to be…" she asked, turning to Bardon.
"Bardon Schmidt."
She jotted it down, lips pressing thin. "Ah. You two. Just my luck." She didn't elaborate what she said, but pushed her chair in and headed for the phone wall.
As Nova and Bardon passed the other desks, a few kids whispered. From the back, a voice rose—too loud, too confident. "Didn't the staff already talk about this? About not putting those two in the same class?"
Mrs. Watson's jaw tightened. "Jeremy."
Her tone made Nova want to crawl under his desk. Because he knew that tone. It was a harsh mother to son kind of tone.
Nova turned to see a red-haired boy leaning back in his chair, freckles bright under the lights and a grin already waiting. "What?" he said. "You told Dad transparency matters."
A ripple of laughter moved through the room.
Nova leaned sideways, muttering just loud enough for Bardon to hear. "I've heard of teacher's pet, but never teacher's son—"
Nova paused as the dark haired girl without red hair and freckles, beside Jeremy spoke.
"Oh my gosh, you're so embarrassing," the girl beside Jeremy groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "Why did God make me share a womb with you?"
Jeremy only smirked.
"Oh," Nova added dryly, sitting up straighter. "And daughter. Double the fun."
Bardon coughed into his sleeve, barely smothering a laugh.
Mrs. Watson snapped. "Poppy Olivia Watson! That's enough. Whispering doesn't turn everyone else deaf."
Looking at all three of them Nova thought how could he have not seen their similarities before, but now that he did, the resemblance was impossible to miss. They all shared the same dark eyes that caught light like glass. Even Jeremy the red haired boy.
Nova slumped a little lower in his seat, realizing this class was going to be rough—with those two in the mix and their mom running the show.
His gaze drifted to a girl two rows over—Emaline. She'd turned slightly in her seat, chin resting against her knuckles, eyes light brown in a way that didn't just see him but read him. She wasn't judging, just quietly curious, the kind of curiosity that made Nova feel like he'd been caught mid-thought. For a second their eyes met, and something in her look said she already knew more than she should. Nova looked away first, facing forward towards Mrs. Watson.
Mrs. Watson turned back to him, her tone cool and precise.
"Back to you Nova. I've seen a bunch of kids like you blow in before," she said. "The storm always catches up."
The words landed in Nova's chest with weight — not a prediction, but a verdict. The silence in the room seemed to thicken, pressing against his ribs. Bardon shifted beside him, wincing.
She then finished walking to the phone mounted on the wall.
Three minutes later, Vice Principal Tobias Mull walked in—tall, built, and smooth as ever. Waves sharp under a fresh lineup, sneakers spotless, blazer tailored. He was young, Black, and carried himself like someone who didn't just run the school—he ran it well. He gave Bardon a hard look then nodded at him. Bardon quickly stood up, grabbed his bag, and left without a word. The door shut and the class stayed silent. Nova stared at the empty seat beside him, a little colder than before. He knew Bardon had gotten in trouble before—but this felt different and more sudden. More final.
At the front, Mrs. Watson flipped to a new slide labeled Syllabus. She then tweaked her glasses again. "I know everyone's buzzing about the Italy trip. We'll get to that next week."
The class-wide groan went live at full volume.
Nova didn't hear the rest. His focus had already drifted—pulled by a quiet feeling in his chest that something about this trip wasn't right. He looked back at the empty seat. The room hadn't changed, but it felt like everything else had. Bardon was gone. And Nova was already falling behind.
He didn't know it yet, but that had been the last time he'd ever stopped to help a Firefly.

 
First period had been... a lot.
Nova hadn't seen Bardon since they were separated. If you could call being dragged out by the vice principal like a criminal in front of thirty kids "separated." He didn't catch a text, a wave, or even a glimpse of Bardon between classes.
By fourth period, Nova was starting to wonder if the school had locked him in a closet just for fun.
When the clock struck 12:45, the bell cracked through the halls like a starting gun.
Columbus Hall Prep's hallways exploded—especially during lunch. Lockers slammed. Backpacks swung over shoulders, heavy and reckless. The air turned hot and loud and desperate. It was the kind of stampede that didn't care who got trampled.
Some people would argue Columbus Hall wasn't a school, it was a storm system. And every bell was a thunderclap.
Nova fought his way to the stairwell, one hand on his backpack and the other gripping his schedule, crumpled and sweat-softened. Someone elbowed his ribs. A sixth grader faceplanted into a trash can and just... didn't get up for a second.
It was chaos.
Controlled only by the promise of food.
And somehow, it got worse.
The lunch line stretched into the hallway. Hundreds of students, all ages, and colors. Hot, tired, hungry. Some growling like they'd skipped breakfast just to have a reason to be mad.
A paper banner hung crookedly above the doors: "Welcome Back, Explorers!" —the school mascot, a sun-faded sailor gripping a compass, smiling like even he didn't believe it.
Nova stared like it was a mistake. A glitch in the matrix.
But then—relief.
Bardon appeared near the end of the line, backpack slung off one shoulder, grinning as if he'd been timing his entrance.
"Line's cursed," Bardon said, holding up a brown paper bag trophy-like. "Lucky for you, my mom packed for two."
Nova already knew the contents: Bardon's usual medley of leftovers, snacks, and mashed fruit wrapped in miracle foil.
