Chapter 3: Beyond the VeilInitial Stake-Out0800 hours. Friday morning. Freshman orientation day.

  An unnatural fog shrouded Witchlight Academy - dense and almost tactile, seeming to resist the morning breeze that stirred trees elsewhere on the street. It carried a mineral scent like wet stone from deep underground, mixed with something metallic and unfamiliar. Weather reports had predicted clear skies, making the localized mist even more suspicious.

  I waited in my car on the opposite side of the street, parked between a delivery van and an SUV for optimal concealment while maintaining clear sightlines. I arranged my surveilnce kit on the passenger seat: a high-resolution camera with a telephoto lens, a directional microphone with noise-canceling headphones, a thermal scanner, and a digital recorder.

  As I sipped coffee from my thermos, I noted the unusual conditions in my logbook: "Limited visibility extends to the property boundary. The temperature reads 5°C lower within the fog perimeter. Pedestrians unconsciously alter walking paths to avoid dense patches of mist."

  ??? Surveilnce log, Witchlight Academy, 0803 hours. Environmental conditions defy meteorological prediction. Fog density confined exclusively to school grounds with sharp temperature differential at boundary. Standard weather patterns don't behave this way - this appears to be deliberate concealment.

  My hand moved to my pocket, where I kept Sam's photograph - a grounding technique for long surveilnces and a reminder of purpose.

  Witchlight Academy towered like a nightmarish Victorian structure, teeming with spires, gargoyles, and narrow windows that appeared to swallow light. A wrought-iron fence topped with pointed finials surrounded the building and spanned an entire city block. The gates stood ajar, inviting new freshmen and their families.

  I raised my camera and watched the new students arrive. What struck me as unusual was their uniforms. All students wore the same ste gray base uniform—bzers, ties, skirts, or trousers—but with a colored trim. Some had deep blue accents along their pels and cuffs, others ruby red, and others emerald green or royal purple. The trim colors seemed to create natural groupings, with students of matching colors gravitating toward each other.

  A female administrator in an elegant emerald-trimmed suit caught my attention. Unlike the mechanical movements of the other staff, she moved with natural grace, her gaze sharp and assessing as it swept over the incoming students. The name badge on her pel read "Headmistress E. Valmere." She paused briefly to speak with a faculty member, and I caught a fragment of their conversation through my directional microphone:

  "...another truth-seeker in the Mitchell girl's cohort. We should pce her with appropriate mentorship."

  The faculty member nodded. "And the new arrivals with Veritari markers?"

  "Monitor but do not fg," the Headmistress replied, her voice carrying quiet authority. "Some things are best left undocumented in certain systems."

  Interesting. Not everyone at Witchlight is on the same page. There's another faction here, working within the system but with different goals.

  My heart rate quickened at the mention of "Veritari markers" - direct confirmation of what I'd pieced together st night. Whatever my mother had been part of, whatever bloodline we shared, it was significant enough that the school's headmistress was aware of it.

  "Sam," I said quietly, "your school looks normal enough from here, apart from those color-coded uniforms. Your excitement on day one is understandable."

  The fog parted like theater curtains. Inside my car, the temperature plummeted, and frost crystallized on the windshield's interior in geometric patterns resembling Sam's journal's triangur symbol. A sonic pressure built in my skull—not sound, but something akin to it, like the moment before striking a tuning fork.

  ? The world beyond my windshield underwent a fundamental transformation. Colors separated from their objects, becoming independent entities that floated like oil on water. The school seemed to settle.

  For one terrifying, exhirating moment, the Witchlight Academy revealed itself.

  Not the Gothic facade presented to the world, but an impossible structure that vioted every principle of Euclidean geometry and Newtonian physics. Towers spiraled upward, defying gravity. Windows arranged themselves in mathematical patterns that reconfigured as I watched. The gargoyles weren't decorative stone sculptures, but sentient guardians frozen in mid-movement.

  Each section of the Academy reflected a different founding family's influence - the eastern wing with its truth-focused architecture and blue accents clearly Valmere-designed, the western wing with its fluid, transformative elements bearing Gss family hallmarks, and the central section showing the banced approach of the Ashwood family's original vision.

  My body rebelled against the visual input. My stomach inverted, acid burning up my esophagus. Perspiration erupted across my skin, cold in the chilled air.

