"How… did he just vanish?" I stood frozen, heart pounding against my ribs as disbelief rippled through me. Of all the times to pull a disappearing act, why did Tajudeen wait until the last possible second to deploy such an underhanded trick? Pride, I guessed—he refused to flee until he was sure we'd be flattened by that terror beast before slipping away.
"Hey, Joseph, come look at this." Hadal's voice broke through my shock. He held up a tattered scrap of what looked like paper. Stepping closer, I saw the jagged edges were frayed cloth fibers—cotton threads stained deep crimson. It was a piece ripped clean from Tajudeen's jumper. And scrawled across it in a pulsating red rune was an aetherglyph—carved not with his flow energy but with his own blood.
"That's… bizarre," I muttered, eyebrows knitting. "Why use your blood instead of channeling flow energy?"
Hadal cocked his head, eyes narrowing. "My theory: he simply didn't have enough juice to summon fresh flow. So he tapped the residual flow embedded in his body fluids. Don't forget—every flow user, regardless of their blessing, has energy coursing through every drop of blood, every strand of hair."
I let out a frustrated huff. "Of course I know that—just because I'm from the Greenlands doesn't make me clueless about flow mechanics."
He rolled his eyes. "I'm not insulting your intelligence. I'm saying—literally—body excretions carry flow: blood, sweat, saliva, mucus, semen—"
"ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT!" I snapped, covering my ears, my voice frantic. "I get your point. I don't need a laundry list of gross stuff!" The mere possibility of any of those substances being weaponized as a flow conduit made me queasy.
"So you agree?" he pressed. "Still, it makes the whole thing absurd. Sealing an aetherglyph is notoriously difficult—precision, stable medium, clear channels… now imagine doing it on a scrap of jumper, with blood as ink."
I shrugged, the fabric scrap trembling between my fingertips. "He must've only gotten one shot. He used our fight with the terror beast as a distraction—when we were busy dodging claws and tail, he drew the rune in a heartbeat."
As we hashed out the scenario, a sinking realization settled in: we'd been outplayed. In the battle of wits, we'd lost, and paying the price was letting Tajudeen escape. Fury spiked through me. Without thinking, I punched the jagged rock wall beside me. The impact reverberated up my arm—throbbing pain blossomed at my knuckles. I clenched my jaw, refusing to let Hadal see me wince.
"Hey, bro, you okay?" he asked, concern flickering across his face.
I swallowed past the ache, offering him a terse nod. Under the surface, I channeled a trickle of flow energy to dull the sting—just enough so Hadal wouldn't notice.
I exhaled, attempting calm. "All we can do now is wait and see what unfolds. Rose's on her way to extract us." I glanced northeast toward the jungle trail. "With Lance Corp backing us now, who knows what possibilities lie ahead? Someone from the Great Families messing with a Lance Corp operative—this won't just be swept under the rug."
My mind churned with anger. I wanted justice—justice for the professor Tajudeen had kidnapped, the students he'd drugged, and for assaulting me and Hadal. My vengeance list grew by the minute; soon enough, I'd be strong enough to hunt down Captain Kinga and make him regret ordering those goons on us.
Exhaustion emptied my limbs. Hadal and I collapsed against the sun-warmed rocks, sleep dragging us under. When we stirred again, Rose's steady voice had already roused us, and we were on a rough jungle gurney en route to Lance Corp's emergency facility. I barely registered the thump of helicopter blades or the night air whipping past.
– Three hours later –
A strange warmth pressed against my cheek: the cool cotton of hospital linen, damp with antiseptic; the sharp sting of rubbing alcohol dancing on my nostrils. Somewhere beyond the curtain, rubber-soled heels clicked on polished linoleum, and machines around me sighed and beeped in slow, mechanical rhythms. My heart fluttered in my ribs—where am I?
I forced my eyelids apart against the glare of overhead fluorescents. Rows of blank, grid-patterned ceiling tiles offered no answers. My pulse thumped so loudly I thought the monitors might pick it up. Then my eyes drifted down to the pale blue wall across the room, where a brass-plated shield caught the light: the Lance Corps emblem, a clenched gauntlet surrounded by stars. Beneath it, nurses in navy-trimmed white and doctors in crisply ironed jackets moved like a well-rehearsed dance troupe. Relief blossomed in my chest, and I sagged back onto the pillow. I exhaled, long and shaky. "Thank God."
