My Classmate Is A Monster

The transport shuttle hissed, its pressurized doors sliding open to reveal the sprawling, gothic expanse of Aethelgard Academy. Devan Fairfield stepped out, his boots crunching against the frost-dusted cobblestones of the landing pad. The air here didn’t feel like air it felt like a physical weight, thick with the hum of ancient, oppressive magical wards that prickled against his skin like static.

He adjusted his duffel bag, his grip tight enough to turn his knuckles white. This was it. The start of something he wasn't sure he was ready for.

"Hey, watch your step, kid," a voice sneered from behind him.

Devan turned to see a group of students lounging against the shuttle’s hull. They were dressed in high-collared, velvet-trimmed uniforms that looked like they cost more than Devan’s family’s entire annual income. At the center stood a boy with sharp, angular features and eyes that held the cold arrogance of a practiced aristocrat, Aryan.

"Sorry," Devan mumbled, stepping aside.

"Sorry? Is that all you’ve got?" Aryan laughed, his inner circle joining in with practiced, melodic cruelty. "You’re in the way. People like you don't belong at the front of the line. You belong in the gutters, scraping for scraps."

"I just got here," Devan said, keeping his voice steady despite the flutter of anxiety in his chest. "I’m looking for the dorms. West Wing, Room 402."

Aryan stepped forward, invading Devan’s personal space. The scent of expensive cologne and ozone rolled off him. "Room 402? Oh, that’s rich. You’re not just a nobody; you’re a lost nobody. Maybe you should just turn around and walk back onto that shuttle. It’s heading back to the slums in ten minutes."

"I have my enrollment papers," Devan said, tapping the pocket of his coat.

"Papers don't mean much when you don't have the blood to back them up," one of the girls behind Aryan added, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy. "Poor thing looks like he’s going to shake his own soul out of his body."

"Listen, just point me toward the library or the commons," Devan muttered, eyes darting around. "I’ll find my own way."

"The library? Good luck with that," Aryan said, gesturing vaguely toward a towering archway. "You’ll probably trip over your own feet and set the place on fire before you even find a book."

Devan didn't wait for another jab. He turned on his heel and walked toward the main courtyard, his heart hammering against his ribs. The campus was massive, a labyrinth of spires, floating parapets, and winding stone corridors. He felt like a stray cat in a lion’s den, his lack of magical control leaving him exposed, naked to the scrutiny of the students watching from the windows.

He wandered into the library wing, hoping to find a map or a directory. The room was deathly quiet, lined with shelves that stretched up into shadows, and displays of glowing, volatile artifacts encased in glass.

"Keep moving, Fairfield," he whispered to himself, his nervousness making his hands tremble. "Just find the map and get out."

He stepped toward a central display, but as his heel settled onto a dark, ornate tile near the pedestal, a sharp click echoed through the room.

"Uh oh," Devan whispered, his stomach dropping.

The floor beneath the display shuddered. Above him, the heavy iron-wrought casing holding the artifacts groaned. With a sound like tearing metal, the entire structure began to sway. A massive stone gargoyle, loosened by the vibration, tipped forward, plummeting directly toward his head.

"Watch out!" someone shouted from across the hall.

Devan didn't have time to think. Instinct took over, raw and messy. He threw his hands up, gasping as he willed the ambient energy of the room to harden. A shimmering, jagged dome of translucent violet light flickered into existence around him just as the stone hit.

The impact was deafening. Debris rained down, shattering against his makeshift shield. Devan was forced to his knees, his concentration fraying at the edges. Every muscle in his body burned as he pushed back against the crushing weight of the falling masonry.

Silence followed the chaos, save for the sound of settling dust.

"Impressive," a cold, clipped voice echoed from the shadows.

Devan looked up, his shield dissolving into sparks. Standing by the stacks was a girl with hair as white as frost and eyes that seemed to glow with a dangerous, icy luminescence. Shaila Merrick. He recognized her from the academy pamphlet the prodigy of the Merrick line, and the last person he wanted to see right now.

"I... I didn't mean to," Devan gasped, scrambling to his feet. "It was just a pressure plate. I didn't know."

Shaila walked toward him, her movements fluid and predatory. She stepped over a piece of crumbled stone without looking down, her gaze never leaving Devan’s face.

"You didn't know?" she repeated, her tone neither angry nor impressed, just clinical. "You triggered a structural lock, boy. That takes a specific kind of internal imbalance to disrupt. You’re radiating chaos."

"I’m sorry," Devan said, backing away until his spine hit a bookshelf. "I’ll pay for the repairs. I’ll report to the proctors myself."

"Save your breath," Shaila said, stopping inches from him. "You’re an accident waiting to happen, and I hate accidents that draw attention to my quiet time."

"Look, I just want to find my room," Devan said, trying to stand his ground. "I’m not trying to cause trouble for anyone. I just got here."

"I can see that," she said, her eyes narrowing. She reached out, her hand moving with lightning speed. Before he could react, she pressed her palm firmly against the center of his chest, right over his heart.

Devan jolted, a sharp, stinging pain blooming beneath her touch. It felt like she was branding him with a hot iron.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, trying to pull away, but she held him there with unnerving strength.

"Checking your potential," Shaila murmured, her voice barely audible.

He looked down. Where her hand pressed against his coat, a glowing, sigil-like mark was searing through the fabric, painting his skin with a faint, pulsing heat.

"Your aura is a disaster," she whispered, meeting his eyes with an intensity that made his breath catch. "But it’s deep. You’re a mess, Fairfield, but you’re a dangerous mess. We’ll see how long you last before the wards or the faculty decide to finish what you started."

She pulled her hand back, leaving him breathless, his chest throbbing with the lingering heat of her mark. She didn't look back as she walked away, leaving him alone amidst the ruins of the display, the weight of the academy suddenly feeling heavier than it ever had before.