  The fog rushed back like a tide, obscuring the truth once more. Witchlight retreated behind its mask of mundane architecture. Heat returned to the car interior, the pressure in my ears equalized.

  ??? Surveilnce log, 0817 hours. Just witnessed Witchlight reveal its true form - a structure that defies normal physics and architecture. My detective training says "hallucination," but after what I've seen at my office, I know better. This is the reality Sam was experiencing - a pce that exists outside the rules I thought were unbreakable.

  I paused, then said, "Sam, is this what you saw daily? Is this what you were attempting to convey to me?"

  Even after preparing myself for what I might see, witnessing Witchlight's true form was overwhelming. I took a moment to steady myself, breathing deeply until the nausea subsided. This wasn't just about finding Sam anymore - it was about stepping into a world where nothing operated according to the rules I'd built my career around.

  I raised the camera again, focusing on a gargoyle perched near a third-floor window. Just as I'd witnessed with the printed brochure in my office, the stone creature moved when not directly observed. What had been shocking in a printed image was now pying out before me on a massive scale. I deliberately shifted my gaze to a nearby window while keeping the gargoyle in my peripheral vision, and watched it turn its head, scanning the grounds below with predatory attention.

  "Just like Sam's journal described," I whispered, feeling a chill despite the morning warmth. The confirmation of what I'd seen in my office made this all the more real - I wasn't hallucinating, and I wasn't losing my mind. This pce truly existed outside normal reality.

  A wave of vertigo washed over me as my brain struggled to process what I'd seen. I focused on the gargoyle again - the creature remained still, a typical stone ornament. But when viewed indirectly, it moved. A soft grating sound carried through my directional microphone - stone scraping against stone. I repeated the experiment with multiple gargoyles, all with identical results.

  ??? Surveilnce log, 0826 hours. Confirmed movement patterns of 'decorative' gargoyles - they only move when not directly observed. This matches Emma Mitchell's journal entry: "The gargoyles at Witchlight move when you're not looking at them. Everyone thinks I'm crazy, but I filmed it on my phone. When I pyed it back, they were still."

  A sleek bck Bentley pulled up to the entrance, cutting through the fog. The car door opened, and a tall, thin man in an impeccable charcoal suit emerged.

  Something about him put me on edge—not menacing exactly, but a scientist's calcuting composure, a collector's keen assessment in his gaze. I zoomed in, capturing his face—angur features, silver-streaked dark hair, eyes hidden behind reflective gsses that occasionally caught the light with a crystalline fsh. Unlike the students and other staff, his uniform had no colored trim. Instead, a small silver emblem on his pel caught the light oddly, the circle with its gss center seeming to pulse with internal energy. He moved with the confident authority of someone who believes completely in his own purpose and rightness.

  The subject moved with liquid precision, no wasted motion. Staff at the entrance straightened in his presence, their body nguage showing deference. Each staff member touched their ID cards briefly as he passed, a gesture that seemed almost ritualistic.

  ??? A new subject identified at 0840 hours. Male, approximately 6'2", 170 lbs, 50-60 years old. Arrived via Bentley Continental. Current-year model with no visible ptes. Subject carries himself with extreme authority. Staff reaction suggests a high-ranking faculty member or administrator. Silver emblem on pel matches the "Circle" symbol Sam referenced in her final journal entries.

  As I watched, he paused at the entrance, turning to scan the street. Despite the distance, it felt like he was looking directly at me for one heart-stopping moment.

  The temperature in my car dropped again, and frost formed inside my windows. My skin crawled with a sensation of being touched. The man's head tilted, like a predator catching a scent, and I could have sworn his gsses fshed with an internal light.

  After an eternity, he turned away and entered the building. Only then did I realize I'd been holding my breath, my chest burning from oxygen deprivation. The frost on my windows melted as quickly as it had formed.

  "Sam," I said under my breath, "I think I just saw your Professor G. And I think he almost saw me, too."

  I shifted my surveilnce to the side entrance. I observed a woman in a burgundy bzer with deep purple trim go to the stone wall beside the door.

  My brain registered the impossibility a second before it happened—she walked straight through the solid wall as if it were an illusion.

  A shock of cold adrenaline flooded my system. My heart hammered against my ribs. A second staff member did the same thing, approaching what appeared to be solid stone and passing through it.

  I retrieved my camera with trembling hands and focused on that section of the wall. Through the lens, I could detect nothing unusual—just weathered stone. When I lowered the camera, another staff member passed through the solid barrier.

