Days of Waiting

The second week, then the third week, slipped by at Blackthorne Academy like a murky, sluggish, freezing stream. Autumn in this valley brought none of the vibrant gold of maple leaves, offering only a persistent, ash-gray fog hanging over the chapel ledges and a bone-chilling cold sweeping in from the north.

When the 38 dollars brought from Iowa ran dry down to loose change at the bottom of his pocket, Cassian knew he couldn't just sit back and wait.

To earn five dollars a week for those brief minutes on old man Pike's phone, Cassian had to take shifts in the central kitchen—a place most well-off students viewed as a filthy domain for the lower class.

Like clockwork at five every morning, while the fog was still thick out in the yard, Cassian had to report to the basement dishwashing station. The kitchen reeked of congealed pork fat, sour broth, and a harsh, pungent stench of cleaning chemicals that stung the nostrils. His hands, still unhealed from the old cut, were constantly submerged in tubs of ice-cold water lined with dirty grease, his flesh tightening and cracking into raw, bleeding red gashes.

Every morning, he had to scrub hundreds of porcelain plates and heavy metal trays. His back throbbed, every vertebra crying out in protest every time he bent over to haul buckets of wastewater. But whenever he heard the clink of coins or the soft rustle of a five-dollar bill as the slimy cook tossed it onto the damp wooden table, Cassian would silently gather it up, carefully smooth it flat, and tuck it deep into his cloak pocket.

In stark contrast to Cassian's quiet grind, Karl Brandt chose an entirely different path to climb the strict hierarchy.

Karl spent most of his free time hanging around the Student Council quarters. He wiped down the hallways with extra care, volunteered to carry heavy stacks of books for upperclassmen, and showered Silas Ward or Tessa Quill with endless flattery whenever they walked by.

In Room 104 one late evening, Karl casually polished his leather shoes with wax, his face wearing a hard-to-hide look of pride: "Take notes and learn, Fisk. Power at Blackthorne doesn't just fall into the lap of a useless nobody."

Ronald Fisk, who was sitting stitching a frayed strap on his backpack, looked up with curiosity: "Did you just do something for them again?"

Karl curled his lip, leaning back against the iron bed frame, speaking in a triumphant voice: "This afternoon I delivered the attendance tracking files up to the office for Tessa Quill. She actually nodded and called me by my name. Tessa said I have the posture of a future Prefect."

Albert Sterling, sitting with his knees pulled up in the corner of the room, let out a sneering scoff through gritted teeth, but Karl didn't bother with him. He shot a glance over at Cassian, who was quietly rubbing heat oil onto his cracked hands, and continued in a patronizing, cautionary tone: "I'm on 'speaking terms' with Tessa now. Once I have someone in the Council protecting me, I won't have to worry about the Night Law or digging through punishment shifts in the kitchen like some people."

Cassian didn't bother looking up. He simply squeezed his aching hand tight, reminding himself that his goal here was not cheap power or recognition from the kids in silver-trimmed cloaks. He just needed his mother to wake up.

Morning P.E. during the third week took place in a freezing drizzle. Hundreds of students in rough gray sweatsuits jogged in long single-file lines along the gravel road wrapping around the western campus grounds.

The running path passed behind the black stone chapel tower—a place whose doors were always locked tight, shielded by iron fences towering well over a person's head.

Most students running past kept their heads down, quickening their stride to stay away from the gloomy atmosphere radiating from the mossy stone walls. But Cassian slowed his pace. His eyes drifted toward the gray stone wall of the chapel.

At eye level, an arched ventilation window made of rusty iron hung cracked open. The stained glass shield inside had a large corner broken off, revealing a pitch-black void within.

Cassian narrowed his eyes, observing as he jogged past.

Through the narrow gap dripping with mist, he was startled to realize the space inside the chapel was completely bizarre.

There was no cross, no statue of Christ, nor any standard Catholic religious symbols like the ones Albert always prayed to.

In the very center of the black stone podium sat a single long wooden table, flat and bare, looking more like an operating table than an altar.

And directly above that stone table, dangling from the pitch-black vaulted ceiling, hung a colossal metal bell.

The bell was a tarnished bronze covered in green rust, its surface carved with strange, winding grooves. But what turned Cassian's spine ice-cold was that the bell had no clapper inside—it was a completely hollow bell, with no pull ropes and no striking mechanism whatsoever.

So where did that low, dull sound driving straight into the earth every night come from?

"Hale! Keep running! Don't look!"

A heavy yank from behind snatched Cassian straight out of his thoughts. Ronald Fisk ran up alongside him, his face pale with fear, gesturing frantically for him to keep his eyes straight ahead.

"Are you crazy?" Ronald whispered rapidly, his breath forming white plumes of mist in the cold air. "Looking in there will get your name written up by the monitors! That place is off-limits!"

Cassian had no choice but to pick up his pace and catch up with the group, but the image of the flat, bare table and the hollow, ropeless bell lingered in his mind, sparking a fierce suspicion about the true nature of Blackthorne Academy.

On Friday afternoon, Cassian quietly made his way back to his familiar dark corner behind the library bookshelves.

