The side passage opened into one of the older parts of the academy, the kind almost nobody used unless they had to. The walls were tighter here, the stone darker, and the lamps were spread so far apart that stretches of corridor vanished into shadow between them.
I moved fast, but not recklessly.
Every step felt too loud.
The alarms were still blaring overhead, not constantly, but in long, broken waves that rolled through the academy and faded, only to return again a few seconds later. Each time they did, my chest tightened harder. The sound didn't feel like a warning anymore.
It felt like proof.
This was happening.
The city was under attack.
My family was somewhere in it.
I shoved through a service door at the back of the corridor and stepped into a rear courtyard scattered with leaves and grit. For half a second I just stood there, taking it in.
The academy grounds looked nothing like they had that morning.
Students were flooding across the pathways in terrified clusters. Teachers were shouting themselves hoarse trying to direct them. A few guards were sprinting toward the outer gates, some fastening parts of their armor as they ran. Smoke drifted over the northern wall in a dark smear, and one section of stone near the far edge had cracked badly enough that I could see fresh rubble spilling into the hedges.
I dropped behind a low hedge immediately.
My pulse hammered against my throat.
No one called my name.
No one noticed me.
Good.
Everyone was too busy panicking, arguing, crying, or running to pay attention to one more student slipping out of formation.
I kept low and moved along the edge of the grounds, using whatever cover I could find, hedges, planters, the shadow of a half-split storage building. Every step away from where Mr. Renlow had been leading us felt wrong.
It felt dangerous.
It felt final.
But the thought of turning back lasted less than a second.
I saw my mother's face from that morning, trying to smile without looking worried.
I heard my father telling me to eat before the food got cold.
Home.
That was all that mattered.
I slipped through a bent side gate and out onto the street.
Then I stopped.
The city had always seemed too solid to change.
Same roads. Same shops. Same wagons rattling over stone. Same windows catching afternoon light. Same voices drifting from open doors.
Now it looked like something had grabbed all of that and torn it apart.
Smoke hung low enough to sting my eyes. A building across the street had lost half its upper corner, beams hanging out of it like broken bones. Shattered glass covered the road. An overturned delivery cart lay near the curb, crates smashed open, fruit crushed into the stones so thoroughly that for one awful instant I thought the red stain spreading from it was blood.
Then I saw the actual blood.
A dark trail dragged across the mouth of a side street and disappeared around the corner.
I looked away immediately.
Don't stop, I told myself.
Just move.
I pulled my hood up, even though I knew it didn't hide much, and started down the street. I kept close to the walls. I crossed open ground quickly. I listened before every turn.
I had no weapon.
That fact sat cold and hard in the middle of everything else.
If a monster found me, I couldn't fight it. I couldn't protect myself. I couldn't do anything except run, and I had already seen how little that meant if one of those things decided it wanted you.
A roar rolled somewhere across the rooftops.
I froze so hard my boots locked to the stone.
The sound was deep enough to shake in my ribs, some enormous thing making itself known somewhere beyond the smoke. A second later I heard shouting, metal striking metal, and then a burst of pale light from several streets over.
Someone was fighting.
I crouched lower and waited until the sounds shifted away before I moved again.
Getting home should have been simple. I had walked the route hundreds of times. Past the academy district. Through the market road. Across the west bend. Into the quieter streets where the houses were smaller and people actually knew their neighbours.
Now every turn felt wrong.
I passed the bakery first.
The sight of it hit me harder than I expected.
Its front windows had blown inward. One side of the sign hung by a single chain. Flour dust mixed with ash near the entrance, turning the stone outside a grimy white.
And suddenly I remembered standing in there while rain tapped against the glass, waiting while the woman behind the counter wrapped a loaf for us in paper. I remembered carrying it home warm under my arm, heat soaking through the paper into my skin. I remembered tearing off a piece too early and biting into it while it still steamed. The crust had cracked faintly between my teeth, and the inside had been so soft it almost melted. Butter had sunk into it instantly, rich and salty, turning the center glossy and warm.
I could almost taste it.
Bread. Butter.
Something so simple.
Something so ordinary.
And it hurt because ordinary suddenly felt like the most fragile thing in the world.
I swallowed and kept going.
The market road was worse.
Stalls had been overturned or crushed flat. Torn cloth snapped weakly in the wind from broken frames. Goods were scattered everywhere, grain, baskets, tools, ruined bolts of fabric ground into the dirt. The fountain in the center square had been damaged too, its carved stone figure lying cracked across the basin.
There were bodies.
Not many.
Enough.
A man lay face down near the fountain, one arm bent under him the wrong way. Farther off, half-covered by a collapsed stall, I saw a pale hand sticking out from the wreckage.
My stomach turned.
I veered away so fast I nearly tripped over a broken signpost. My hand clamped over my mouth before I could make any noise. My breathing was starting to come too fast now.
Then I saw more.
Blood on the wall.
A torn piece of clothing darkened with it.
Something in the gutter that my brain identified before I could stop it.
I squeezed my eyes shut for one second.
One second.
Then I opened them again and kept moving.
I cut off the market road into a narrower lane between houses. It was slower, but it gave me more places to hide.
The homes here had taken damage too. Some windows were blown out. One front gate had been ripped off entirely. Another house stood with its front door hanging open, moving slightly in the wind like someone had left in a hurry and never come back.
I slowed as I passed it.
For one stupid, desperate second, I pictured my own house still standing like that.
My mom in the kitchen.
My dad near the table.
Dinner half-finished because the alarms had interrupted it.
The thought came with memories so strong they nearly buckled my knees.
The table at home. The scrape of cutlery against plates. My father pretending not to steal potatoes before they were served. My mother telling him she saw that. The smell of roast meat and pepper and thyme drifting through the whole house. Potatoes crisped at the edges, salted just enough, soft inside. Bread soaking up gravy. Carrots cooked in butter until they turned sweet. The warmth of all of it filling the kitchen windows while the world outside went dark.
Simple things.
A plate set down in front of me.
A cup of water catching the kitchen light.
My family talking over each other about nothing important.
I had never thought about losing those things.
Not really.
Now the idea of them being gone made something cold and sick twist through my chest.
"Please," I whispered, not even sure who I was talking to. "Please be okay."
I reached the turn that led into a narrow alley between two rows of houses and stopped to listen.
Nothing.
No voices. No claws. No growls.
Just the wind pushing grit over stone and some distant crash from deeper in the city.
I slipped into the alley.
It was narrow and cluttered with crates, old rain barrels, and rusting pipes fixed against one wall. Broken laundry lines sagged overhead. The air smelled damp and sour under the smoke, with blood somewhere in it too.
I moved carefully, stepping over debris, making sure not to brush anything loose.
I was halfway through when I heard it.
A small, sharp clack.
Stone against stone.
I stopped dead.