  This time, I noticed a subtle rippling effect, like water disturbed by a passing fish, and a brief fsh of blue light that outlined the figure. Before entering, the staff member held up an ID card against a wall section that glowed with the same triangur symbol I'd seen on Sam's card. My directional microphone picked up a soft hum just at the edge of hearing.

  ??? Video documentation at 0858 hours. Staff passing through apparently solid stone walls after ID card verification. The triangur symbol Sam drew in her journal appears as part of their access system. This confirms her journal entries weren't delusions - they were documentations of reality as she experienced it.

  The fog shifted, thinning in patches to reveal more of Witchlight's upper floors. What I saw through my camera lens triggered an immediate physical revolt—my brain rejecting information it couldn't process.

  ? The building's upper stories defied architectural possibility. Floors intersected at mathematical impossibilities, with windows opening onto spaces that couldn't exist within the building's dimensions. A central tower appeared simultaneously in front of and behind adjacent structures.

  A bzing pain nced through my skull - the same sensation I'd experienced in my office when encountering the triangur eye symbol. Warm liquid streamed from my nose, a physical reaction to perceiving something beyond normal reality. Whatever defense mechanism had activated during my research was responding again - truth-seeking had physical consequences, just as Sam had written.

  My inner ear rebelled against the spatial anomalies, triggering a wave of vertigo so intense I had to grip the steering wheel to maintain orientation.

  ??? Architectural impossibilities documented at 1045 hours. Building appears to viote basic ws of three-dimensional space. Consistent with Emma Mitchell's journal entry: "The building rearranges itself when you look away. Hallways lead somewhere different each time." The physical backsh - nosebleed and vertigo - matches what happened in my office. There appears to be some kind of defense mechanism against truth perception.

  I took several quick photos before the fog returned, concealing the impossible architecture. The mist's movement seemed deliberate, almost intelligent, thickening precisely where my attention focused. Not weather, but a defensive mechanism—a conceptual smokescreen designed to hide Witchlight's true nature from ordinary perception.

  I turned my attention to the students arriving for orientation. Most seemed ordinary, but I noticed others who appeared different, more confident, and aware. They moved with purpose, their eyes scanning their surroundings with remarkable perception.

  ??? Approximately 12% of incoming students dispy behavioral markers inconsistent with typical orientation anxiety. Subjects show spatial awareness more consistent with military training than teenage norms. Based on Sam's journal, these may be students with active truth-seeking abilities.

  One girl caught my attention—perhaps seventeen, with dark hair and intense green eyes. Unlike the others, she approached the school alone. She paused at the entrance, then reached into her pocket, pulling out an ID card, and swiped it at a reader beside the door. The reader briefly fshed blue, and a staff member approached, escorting her through the gates.

  I noted with interest that someone sorted the newly arrived students into groups based on uniform trim colors. Faculty members in matching trim colors led each group to different parts of the campus.

  Color-coded cssification system - just like the trim on the uniforms. Blue for truth-seekers, red for transformation specialists, and other colors for different abilities. The recruitment, sorting, everything follows a pattern.

  Movement at the side entrance caught my attention—a maintenance worker pushing a cart of supplies. He approached the wall where I'd seen others pass through. He bypassed the stone using his ID card on a nearby electrical panel. This opened a hidden door.

  I activated the camera's burst mode, capturing high-resolution process images. This was concrete, documentable evidence.

  ??? Infiltration path identified at 1045 hours. The service entrance with keycard access is on the east side of the building. Security cameras positioned for entry coverage only—a blind spot two meters to the left of the door. Staff rotation observed at 30-minute intervals.

  As noon approached, the stream of arriving students and parents increased. I focused my camera on one family that appeared hesitant to separate.

  The mother clutched her daughter's arm and shook her head at something a staff member said. The daughter wore a blue-trimmed uniform, matching the group I'd identified as receiving the most students. I could just make out what looked like a cssification code on her ID card, beginning with "T.T."

  A staff member in a burgundy bzer touched her shoulder lightly and held up what appeared to be a faculty ID card. The effect was prompt and disturbing—the woman's expression went bnk, then rexed, and she nodded before walking toward the auditorium without looking back.

  "Sam," I whispered, "they're doing something to the parents. They're controlling them somehow with those ID cards."

  Just like the forum posts about "gzed expressions" and parents forgetting important details. This is how they maintain secrecy - not just through physical isotion, but by directly maniputing memories and perceptions.