He was about to make a joke when the light dimmed, very slightly.
A shadow fell across the both of them.
A tall boy with a ponytail stepped out of line, his black-and-gold blazer crisp, jaw rough with a five-o'clock shadow that made him look more college than high school. The light hit his name tag — J. Rowe — and the twin emblems above it, the silver AL compass and the gold Captain's pin, glinting like they belonged to someone twice his age. At Columbus Hall, you never needed a class roster. Color and badges told you everything.
The name the students made for seniors was Captain. And they definitely wore that name like it was a badge. To make matters worse or better, Rowe was responsible for twenty-seven of Nova and Bardon's detentions last school year.
"Not cutting….are you?" Rowe asked, voice even but with that weight older students carried.
Nova leaned toward Bardon, whispering, "Rowe? He's a Captain now?"
Bardon scoffed at Rowe, then lifted the brown paper bag like a peace flag. "You think I care about this nasty private-school lunch? Better luck next time."
Rowe stared at him for a long second, then exhaled through his nose. "Yeah. Next time."
He scoffed back. "You're lucky I actually care about my future," he said, stepping back into line. "Damn, Harbors."
Bardon nudged Nova. "See? I bring joy wherever I go."
"You bring something," Nova said as they were leaving the cafeteria.
They didn't need to talk about where to go. They were already outside.
Their usual spot: a concrete planter box just in front of the basketball courts. Sun-warmed. Slightly cracked. A little shade from the awning above. Just enough to keep them from melting.
It was their spot—the kind of unofficial territory every kid on campus seemed to know belonged to someone else. Their names were probably carved there somewhere, under layers of graffiti hearts and initials.
Sneakers squeaked nearby. A missed layup clanged off the rim and bounced against the chain-link fence. Someone yelled "Ball!" across the court, echoing under the bleachers where an old scoreboard flickered even though it hadn't worked in years.
Nova climbed onto the planter, dropping his backpack beside him. Bardon tossed over a lunch bag.
They sat shoulder to shoulder, legs dangling over a patch of weeds sprouting from the pavement.
Bardon's uniform clung to his back from gym class. His curls were damp. But his smile came easy, like nothing had changed.
Their history teacher, Ms. Tellerman, drifted past the planter box, flapping her scarf like it was a signal flag. She waved without looking, too busy corralling a group of freshmen arguing over which floor had the "ghost janitor."
Shortly after a few bites of peanut butter and jelly, Nova finally asked.
"So... What happened during first?"
Bardon didn't answer right away. He was licking crumbs off his fingers, pretending not to hear.
"One second we're sitting there, next you're getting yanked out like you lit the place on fire."
"Guess I lit the wrong tone." Bardon's smirk didn't reach his eyes. "Or we did."
Nova squinted. "So what? Was that like strike one?"
"More like strike six. V.P. Tobias said the entire staff had a meeting about us over the summer. Said we shouldn't be in the same classes. Too much chaos. I guess Jeremy wasn't lying"
Nova froze, sandwich halfway to his mouth.
"He wouldn't—"
"Dead serious. Mrs. Watson caught the mix-up during roll call and had me pulled out before it could get... 'habitual.' His word—habitual."
Nova leaned back. Appetite now gone.
"We've never been in separate classes."
"Yeah," Bardon said. "Felt weird walking out without you."
Nova didn't laugh or smile. He kept his eyes on his lunch.
They planned this. Like he and Bardon were some kind of storm, and they didn't want to risk the lightning striking twice.
A napkin fluttered off Bardon's knee. Neither moved.
"Don't you feel... stabbed in the back?" Nova asked quietly.
Bardon shrugged, but his jaw tightened. "Kinda. But also... should we really be surprised?"
He balled up his lunch bag and tossed it. Missed. Didn't care.
"I guess one upside is..." Bardon hesitated, drumming his fingers against the bench. "Elian's in… all my classes now."
The name hit harder than it should've. Nova couldn't tell if it was relief, resentment—or both.
"Elian?"
"Mhm. They switched my schedule this morning. I know we haven't talked since summer—since, you know... but seeing him today? Felt kind of normal. Like before things got weird."
Nova nodded, lips tight. "That's... nice."
He didn't feel betrayed. Not exactly.
It just felt like Elian had gotten his seat back at the table, and Nova wasn't sure if he was ready to pull out the chair.
"I told him he could meet us here."
Nova looked up. "For lunch?"
"Yeah. We're all here again, right?"
Nova gave a single nod. I heard you. Not, I'm cool with it.
"There he is. Yo, Elian!"
Elian jogged over from the cafeteria, his dark hair gelled so stubbornly to the right it looked as if he'd argued with it and lost. His blazer was half-buttoned, his tie hanging crooked around his neck like it had personally offended him. But as he drew closer, Nova caught the familiar sweep of the birthmark along the lower left side of Elian's face — a soft, russet shape that always seemed to shift with his expressions.
He was still grinning when he reached them, but the moment his eyes met Nova's, he slowed.
"Nova. Haven't really talked since..."
"The barbecue," Nova said, voice flat.
Elian nodded. "Right. That."
"You been good?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Yeah."
The silence pressed in, unfinished, like something left unsaid.
He smiled, but his eyes looked tired, like he was trying a little too hard.
Nova watched too closely, catching that moment. Wondering if Elian really belonged here again—or just wanted to.