At my bedside, Angela Stillwell sat ramrod-straight, her dark hair pulled into a tight chignon that left not a strand out of place. Her gold-rimmed glasses reflected the overhead light as she watched me with calm, unblinking attention. On her left stood Chioma, arms folded across her navy tunic, brows drawn together as if calculating a complex sum. To Stillwell's right, Rose leaned against the steel bedrail, her slender fingers tapping a silent rhythm, jaw set like she'd swallowed a storm. I managed a weak grin. "You three are a sight for sore eyes. Thank you, Miss Stillwell… Rose… and Chioma—if you did anything, thank you too."
They exchanged glances, lips pressed thin. The air between us tightened, guilt and frustration coiling like barbed wire. My stomach flipped. I cleared my throat, forcing a lighter tone. "Is Hadal okay? Where's he at?"
Rose's shoulders eased fractionally, and she slid off the rail with the grace of a cat. Her shoes made barely a whisper as she crossed to the door. "He's in the canteen, wolfing down hospital stew. I'll go get him—Miss Stillwell insists we have a sit-down."
Moments later, Hadal appeared: dark curls mussed, cheeks flushed from too-fast walking. He paused by the door, tray in hand, sending a waft of overcooked cabbage and gravy our way. Then we were all gathered in the corner under the harsh glow of those same flickering fluorescents. The linoleum beneath our feet looked scuffed enough to tell its own stories.
Stillwell folded her hands atop a clipboard and drew in a slow breath, the kind that could still a storm. Her gaze locked on me. "All right. Explain exactly what happened."
I swallowed and shared a look with Hadal—half-fear, half-determination—then dove in. "We started on the beach south of Port Loko. Tajudeen ambushed Professor Okoro—snatched him right under our noses. Those bullies came at us next, swinging metal pipes and shouting curses, so we pushed them back into the surf. Then Tajudeen called up a terror beast from the water's edge: leathery wings, eyeless maw dripping brine. I had to improvise, channeling my flow through a rippling barrier of sand and salt to hold it off—"
Hadal cut in, voice steady. "—while I kept the glyphs blazing along the high tide line, drawing its attention away so you could finish the barrier. Then Tajudeen scrawled his blood-ink rune on the sand and vanished."
I felt the words settle in the air. Stillwell's pen scratched across the page, each note deliberate. Chioma's amber eyes shimmered with something close to awe. Rose's jaw unclenched just a fraction.
When my breath returned to normal, Stillwell cleared her throat. "Well. It seems you two have been through hell and back. This account will be invaluable at the upcoming meeting with the Sankoré family."
My chest tightened with hope. "They're actually going to do something? Make Tajudeen pay?"
Hadal and I bumped fists under the table, grins spreading. For a moment, everything felt lighter than air.
Then Stillwell's lips curved in a thin, humorless line. "Don't celebrate yet. Paul Sankoré himself will be there. He holds the power to decree whether you live—or die."
My spine froze. "Wait—what?" My voice pitched high. "How can this be our fault? If we hadn't stepped in, people would've died!"
Stillwell lowered her gaze onto me, unruffled. "You must understand the authority of the Great Families. Their word is law. A pair of 'nobodies' claiming injustice? You'll be dismissed as opportunistic scoundrels—unless you stand before Paul Sankoré in person."
My heart sank into my boots. Chioma's fingers tightened around her clipboard; Rose's shoulders drooped. Stillwell's words bore down like a stone pressing on my chest.
I closed my eyes, pictured the steady pulse of my flow technique, let it course through my veins. When I opened them again, they shone with quiet resolve. "When—when is this meeting?"
"In two weeks, same day, at 3:30 PM," Stillwell said, glancing at the face of her smartwatch.
Adrenaline snapped through me. I leaned forward. "Could Hadal and I attend? We need to make our case directly—maybe sway him before it's too late."
Stillwell regarded me for a long beat, then nodded once, crisply. "We'll see what we can arrange."