  The fog was thinning now, revealing more of the Witchlight Academy. The complete view stopped me cold—the building was architecturally impossible.

  ? Floors offset several feet from where they should have aligned. Windows appeared where no rooms could exist. A tower on the eastern wing seemed to connect to the western wing with no visible means of support.

  A wave of vertigo hit me again, not from disbelief this time, but from the sheer impossibility of what I was seeing. Even accepting the supernatural reality of Witchlight didn't make it easier for my mind to process these geometries that defied every rule of three-dimensional space.

  I forced myself to look away, focusing on the concrete sidewalk beside my car. The symptoms subsided, leaving me trembling but determined. I needed to document everything, to capture what Sam had experienced before she disappeared.

  I raised my camera again, determined to capture proof of what I was seeing. But when I looked through the viewfinder, the building appeared quite normal—a grand but typically structured Gothic academy. I lowered the camera, and the impossible architecture returned.

  Technology can't capture this reality. The true structure is only visible to direct human perception - perhaps specifically to those with Veritari heritage.

  I felt a strange pull toward the building, an almost physical sensation drawing me toward the gates. It reminded me of Sam's words after her first visit: "It feels like it was waiting for me, Derek. Like the school itself recognized me somehow."

  The sensation intensified, and I reached for the car door handle without conscious decision, a part of me desperate to approach the school. I jerked my hand back, armed by my impulse.

  ??? Experiencing a compelling pull toward the facility - not psychological but something external. This matches Sam's description of her first visit. The building itself seems to recognize and draw people with certain abilities. Implementing countermeasures to maintain objectivity.

  I forced myself to look away from Witchlight to break the strange spell. The tension eased, leaving me shaken but more aware of how this pce operated.

  "What the hell are you?" I whispered, the question directed at Witchlight itself.

  I had underestimated the scale and strangeness of what I was facing. Whatever Witchlight Academy was, I would return tonight with a pn to breach its walls.

  I checked my watch. The orientation schedule showed that new students would be processed by 5 PM. Whatever "crossing the threshold" meant, it would happen soon after.

  I drove several blocks away, parking in a public garage where my vehicle would blend with dozens of others. I needed a new observation post, somewhere I could monitor activity without drawing attention.

  The Copper Bean coffee shop across from Witchlight's eastern entrance would be perfect—busy with the lunchtime rush, offering clear sightlines to the academy's courtyard while allowing me to blend in with normal customers.

  Coffee Shop Observation1217 hours. The Copper Bean.

  The cafe across from Witchlight's eastern entrance provided the perfect solution for continued surveilnce. The Copper Bean buzzed with lunchtime activity—the ambient noise providing acoustic cover while the crowd offered anonymity.

  I selected a corner table that satisfied multiple tactical requirements: back to the solid wall, diagonal view of the entrance, clear sight lines to Witchlight's gates, and proximity to the emergency exit. I arranged my surveilnce setup to appear casual—ptop open to a generic word processor, camera disguised as a phone, directional microphone concealed in what appeared to be noise-canceling headphones.

  The server approached as I settled in. I ordered bck coffee and a sandwich, reinforcing the cover of a freence writer working through lunch.

  ??? Subject: Cross investigation. Location: Copper Bean Coffee. Time: 12:17 PM. Objective: observe student-parent interactions during orientation breaks. Particur focus on behavioral anomalies and evidence of memory manipution through ID cards.

  The stream of families looked normal enough, except for the parents' eyes. They had a gzed quality, and there was a slight dey in their reactions. They nodded mechanically to expnations with vacant smiles. The students, meanwhile, appeared alert, excited, and curious.

  The effect is focused solely on the adults. Whatever technique they're using, it selectively impacts those without magical ability or awareness.

  A barista approached with my order. "Bck coffee and turkey club." She set them down with practiced efficiency. "Need anything else?"

  I made just enough eye contact to seem normal, but not memorable. "I'm good, thanks".

  She lingered, gncing at my notepad where I'd written "W.L. Academy". "You with Witchlight?" Her tone shifted.

  "Just researching schools for my niece."

  "Huh." She wiped her hands on her apron. "They keep to themselves. Never come in person, except during orientation. All their coffee orders come through their online system." Her eyes darted toward the academy, then back to me.

  The locals know. Not the whole truth, but they sense the wrongness. That's valuable intelligence.