Bardon jumped in to fill the silence, cracking jokes a little too fast, a little too loud. He couldn't seem to even sit still.
Eventually, the laughter came from all three of them. Their chemistry reconnected as if someone had turned the current back on. For a while, it almost felt like summer hadn't happened. As if the BBQ didn't happen.

Around them, a group of Royals sprinted after a swarm of Fireflies—kindergartners in yellow blazers glowing like tiny suns—waving stolen trays and chanting "Tray Wars!" like it was an annual holiday. From the roof, someone yelled that the vending machine ate their dollar again. A soccer ball ricocheted off a locker door. And somehow, in all that trouble, Columbus Hall felt perfect.
Bardon elbowed Nova, grin wide. "We should get him back," he said, voice low like it was a secret plan being hatched at a heist table. "Vice Principal Mull. Operation: Make Him Question All His Life Choices."
Elian blinked. "Why would we do that? He didn't even do anything to you two. He... simply only did his job."
Bardon waved a hand like Elian had missed the memo. "He pulled me from first period like I was a criminal. Is that not public humiliation? Right Nova? That was personal. Also he called my mom. Who calls a mother at eight forty-five about their kid in a classroom?"
Nova leaned forward. "We are not getting him fired. We are not getting him doxxed. We are not doing any of the things you see in those dumb videos."
"Then what?" Bardon asked, mock disappointed. "Because demoralize is a four-syllable word and it feels poetic."
Elian rubbed his temple. "A bad idea is a bad idea. You want petty, choose petty that won't get us suspended. Again."
Bardon thought for a second, face folding into one of his half-brilliant, half-stupid plans. "Okay, small scale. Make him think his coffee is cursed. Leave a Post-it that says wrong laces on his desk. Something dumb. Psychological warfare, but light. He gets flustered, we get a laugh, nobody loses a job."
Nova smirked despite himself. "Fine. Light psychological warfare. I can live with that."
A whistle then cut through the air, and the laughter faded. Killian Dillington stormed off the court, muttering curses, his face already the kind of storm that meant trouble. The shortest kid in the grade, but always the loudest when games didn't go his way.
The court then fell quiet just long enough for another voice to cut through. A deep one.
"Hey, we need one."
Vaelen Volzer. He was the tallest kid in their grade, and was all bone, scowl, and menace. It'd be rare if you caught him not spinning the basketball against his palm like it owed him something. And when Nova and Bardon were in sixth grade, Vaelen used to talk to them in homeroom—enough to feel like part of things. But once he got cut from the basketball team for grades, he stopped showing up.
Since then, something in him had hardened—and he didn't let anyone forget it.
The moment they heard his voice, Nova and Bardon ducked behind the tree.
Elian blinked, confused. But he didn't hesitate.
"I'll play."
Nova and Bardon sighed. Dodged again.
"Perfect," Vaelen said. "You'll be a great addition."
He tossed the ball to his other hand. Voice low, sharp.
"But if you don't play up to par—I'm not coming after you."
He nodded toward Nova and Bardon.
"I'll say hi to Stargazer and his little boyfriend instead."
A few kids laughed. That name had been around since sixth grade.
Nova didn't flinch, but something in him still recoiled.
He hated that nickname. Not because it was mean. Because it felt too close to the truth.
His eyes had always made people stare.
Amber. Almost gold. Definitely too strange to ignore.
His stomach burned from being seen.
Vaelen turned away and walked off without another word.
Nova kept staring at the ground.
Bardon glanced at him—and this time, realizing this wasn't the time to crack a joke.
He merely sat there, quiet, watching the way Nova's shoulders tightened, the way his jaw locked like he was trying to swallow something down.
Bardon's chest ached. He hated the way Nova took it. The way he didn't flinch, or try to fire back. He'd always fold it inward.
And Bardon knew that look. He'd seen it too many times.
That wasn't embarrassment. That was shame.
The silence dragged, full of things neither of them said.
Finally, Nova exhaled, voice low.
"Well shit. What are we gonna do?"
Now, here's the thing—Nova wasn't great at basketball. Bardon was decent. But Elian? He was a soccer kid—fast, coordinated, quick on his feet—but basketball? That wasn't his sport.
So when he got picked for the court, Nova and Bardon slid onto the edge of the planter box, arms braced against their knees, watching like two guys who already knew how this story ended—and were still hoping they were wrong.
The game started rough. Elian surprised everyone by keeping up, stealing passes and hustling on defense. But his shots? Pure soccer player. Too much leg, not enough finesse. Each miss made Vaelen's jaw clench harder.
By the time the school bell rang its one-minute warning, Vaelen's team was down by four. The crowd had thickened. Nova and Bardon leaned forward, fully invested despite themselves.
Then Elian got the steal of the game.
He stood completely still with the ball. Too still for the moment. The whole court seemed to freeze with him.
"Why is he backing up?" Nova muttered.
Elian stepped back once, then again, then again. He planted his feet and rose.
The shot banged straight off the backboard. Nova turned away, certain it was over, but Bardon watched as the ball kissed the rim and dropped clean through.
The crowd exploded. Bardon tackled Nova with a hug, shouting "He made it!" while Vaelen slapped Elian's back and laughed.
But they were still down one with ten seconds left. Elian intercepted the inbound pass and backed up again.
"BALL ELIAN BALL!" Vaelen screamed.