Old man Pike sat there with his usual hunched, withered posture. He said not a word, casually sliding the black flip phone across the oak desk after taking the grease-stained five-dollar bill from Cassian's hand.

Cassian dialed the familiar number. His heart hammered in his chest.

Beep... Beep...

"Hello, Mercy Hospital ICU."

"Nurse Dana! It's me, Cassian!" Cassian pressed the receiver tight to his ear, his voice an urgent whisper.

"Cassian!" Dana's voice rang out on the other end, this time devoid of her usual hesitation or guarded tone, overflowing with undisguised excitement. "That's wonderful, you called at just the right time!"

"What happened, nurse? My mom..." Cassian held his breath, his fingers clutching the plastic phone body tight.

"Your mother had a response!" Dana spoke quickly, her deep breaths echoing clearly over the speaker. "This morning when the doctor checked her neurological reflexes, she opened her eyes! Even though it was only for a few seconds and she couldn't speak yet, her brain is starting to regain reflexes to outside sounds!"

It felt as though an electric current surged through Cassian's chest. He leaned his back completely against the wooden bookshelf, his eyes burning hot as tears he had held back for three weeks finally rolled down his cheeks, leaving long streaks on his thin face smudged with kitchen soot.

"My mom... she heard me speak, nurse?" Cassian stammered, his usually stiff voice suddenly breaking into choked-back sobs.

"Yes! The doctor said you should talk to her more," Dana urged hurriedly. "I'm going to hold the receiver right next to her ear. Say something to her! Read a book, or tell her something!"

Cassian hastily pulled his small notebook from his pocket, his hands trembling as he flipped to the page where he jotted down his lessons. He placed the phone right next to his mouth, swallowed the lump in his throat, and began to read.

He read his mother a short passage from the Local History book, then read the scattered journal entries he had written about the autumn clouds outside his window. His voice was trembling at first, cracking with emotion, but gradually grew warm, whispering as if he were sitting right beside her hospital bed in Iowa, holding her frail hand.

At the end of the call, Dana took back the receiver, her voice soft and comforting: "Your mother's back to sleep, but her heart rate is very stable. Oh, Cassian..."

"Yes, nurse?" Cassian wiped the tear from his cheek.

"There's a man named Daniel... he comes to the hospital every single day," Dana lowered her voice. "He stands outside the glass observation room for a really long time. He asks about your mother's condition in detail and even helped pay a portion of your medical bills. He told me to tell you not to worry and to focus on your studies."

Cassian froze. Daniel—his mother's long-time lover, the man whose photo Edward had ripped in half on the kitchen floor that night.

A sense of warmth washed through his chest. At least out in that vast world, his mother wasn't alone. She still had someone who truly loved and protected her.

For the first time since stepping through the iron gates of Blackthorne Academy, a smile appeared on Cassian's thin, gloomy face—a smile of relief and full of hope.

That weekend, the atmosphere at the academy grew unnaturally tense.

After lunch on Sunday, the entire lineup of Prefects in silver-trimmed cloaks gathered in front of the main gate of the black stone chapel. They stood in a strict, formal line, holding crimson leather-bound notebooks in their hands.

Every student passing through the courtyard had to bow their head and walk quickly; no one dared utter a word.

Cassian and Ronald, carrying a stack of clean ceramic plates transferred up from the kitchen, walked along the arched hallway.

Standing at the very center of the Prefect line, Silas Ward appeared in a suit so immaculate it didn't have a single crease. His platinum hair reflected the pale gray light of the late afternoon.

As Cassian walked by, Silas abruptly looked up.

The cold, light-blue, glass-like eyes of the Student Council President locked dead onto Cassian. That gaze held no anger, nor the impulsive contempt of Albert Sterling. It was a silent, deep, and calculated observation.

Silas watched Cassian for a long time, skimming over his wound-covered hands, then slowly opened the crimson leather notebook in his hands.

He pulled out a brass fountain pen, casually making a note on the page. Silas's long, pale fingers moved with precision before he snapped the notebook shut with a soft pop.

All of these actions fell directly into the view of Albert Sterling, who was standing in line with the class next to them.

Albert's face changed color. His usual arrogance was replaced by a mixture of discomfort and a vague dread. Albert glanced at Silas, then turned his bitter gaze to drill into Cassian.

That night, as the curfew countdown began, Albert stepped past Cassian's bed. He no longer dared to snarl or provoke openly like during those first few days, but his covert look was filled with envy and threat.

Albert walked past, leaning his head down close, whispering in a voice gritted through his teeth: "You little butcher."

"You think crawling around in the kitchen keeps you hidden from Silas?"

"Just wait... Next week is the Autumn Evaluation. Let's see how a piece of trash like you survives."

Cassian quietly raised his head, looking straight into Albert's thick glasses. He didn't say a word, merely tightening his grip on the notebook hidden beneath his straw mattress.

He could already hear the seventh bell beginning to ring out from afar. Darkness rolled in once again to swallow Room 104, but inside Cassian's heart tonight, the fire of survival was no longer so easily extinguished.