  A family sat nearby—parents with that same gzed look and an excited teenage girl. As I pretended to type, I focused on their conversation.

  "Did you see the library, Mom? The books rearrange themselves!" The girl's voice bubbled with excitement. "Professor Ellery said my spark signature is one of the strongest she's seen in a truth-seeker!"

  My coffee mug froze halfway to my lips. Truth-seeker. Sam's term.

  The mother nodded, her eyes unfocused. "That's nice, honey. Very... educational."

  The father patted his daughter's hand mechanically. "Sounds like they're using cutting-edge technology. Very innovative."

  But the girl hadn't mentioned technology. She'd spoken as if books moving alone were normal.

  They're hearing different words than what she's saying. Some kind of filter between magical reality and mundane perception. Like transtion software for reality itself.

  As I focused on their conversation, my hearing underwent an impossible transformation. The crowded coffee shop's acoustic space reorganized around me—background noises compressed into a distant underwater murmur. The family's voices crystallized with supernatural crity, as if they were speaking directly into my ear.

  "—and Verita Hall is where all the truth-seekers stay." Her voice became the acoustic center of my universe. "Ms. Harrow seemed excited when she discovered my abilities. Finding them so strong in someone with no family history was remarkable."

  ? Around the girl, a gossamer aura of molten gold materialized—not visible, but perceptible. It pulsed in rhythm with her excitement, expanding when she mentioned her abilities and contracting when she gnced at her oblivious parents.

  She continued speaking, her voice dropping to a whisper as she mentioned something to her mother. One word penetrated my consciousness with the impact of a tuning fork struck against bone: "Veritari." Though impossible to hear at this distance, the word sparked a cascade of neural connections—a memory of my mother whispering the same term behind a closed door decades ago.

  Not a coincidence. My tent abilities must be activating the more I learn about them, the more I accept their reality. Whatever Dad and Dr. Matheson did to suppress them is weakening.

  My hand convulsed, sending hot coffee spshing across my skin. The sudden pain short-circuited whatever neural pathway had opened, snapping me back into conventional reality.

  ??? Note: Experienced enhanced perception while observing a truth-seeker student. Could hear conversations from impossible distances and perceive a golden aura around the subject. These match the abilities Mom and Sam dispyed - further confirmation of our shared heritage.

  My enhanced perception calibrated itself, expanding my auditory range while dampening visual anomalies. I found myself capable of isoting specific conversations from across the crowded cafe, focusing on trigger words: "Witchlight," "abilities," "spark," "threshold."

  A boy with copper-red hair expined to his bewildered grandfather: "Transformation csses aren't about changing clothes, Grandpa. They're about changing one thing into another—objects, elements, even aspects of yourself. Professor Bckwood says I have a natural talent for it."

  The grandfather nodded. "That's nice, Timothy. Is it like chemistry?"

  Near the windows, identical twin girls with matching silver pendants said: "Madame Frost couldn't believe we both manifested identical abilities! She said familial spark differentiates in twins. We're getting mentorship!"

  Their father gave a vague nod, his attention fixed on his phone. "That's wonderful, girls. Is it some kind of theater program?"

  By the counter, a trembling freshman asked an older student: "How hard are the magical aptitude tests? My cousin said they can see your potential through your aura, but what if mine's, like... defective?"

  I tracked twenty-three simir conversations, documenting each in shorthand. The pattern was unmistakable—students discussed magical concepts. Their parents and other "normal" adults processed the information through some perceptual filter, transting the supernatural into mundane equivalents they could comprehend.

  Two parallel worlds occupy the same space. The magical one is visible to students, the mundane one is visible to everyone else. And somehow, despite Dad's best efforts, I'm seeing both.

  I developed a quick shorthand code:

  "Spark" = magical ability/potential"Veritari" = bloodline or heritage reted to truth-seeking"Threshold" = magical boundary or transition"Affinity" = magical specialization"Veil" = something concealing a magical reality

  Two senior students sat at the table beside mine. I angled my ptop screen to appear absorbed while focusing my enhanced hearing on their conversation.

  "Two more truth-seekers this year," the girl said, tapping a css list. "Both first-years have potential. Ellery's giddy about it."

  The boy nodded, his voice lowering. "Gss will be pleased - a potential Veritari descendant could be exactly what his research needs." His tone became almost reverent. "Especially after the cssification anomaly st semester..."