Elian smiled—the same fearless smile Nova remembered from elementary school when he'd jumped off the swings mid-air without hesitation. This time, it carried pure determination.
Like this wasn't just a game, but a message.
The shot went up too strong, too high, sailing over the backboard and arcing into the sky before dropping right into Nova's lap.
The court froze completely.
Somewhere in the crowd, a voice broke the silence. "Three Harbors are about to fight!"
Phones went up immediately after that. Leading with the air shifted. Every kid on the blacktop leaned in, hungry for something to happen.
Nova stared at the ball, then at Vaelen, and the way Vaelen held himself told Nova what was about to happen.
Vaelen was already moving. He'd taken off his blazer, and stretched his collar, His Jordans flexing with each step. They were against the dress code, but he never seemed to take that into account.
Nova stood his ground while his mind raced, seeing it all at once: the weight of the crowd, the phones already out, the blood that hadn't hit the concrete yet.
Memories flashed for Nova. They were blurry, sharp, and stupid ones. One of them was the time he scraped his knee chasing Bardon. His dad slapping the back of his head during a peewee football game. That one awful, wonderful fifth-grade sleepover where someone farted so loud the room stopped. He was somehow at peace.
At least up until he heard a war cry from his oldest best friend.
"DUCK!" Bardon screamed.
Nova ducked just in time, feeling the punch slice through the space where his head had just been, the wind of it grazing his ear.
His heart slammed against his chest. Vaelen's foot slid forward a bit too far. He was suddenly noticeably off balance.
Bardon saw it too.
Something broke loose inside him. Every protective instinct he'd ever felt for Nova snapped into focus.
He didn't hesitate as he exploded off the planter and hit Vaelen with everything he had. The impact ran up his arms, leaving his fingertips buzzing from the hit.
Vaelen never had time to adjust as he fell face-first into the planter box. The impact was brutal—jaw meeting cement with a sickening crunch that rippled through the crowd.
Complete silence.
Then chaos erupted. The screams rose as someone yelled, "There's blood on the planter!" Nova flinched at the words.
Bardon was still breathing heavy, his hands trembling with leftover charge, as if the live wire he'd touched hadn't let go of him yet.
Their eyes locked—chests rising and falling in sync, the unspoken question: What did we just do? hanging between them.
Then Bardon gave the smallest nod and shouted, "Go!"
They ran with Nova's lungs burning and shoes slapping the just recently wet pavement. For a second, it felt like they might actually make it.
Until they slammed into a hard chest, leaving a lanyard swinging ominously.
Vice Principal Tobias Mull stood before them, and just behind him was Principal Barry Taekens, holding the end of the world in a clipboard.
"My office," he said.

"My office."
The words hit like sentencing. Vice Principal Mull’s lanyard swayed as he stepped closer, his face carved from stone. Principal Taekens stood behind him, clipboard pressed against his chest like armor, the glare from his bald head catching the light in a way that made it hard to look directly at him.
Nova's mind went loud with static.
Then Bardon grabbed his arm.
"Run."
They bolted.
Not toward the building—away from it. Past the cafeteria, through the parking lot, shoes pounding asphalt in a rhythm that matched their hammering hearts.
Behind them, shouting. Footsteps. The metallic screech of Coach Wexler's whistle.
Nova's lungs burned, but he couldn't stop. His backpack slammed against his spine with each stride, and the air itself stung his teeth.
They didn't have a plan. For them it was either forward or nowhere.
The school fence rushed up. It was a chain-link fence and was, eight feet high, topped with nothing. Bardon hit it first, fingers threading through the metal diamonds, pulling himself up like his life depended on it. Nova followed, the fence rattling under their combined weight. At the top, he looked back once—saw the crowd still gathered around the courts, phones out, recording everything. Blood on the concrete planter. Teachers pushing through the mass of students.
They dropped to the other side and kept running.
They didn't stop until they reached Miller's Creek, two miles from school. Collapsed against a rusted guardrail, gasping like drowning men who'd finally found air. Nova stared at his hands. They wouldn't stop shaking.
Cars passed on the road behind them, seeming as if they belonged to another world.
A world where eighth graders didn't push people into concrete planters.
Nova closed his eyes, but that made it worse. He could see it all over again—Vaelen falling, the sickening crunch, the way his body went limp for that split second before the screaming started. The blood. The way it looked almost black against the concrete.
"We really messed up," Nova whispered.
Bardon spat into the creek. "We didn't mean for that to happen."
"I don't think it matters what we meant."
He felt as if his whole life was over. At twelve. He couldn't face his parents, couldn't sit across from his mom at the kitchen table and watch her realize their son was capable of real violence.
"I can't go home," Nova said. The words came out flat, and final.
Bardon looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I can't. Not after this. My parents are going to kill me. Literally kill me."
"They'll understand. It was an accident."
"Was it?" Nova turned to face him. "Be honest. When you pushed him, in that exact moment—what were you thinking?"
Bardon went quiet. His face told Nova everything.
Nova’s phone lit up. This time, it was Elian. He almost didn’t answer. Their phones had been blowing up for the past hour with calls from parents and half the school, vibrations crawling up Nova’s arm like static.
But Elian’s name… that felt wrong on his screen.
He hadn’t seen it since the beginning of summer, not since everything broke loose between them.
Something in his gut told him to pick up.
"Nova?" Elian's voice was tight, urgent. "Where are you?"
"Why?"
"Because everything's gone crazy here. They took Vaelen to the hospital in an ambulance, but he was conscious. Talking. And Nova—he's telling everyone you guys planned this. That you've been threatening him for weeks."
Nova's stomach dropped. "That's not—"
"I know it's not true, but it doesn't matter. The cops are here. Taking statements. Looking at the videos everyone recorded. They're treating this like a felony assault."
Nova felt the world tilt sideways. "Videos?"
"Everyone filmed it, Nova. The whole thing. And the angle makes it look really bad. Like you and Bardon were working together to hurt him."
A siren wailed in the distance, and Nova's heart jumped. Bardon leaned closer, ear pressed to the phone.
"How bad is he?" Bardon asked.
"Bad. Concussion for sure. Maybe a broken jaw. And he lost his tooth. They had to dig pieces of tooth out of the concrete." Elian's voice dropped. "But Nova, that's not the worst part."
"What do you mean?"
"His mom showed up. Ms. Volzer. She's talking about pressing charges. Full charges."
Nova suddenly lost his breath. That wasn't just juvie. That was real court. Real consequences. The kind that followed you for the rest of your life.
"How long do we have?" Bardon asked.
"I don't know. The cops are asking everyone where you went. Someone said they saw you climbing the rails toward Miller's Creek." Elian paused. "Nova, you need to come back. Turn yourselves in. Tell them what really happened."
"And say what? That we didn't mean to crack his skull open? That it was an accident?" Nova's voice rose. "You said it yourself—the videos make us look guilty."
"But if you run, you'll look even more guilty."
Nova scanned the woods around them. The trees were swaying as the creek water rushed just out of sight. The sounds of sirens closing in fast cut through the sound of the sudden wind.
"The Edge," he said without thinking.
"The Edge of Redden?" Elian repeated. "Nova, that's like—are you thinking of going to hide there? Nobody goes there. Especially not with this weather coming."
"Weather?"
"You haven't seen it? There's this storm system moving in from the west. They're saying it could be record-breaking."
Nova looked up. He remembered seeing a few thin clouds when they left school, wisps on the western horizon that he hadn't thought twice about. But now those wisps had grown into something massive and dark, building with unnatural speed.
"Nova," Elian said. "Don't go there. Please. Just turn yourselves in."
"They won't believe us, Elian. We're done."
The siren was close now. Maybe a quarter-mile away. Nova grabbed Bardon's arm. "We have to go. Now."

Three hours later, the Edge of Redden marked the town's final breath—where limestone cliffs dropped sixty feet straight down to Lake Nocturnis.
Nova and Bardon had taken the old logging roads that wound through the hills behind Redden, paths Bardon’s dad had shown him on hunting trips. 
Nova figured the police would stick to the main roads at first, checking houses and known hangouts before venturing into the maze of deer trails and forgotten access routes that crisscrossed the forest. 
As Nova was walking through the trail he realized with every step he took the sky was… changing. What started as thin wisps of darkness on the horizon spread like spilled ink across blue canvas. Clouds built on clouds, rolling and churning in ways that didn't look right. The temperature dropped ten degrees in as many minutes, and Nova could feel the tremble in his bones.
From the ridge overlooking town, Nova could see it all spread out below—Columbus Hall’s water tower, the grain elevator by the railroad tracks, the cross on top of St. Mary's catching the last rays of sunlight before the storm swallowed them.
"That's moving too fast," Bardon said, voice tight with something between fascination and fear.
Storm fronts moved maybe forty miles per hour on the worst days. This thing ate up miles of sky every few minutes, like it was being pulled by something stronger than wind. The air pressure dropped like they were in a descending airplane, popping his ears. Static electricity built until every metal surface hummed.
"This isn't normal," Bardon said. "Wrong rotation. Backwards. That doesn't happen. Not here. Not ever."
If Bardon—the kid who watched the Weather Channel for fun—said something was off with the storm, something was seriously wrong.
Voices carried through the trees behind them, faint but getting closer.
"...this way..." "...tracks in the mud..." "...find them before the storm hits..."
Nova grabbed Bardon's arm and pulled him off the path. They crouched behind a cluster of oak trees. Through the branches, Nova saw them.
Four figures moving through the woods. Flashlights, even though it was still afternoon. The storm clouds had made everything dark as twilight.
But these weren't cops.
"Is that—?" Bardon whispered.
"Vaelen," Nova breathed.
Vaelen Volzer walked point, jaw visibly swollen but he was moving like pain meant nothing to him. A stark white bandage covered half his face, and his split lip was purple with dried blood. Behind him was Killian Dillington, and Monty Fremond—honor roll student, the kind of kid who helped teachers carry equipment. What was he doing here?
Vaelen carried a lacrosse stick, duct-taped at the shaft, the net weighted with something wrapped in cloth. The way he gripped it was practiced, ready.
"I know you guys are here," Vaelen called out. His voice echoed through the trees, but underneath it, Nova heard something new. Pure, crystallized hatred.
"You managed to break my jaw," Vaelen continued. "The doctors said I might need surgery to wire it shut. Do you know what that means? Six weeks of liquids. Six weeks of not being able to eat solid food. Six weeks of looking like a freak."