  My heart stuttered. Last semester. When Sam disappeared.

  Gss... Professor G. from the journals. They had to be the same person. A full name, finally. Someone in authority. Someone connected to Sam's disappearance. First tangible lead in months.

  "Still don't get what happened," the girl leaned closer to her companion. "One day she's acing truth perception, next day, poof—'transferred to sister campus.' Nobody ever comes back from those transfers."

  He leaned closer, voice dropping to barely audible. "My cousin's in Gss's advanced seminar. Something went down in the East Wing. After that? Security lockdown. Those three faculty members who disappeared too..."

  "You think she found—"

  "Shut it," he cut her off. "You know better. Not here." He gnced around. "Walls have ears, even beyond Witchlight."

  Transfer is code for something else. Something that happened to Sam and others like her. Something they don't discuss in the open. Something connected to faculty disappearances.

  "Professor Gss has been observing the locals more than usual. There's someone in town with untapped potential. A dormant, from what I heard."

  "An adult dormant? That's rare. Most get identified in childhood."

  "This one comes from an old line, supposedly. Distant Veritari heritage that's showing signs of activation."

  A cold certainty settled in my gut—they were talking about me.

  They're watching me. Have been for some time. Which means they know I'm investigating them. This just got exponentially more dangerous.

  She picked up quickly. "Too risky. Adult dormants rarely transition properly. Most end up as Hollows if forced."

  "Since when has risk stopped the Circle? They see it as preservation, not danger. It must be important if they have Catalogers monitoring the situation."

  My skin prickled with the sensation of unseen eyes upon me. The barista who'd served me gnced in my direction twice a minute.

  The Circle. Catalogers. A whole organizational structure is behind this. And transition? Hollows? New terms that sound ominous.

  ??? Critical intelligence on subject Cross, Samantha. Terms to research: 'transfer' designation, 'Vessel Program,' 'transition acceleration,' 'threshold transformation.' Subject appears to have discovered sensitive information before disappearance. Current threat assessment: They're aware of me and my connection to Sam. They've identified me as having "dormant" abilities.

  A fresh group entered—parents with gzed expressions and a terrified girl. Unlike the excited students, she seemed afraid. She wore no Witchlight insignia and carried no orientation materials. As her parents ordered, she sank into a chair, whispering into her phone.

  Then she did something odd—pulled a small mirror from her pocket to check behind her without turning her head. A surveilnce technique I recognized. This wasn't a nervous teenager; this was someone who believed she was being followed.

  Counter-surveilnce techniques. Not amateur panic. She's trained, or she's learned from experience. Either way, she knows she's in danger.

  As she shifted the mirror, it caught the light, reflecting Witchlight Academy. Instead of the gothic academy, the mirror revealed a structure of unexpected geometries, beautiful and disorienting. The windows reflected not only light but seemed to capture and transform it. Gargoyles twisted their heads, following my movement. Cornices elongated and contracted like breathing lungs.

  The stone itself had a subtle iridescence, with certain blocks shifting color depending on the viewing angle. The walls themselves breathed life into hidden features—eborate carvings emerging from bnk stonework, gargoyles blinking with emerald eyes, and fountains defying gravity.

  In the shadowed sections, stone features became more fluid—archways narrowing or widening, decorative patterns rearranging, and occasional faces appearing in the stonework. Most striking was the massive dragon of gss wrapped around the central tower. Its crystalline body captured and refracted sunlight, creating rainbow patterns across the courtyard.

  Beauty and terror in equal measure. A pce of learning and wonder, but also control and manipution. Is this what Sam tried to tell me about?

  The girl pocketed the mirror, her eyes meeting mine. Her lips formed a single word: "Run."

  The coffee shop door opened, the bell jarring. The conversation died. A tall woman in a burgundy bzer entered, scanning the room with a predatory focus. Her movements were too fluid, too precise—as if her human form was a garment rather than a natural state. The silver Circle pin on her pel caught the light oddly, the gss center seeming to swirl with internal movement.

  Predator. Not human. Threat.

  The bels fshed without conscious thought. My hand moved instinctively toward my concealed weapon before I forced it back onto my ptop.

  Everyone in the coffee shop averted their eyes as she passed. The Witchlight students fell silent, their postures stiffening in respectful fear.

  "Cassandra," the woman said, her voice carrying an unnatural resonance that made my teeth ache. "Your campus tour is beginning. Your parents have already headed back to school."