Thunder rumbled above, heavy and near, with a depth that didn’t belong to any storm.
"Mom's already talking to lawyers," Vaelen went on. "But I wanted to settle this myself first. Man to man."
"Maybe we should go back," Monty said. His voice was small and uncertain. "The storm—"
"Shut up," Vaelen snapped. "They humiliated me. Got me posted online. Made me look weak in front of everyone." His grip tightened on something Nova couldn't see. "You think I'm just going to let that go?"
"This storm isn't normal, man," Killian said, glancing up at the sky.
"I don't care about the storm!" Vaelen screamed. "Every kid in school saw that video! Saw me on the ground, bleeding, crying like some little victim!" He raised his fist. "Nobody's ever going to see me like that again. Not ever."
Suddenly, Bardon's phone blared. The emergency alert sound hit like a slap. It was loud and piercing. Bardon jerked, fumbling for his pocket.
They both stared at the screen as the alert lit up in red:
EMERGENCY ALERT UNPRECEDENTED STORM EVENT – REDDEN REGION TAKE SHELTER IMMEDIATELY EXTREME RISK: MULTIPLE TORNADIC SIGNATURES, LIGHTNING CLUSTERS, STRUCTURAL COLLAPSE
Below it, in bold: THIS IS A CATASTROPHIC WEATHER EVENT DO NOT ATTEMPT TO TRAVEL. REMAIN UNDERGROUND IF POSSIBLE. THIS IS NOT A TEST.
"Multiple tornadoes at once?" Bardon's voice went thin.
The wind shoved against them, sudden and sharp, and for a second, Nova thought the cliff might rip away beneath their feet.
Then the lightning came. It struck a tree less than fifty yards away and didn’t vanish. It stayed rigid, a jagged spear of light frozen in place, the air intensified with electricity. Where it touched the trunk, the bark melted like plastic.
"Ball lightning," Bardon whispered, but his voice cracked. "Except that's not—that doesn't last this long."
Nova could smell something sharp and metallic now.
“What if this isn’t just a storm?” Nova said, his voice nearly lost beneath the crackle of electricity.” What if it doesn’t stop?
Bardon was watching the lightning with the fascination of someone seeing the laws of physics break down in real time.
"I think," he said slowly, "we're seeing something that's never happened before."
Nova turned, eyes scanning the horizon behind them, searching desperately for any sign of the world they'd known just hours ago. But Redden was gone. Erased, like someone had rubbed the town off the map.
The storm ate every horizon, lightning veins crawling across its skin, swallowing the world in every direction until the curvature of the earth hid it from view.
"So… what is it?" Nova whispered.
The sentence hanging for a second too long.
At an instance every moment from the last few hours hit him all at once, too fast to brace for. His chest seemed to fold inward as something heavy broke loose inside. His throat tightened, and tears slipped out before he even realized they were there—quiet, uninvited, as if his body had decided for him that there was no use pretending anymore. 
He wiped his face fast. It didn't help.
Beside him, Bardon's breath hitched. His eyes were glassy too. He looked away from Nova, toward the dark shape where the town used to be.
"I didn't even get to say goodbye," Bardon said, voice thin, uneven.
Neither of them spoke after that. The world was possibly ending, and all they could do was remember the people they'd left behind. People they might never see again.
The wind surged again—violent, almost angry. Trees bent sideways. A thick branch cracked free and snapped past them like a whip, slamming into the rocks with a sound like a bone breaking.
When Nova looked up, Vaelen was pushing himself to his feet, but his hands were shaking now. Whatever mask he wore at school had slipped, and the kid underneath showed.
"Something's wrong here," Monty said. His voice was high, and tight. "This storm—it's not natural. We need to get out of here. All of us."
"There," Killian said, pointing through the trees. "Footprints."
Nova looked down. Sure enough, their tracks were visible in the soft earth. Leading straight toward the Edge.
They waited until the group passed, then crept deeper into the woods along paths that seemed older than the town itself. Ancient oaks towered over them, their branches forming a canopy so dense that even in what should have been afternoon, the forest floor remained in perpetual twilight.
The atmosphere grew heavier with each step, charged with electricity that made Nova's hair stand on end and his teeth ache.
When they finally reached the cliff, the first thing Nova noticed was the silence. There wasn’t any chirping from birds or insects. Even the wind had stopped.
The Edge was now stretching out before them. Lake Nocturnis was below it. The lake water below was black glass, reflecting nothing. 
Then the darkness above them moved. Not gradually, the way storm clouds usually shifted and churned, but all at once—like a vast curtain being pulled across the sky.
Clouds spiraled directly above the lake, rotating way too fast. Lightning crawled across the water like electric snakes, making it glow where they touched.
"What the hell?" Bardon whispered.
The first drops of rain struck Nova’s face, and immediately he knew something was wrong. The water was too warm, too heavy, almost oily against his skin, and it stung. It wasn’t acid rain, but it seemed to carry something that didn’t belong in their world at all.
Then he heard voices again. Closer now.
"...know they came this way..." "...end of the trail..." "...nowhere left to run..."
Nova and Bardon exchanged a look. They were trapped. Behind them, Vaelen and his crew. In front of them, a sixty-foot drop into water that looked hungry.
They dropped behind a fallen log at the edge of the tree line. Through gaps in the bark, Nova watched the path.
"I know you're here," Vaelen called out. His voice echoed off the cliff face, but it cracked on the last word.
The storm responded. Thunder cracked directly across the sky, so loud it shook the ground. Lightning struck the cliff face twenty feet away. Rock exploded outward, chunks spinning through the air like bullets.
Nova’s phone exploded in his pocket, the same alert from earlier blaring to life. They both scrambled to silence it, but it was too late—the sound had already torn through the trees.
A crunch suddenly ripped through the air behind them. A twig snapped.
Nova turned. He saw a limping shape moving fast through the trees.
Vaelen broke through the treeline—bleeding, soaked, eyes wild. His gaze locked on Nova like a trigger being pulled, but before he could speak, the air shifted.
The forest went still. The hum of the storm deepened until it felt like the ground itself was holding its breath.
Nova’s eyes caught on Vaelen’s head. He barely had any hairs on his head but for some reason the short hairs started lifting one by one, standing straight like they were reaching for the sky. 
The realization hit Nova a second before the sound did. 
“Vaelen! Move!”
Nova then immediately lunged forward, and threw himself at Vaelen, tackling him hard just as the air split open. They hit the ground together and rolled through the wet leaves, the ground exploding behind them as lightning struck the spot they’d been standing. The impact shook the earth, searing the air with the sharp tang of ozone and scorched bark.
When Nova lifted his head, Vaelen was already pushing himself to his feet—his swagger gone, hands trembling like leaves in the wind. Nova reached for him on instinct, but Vaelen shoved him back, eyes wide with panic.
“Don’t touch me,” he snapped, voice breaking just enough to betray how shaken he was. He stumbled back, staring at the smoking crater where the lightning had hit, then at Nova—like he couldn’t decide which scared him more. His jaw flexed, rain streaking through the dirt on his face. For a second, it looked like he wanted to say something else, something real, but he forced it down.
“We’re… we’re even now,” he said finally, dropping the lacrosse stick. “You saved me, fine. But that doesn’t make us friends.”
He turned slightly, breath hitching as the distant wail of sirens cut through the storm. “The cops are close,” he muttered. “If they find you guys out here, it’s over.”
"We need to get out of here!" Monty shouted over the chaos. "All of us! This storm—it's going to destroy everything!"
Above Nova, the storm eye opened wider, revealing something that made his mind want to shut down completely.
The wind grew stronger, so violent now it was like standing in a hurricane. 
Monty lost his footing and slid toward the cliff edge, screaming. Killian grabbed him, pulled him back, but they were both crying now, holding onto each other like the world was ending. Because maybe it was.
Vaelen fought against the wind, crawling on his hands and knees. But he kept coming, that white bandage now soaked with blood from his reopened wounds.
Lightning struck between them. Pure white, so bright Nova couldn't see anything else. When his vision cleared, the ground where the bolt had hit was gone. A smoking hole that went down way too far.
The cliff was crumbling. Chunks of rock tumbled into the lake below, and Nova heard them splash.
Through the wind, the thunder, and Vaelen’s screaming accusations, another sound began to rise. Sirens were drawing closer with every passing second until they bled into the storm itself.
"Nova! Cops!" Bardon yelled across from Nova.
Nova looked back toward the woods. Through the chaos of the storm, he could see lights flashing between the trees. Red and blue. Multiple vehicles on the access road that wound up from the valley—the same road his dad used during hunting season.
Bardon stared at the water. His voice came out small and lost. "My family. What's going to happen to them?"
For a moment, the words hung there. Bardon’s words urged Nova to turn away from Vaelen and go back next to him. His boots slipped in the mud as he ran toward Bardon, catching him by the shoulders.
Bardon’s eyes were glassy, the storm breaking in them like shards of sky. Nova gripped his shoulders, voice raw.
“Hey,” he said, breath sharp and shaking. “We’re not done yet, you hear me?” Though even as the words left him, he didn’t believe them.
Because ultimately they were trapped. Sirens were now directly behind them. The world ending above them. And a sixty-foot drop below them.
The police were almost at the tree line. Flashlight beams cut through the darkness.
"This is Redden Sheriff Department! Stay where you are!"
A whimpering sound came from Vaelen. "I didn't want it to go like this," he said, voice cracking. Nova turned toward him, heart pounding, watching the defiance drain from his face. Vaelen’s eyes were wide and wet, the anger behind them collapsing into something smaller—fear, regret, maybe both.
"I just wanted to scare you. Make you guys pay for what you did. I didn't mean for this to happen." He took a shaky breath. "We're not gonna make it out, are we?"
Nova hadn’t broken his stare at him yet.
Because somewhere along the way, Nova had already realized it—they weren't getting out of this. None of them were. Maybe nobody was.
The storm above them wasn't just destroying the cliff, or the lake, or even Redden. It was taking everything apart, piece by piece.
Bardon sank to his knees beside him. And Nova heard it—his voice, low and shaking, barely audible over the chaos:
"Our Father, who art in heaven..."
Nova’s heart broke. This was Bardon—his best friend since kindergarten—on his knees praying because he thought he was about to die.
"Hallowed be thy name..."
The whisper cut through everything. The storm, the sirens, Vaelen's accusations. Just Bardon, thirteen years old, asking God to save them all.
Nova knelt beside him, took his hand. It was shaking.
The officers broke through the last of the brush.
And Nova’s breath vanished.