  The chairs the parents had occupied minutes ago sat empty, their coffee cups still steaming.

  They moved quickly and quietly. Too quietly. Something about this woman made even casual departures seem orchestrated and deliberate.

  Cassandra's face had paled to the color of chalk. "I think I should go home." Her voice was a strained whisper.

  "Nonsense." The woman smiled, the expression never reaching her eyes. When she blinked, I glimpsed a transparent third eyelid sliding horizontally across her iris. Her teeth seemed too numerous, too sharp. "First-day jitters are normal. The orientation tour will help you adjust. Many students find their true potential once they've joined our community."

  Euphemism. "Joined the community" sounds voluntary, but it isn't. Cults use the same nguage. So do predators.

  As Cassandra passed my table, she bumped into me, pressing something small and hard into my palm—the mirror she'd been using. Her eyes met mine again, wide with warning, before she continued toward the restroom.

  The woman remained by the door, shoulders rigid, fingers pressed white against the frame, her gaze fixed on the empty hallway. Minutes passed. She hadn't shifted weight, blinked, or made any small unconscious movements humans make even when trying to stand still.

  Not even pretending to be human anymore. She's locked onto her target. A Cataloger, I think they called them - the Circle's cssification specialists. Everything else is background. Including me, thankfully.

  Then, without warning, her head snapped toward me, neck extending further than humanly possible. Her eyes locked with mine, and a strange sensation crept through my skull, like invisible fingers probing behind my eyeballs.

  She's in my head. Reading me. Searching. Don't think about Sam. Don't think about the investigation. Baseball stats. Coffee recipes. Anything mundane.

  "You are quite observant," she said, her voice carrying with unnatural crity despite its softness. "Waiting for someone?"

  "Working on an article." I kept my tone light and gestured toward the ptop screen. "Local coffee shops piece."

  Her head tilted at that impossible angle. "How interesting. For which publication?"

  "Freence. Pitching to Urban Explorer, Travel+Leisure." I shrugged. "Building my portfolio."

  She moved closer, exactly three measured steps. "I do value quality writing." Her lips curved into what approximated a smile. "Perhaps you should visit Witchlight Academy. We could use someone to document our... achievements."

  "Appreciate the offer, but deadlines wait for no one." I forced a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Another time, maybe."

  She bent toward me, invading my space until her face hovered inches from mine. Her breath carried scents that had no business in this world—cinnamon, something metallic, alien fruits, and burning stone. "I must insist. You'll find it... illuminating."

  The pressure behind my eyes intensified. I felt a strange doubling of my thoughts—mine racing alongside foreign impulses urging me to comply.

  "Actually," I heard myself say, "that sounds—"

  The ctter of a dropped tray broke the moment. The barista who had served me stood frozen, staring at the broken cups at her feet. The foreign presence in my mind receded.

  "Another time, perhaps," the woman said, her expression hardening slightly. "Do enjoy your... coffee."

  Minutes passed before she moved toward the restrooms, returning with a sharp excmation. Cassandra had fled through a back exit.

  When the woman returned, her appearance changed subtly. Her movements became more fluid, her eyes more intense, fshing amber with vertical pupils for just a moment before returning to normal. The surrounding air shimmered with an iridescent quality before settling back into pce.

  The mask is slipping. Whatever she is, it's not even remotely human.

  The entire coffee shop flickered, as if reality struggled to maintain coherence. Customers froze, expressions bnk, while staff moved like puppets. Only the Witchlight students seemed able to perceive what was happening, their faces a mixture of awe and apprehension.

  After scanning the room again, her gaze passing over me with a pressure that made my temples throb, she departed with unnatural speed.

  Fifteen minutes ter, I gathered my things, leaving cash rather than waiting for a check.

  As I packed up, the barista approached. "You should be careful." Her voice was low and urgent. "Yesterday, you were at the bookstore across from the east gate. Tuesday, the park bench with the newspaper. Monday, that coffee shop on third. I know because the same two people who followed you were the ones who questioned me st spring. They don't just read your thoughts—they can make you forget parts of yourself. Three days of my life just... gone." Her fingers trembled as she slid a napkin across the table.

  A wave of heat rushed to my face. Four days of surveilnce work, and I'd completely missed that I was being watched the entire time.