The uniforms were real. The boots were real. The wet nylon flapped against their jackets like normal. But their heads…
Their heads were wrong.
Pitch-black.
Perfectly smooth.
Shaped like someone had carved a human silhouette out of solid night.
Across the surface, thin glowing symbols drifted like constellations trying to find their place in the sky. Ancient sigils shifted and breathed, faint but impossible to ignore.
Nova’s stomach turned cold.
He knew that shape.
He had seen it in dreams.
In the corners of his room at night.
Standing at the foot of his bed when he was too scared to move.
The nightmare face.
The shadow.
And now every officer wore it.
It was faceless.
A dark, endless surface where features should have been, smooth as poured shadow and alive with shifting symbols.
Lines of faint light crawled beneath it, pulsing in the rain like constellations waking up.
The nearest one tilted its head.
The symbols rearranged, gliding across the surface in patterns that felt deliberate, almost attentive.
Bardon’s hand slipped from Nova’s.
“Nova,” Bardon whispered. His voice shook like it was trying not to break. “Why do they look like that? What… what is that?”
Nova couldn’t answer.
Because he didn’t have a name for it.
He never had.
It had only ever been the thing in the dark that knew him before he knew himself.
And now it was here.
Wearing the faces of the cops.
Walking toward them through the storm.
Watching.
Always watching.
One by one, more figures stepped into view.
Ten.
Twelve.
Fifteen.
Every head the same obsidian void.
Every surface crawling with moving symbols that glowed like dying stars.
The closest officer raised his flashlight, the beam cutting a thin line through the rain. The symbols brightened as if answering some silent signal.
Nova felt the world tilt under him.
This wasn’t the sheriff’s department anymore.
This wasn’t the law running toward them.
This was the dream-witness.
The childhood demon.
The watcher from the church.
Not appearing.
Revealing.
The storm hadn’t distorted them.
It had stripped the human layer away, showing what had been underneath the whole time.
Bardon let out a sound that wasn’t a scream but close.
Vaelen stumbled backward, staring at them like he finally understood the scale of the mistake he’d made.
And Nova—
Nova couldn’t move.
Because the void-faces stared back in perfect silence, cosmic symbols flickering like prophecy across their smooth, inhuman surface.
They weren’t here to arrest them.
They were here to witness the end.
"But deliver us from evil," Bardon whispered.
Nova squeezed his hand and pulled him to his feet.
Behind them, Vaelen had stopped trying to stand. He knelt in the mud, face pale, eyes locked upward in stunned silence. Killian, and Monty had backed into the trees, pressed flat against the bark.
Suddenly something shifted inside Nova—an unseen force tugging at him from below, deeper than the storm, deeper than what felt like the earth itself. The pull came from the cliff’s edge, from the black water far beneath, as if the lake had opened its eyes and recognized him.
It wasn't fear pulling him forward. It was a certainty.
They weren't meant to stay here. Not on the ground that was coming apart. Not in a world that had cracked open the moment Vaelen's head hit concrete and let something vast and hungry pour through.
The thought crept into Nova's head—that the storm was something else, something deeper. That they needed to jump.
He didn't know why—only that this was it. This was what they were supposed to do. This was how the story ended, with a choice between staying in a world that was eating itself alive or stepping into the unknown and hoping it was kinder than what they were leaving behind. On the other side, was either nothing or everything—not this broken place where lakes rose toward the sky and a group of Harbours could accidentally tear holes in existence.
So Nova turned to Bardon. "Do you trust me?" Nova asked, voice barely louder than the wind.
Bardon's face crumpled; he was openly weeping now. He scrubbed his nose with the heel of his hand, looked up through tears.
"Okay," he said, voice shredded.
The cliff groaned. Another piece gave way behind them. The whole world was becoming an apocalypse. Something that had never been meant for human beings to live in.
Nova turned toward the water. It swirled with dark color, glowing faintly—something beneath the surface had opened its eyes. Something ancient and patient that had been waiting in the depths of Lake Nocturnis for exactly this moment.
"Amen," Bardon whispered.
Nova didn't hesitate. He grabbed Bardon's hand—
And they jumped.
For a heartbeat, gravity forgot them. They hung suspended. Between earth and sky, between everything they'd been and everything waiting below. Time slowed, or maybe dissipated entirely.
Nova looked sideways at Bardon. His eyes were closed, and his lips were parted. His face for some reason was impossibly calm. At the rim, Nova could barely make out Vaelen reaching for them with his hand trembling with a mix of desperation and regret.
Nova's life unfurled behind him like a map—the spit, the pickup game, the shove, the chain of small choices that somehow toppled a world.
The last thought in Nova's consciousness wasn't about his family or his friends. It was that line, that quote from Mrs. Watson's summer reading list. The one about how the last normal day always felt like any other… until it didn't. That didn't feel like it was just a stupid quote from a book lesson anymore. For Nova it felt different, prophetic. It was a timestamp.
And as they fell—through storm and whatever lay beyond it—Nova heard something he shouldn't have.
Church bells. Faint. Beneath the water. As if the lake itself was calling them home. Or as if somewhere, in whatever remained of the world they were leaving behind, someone was ringing the bells for the end of everything. A funeral song for a reality that had finally worn itself out and decided to lie down and sleep.
Then the lake rose up to meet them.
And everything went dark.