  Some detective. I've been lecturing new hires about surveilnce detection for years, and I walk right into a counter-surveilnce operation without noticing. I've been compromised from the start.

  Outside, I found a quiet alleyway to examine the mirror Cassandra had pressed into my hand. It was small, with an ornate silver frame engraved with familiar symbols—the triangur eye from the journals, surrounded by protective sigils.

  I angled it toward Witchlight Academy. For a moment, nothing happened—just a regur reflection. Then the surface rippled, and the image transformed.

  The elegant academy became something altogether different—both magnificent and unsettling. Witchlight's gothic fa?ade kept its beauty but now seemed to exist in multiple dimensions. Towers rose at impossible angles, yet appeared stable. Windows gleamed in the fading light, some showing the actual sky outside, others revealing glimpses of unique ndscapes.

  Through the mirror, I could see that each section of the Academy reflected a different founding family's influence - the eastern wing with its truth-focused architecture and blue accents clearly Valmere-designed, the western wing with its fluid, transformative elements bearing Gss family hallmarks, and the central section showing the banced approach of the Ashwood family's original vision.

  The stone itself had a subtle iridescence, with certain blocks shifting color depending on the viewing angle. The walls themselves breathed life into hidden features—eborate carvings emerging from bnk stonework, gargoyles blinking with emerald eyes, and fountains defying gravity.

  In the shadowed sections, stone features became more fluid—archways narrowing or widening, decorative patterns rearranging, and occasional faces appearing in the stonework. Most striking was the massive dragon of gss wrapped around the central tower. Its crystalline body captured and refracted sunlight, creating rainbow patterns across the courtyard.

  Beauty and terror in equal measure. A pce of learning and wonder, but also control and manipution. Is this what Sam tried to tell me about?

  Beyond the visual transformation, the mirror transmitted other sensations—a taste like metal and honey on my tongue, the sharp tang of electricity in my nostrils followed by the musty embrace of leather-bound volumes. Whispers and ughter yered over each other like a cssroom during an exciting lesson.

  I lowered the mirror, dizzy but not ill. What I'd seen wasn't pure nightmare, but something more nuanced—a pce of genuine magical education overid with elements of manipution and control.

  The term from Sam's journal clicked into pce. "The Circle of Gss." The words escaped my lips in a whisper.

  So that's what Sam meant. Not a what, but a who. An organization. A power structure. Something she discovered and tried to warn me about.

  I pocketed the mirror. What I'd seen couldn't be reconciled with ordinary reality, yet it aligned with the fragmented glimpses I'd experienced during surveilnce, the warnings in both journals, and the conversations I'd overheard.

  If that's what Sam saw... if that's where she was...

  "Sam," I whispered, "I now understand what you were trying to show me. This isn't about kidnapping or some weird cult. This is about our family heritage - the Veritari bloodline and the truth-seeking abilities Mom tried to protect us from dispying. You found your way to this pce that exists beyond normal reality, and they took you because of what you could see."

  Witchlight Academy was not what it appeared to be. It was more wondrous and dangerous than I had imagined—a pce of genuine magical education and discovery, secrets, manipution, and control. And tonight, I would be crossing its threshold to find Sam.

  I'm going in knowing exactly what I'm facing now. A reality that defies conventional expnations. A pce of magic, wonder, and danger.

  As I walked down Main Street, plotting infiltration routes in my head, something strange happened. A building I'd passed a dozen times before suddenly seemed to pulse with life. The worn facade of "Madame Verity's Costumes & Curiosities" caught my eye in a way it never had before. A subtle amber light outlined the doorway, while an emerald glow - the same color as the "truth-seeker" trim I'd seen on uniforms - emanated faintly from the windows. Nobody else on the street seemed to notice.

  Something about "Verity" triggered another faded memory - my mother whispering the name once with a mix of respect and wistfulness. "If anything happens, find Madame Verity." The memory had been buried so deep that I'd completely forgotten until now, as if something had been blocking access to it.

  I needed a disguise. Something that would let me move freely through Witchlight without attracting attention. The maintenance worker uniform I'd spotted during surveilnce would be ideal—staff seemed to come and go with minimal scrutiny, particurly during the chaos of orientation.

  This shop might have exactly what I needed. And something told me it was no coincidence that I noticed it now, when I needed it most.

  As I approached the door, I felt certain that whatever waited inside would be another step in understanding the truth about Witchlight, about Sam, and about the heritage I'd spent most of my life denying.