The door stops with a dull thud against the lowest of the four steps leading down to the entrance, still half-obscured by a veil of low-hanging smoke. Inside, the room is pitch dark. Nothing we can make out. We hold our breath. For a moment, everything falls dead silent. Then we finally hear something–a slow, dragging sound, like a heavy wooden chest scraping across the tile floor, coming closer and closer until a short, rectangular figure appears in the doorway, sizing us up for a few seconds before speaking in a booming voice.
“This is what’s come to save me? After all this time? What a joke!” His voice isn’t loud, but he speaks with such authority that he manages something no teacher has achieved all year: we feel like little kids. Shadow looks down, embarrassed, her gaze fixed on her toes and even Slug’s smile has slowly vanished. I feel small and insignificant under his words too, but somewhere deep inside me, my natural antiauthoritarian inclination for rebellion flares up. Of course it does—it always does—and tonight, even stronger than usual. How does this man have the audacity to talk down to us like this? We’ve been ambushed in our own homes. Outside this classroom, innocent people are risking their lives to help us… him. I’ve been abducted by my own neighbor, lost in some kind of alternate reality, found and lost my father, and been harassed by an annoying, giggling dwarf. Embarrassment and insults are the last things we deserve right now. A bit of gratitude would be in order. We fucking saved him.
I look him straight in the eye, trying to stare him down, but he doesn’t seem too impressed and when he speaks again, he does so with the same condescending boom as before.
“How in the world is this possible?” He waves a hand at me. “You can’t be older than fifteen! Sixteen, maybe? Where are the grown-ups? Where are the teachers? Where are the heroes?” Disgruntled, he ascends the steps with a harsh grinding sound, like something heavy being dragged over a stone floor.
I’ve seen him before, but I’m still taken aback by this immaculately kept man in his late fifties, dressed in a flawless three-piece suit, without a single crease. He looks as if he’s been carved from marble or cast in concrete—broad, rectangular, and sharp-edged. His shoes, apparently made of the finest Italian leather, gleam as if they were bought today, which is baffling after so much time spent living in a cellar.
After a few seconds, his gaze drifts from mine to what’s left of the three destroyed cupboards. “You know, you could have used the hidden button instead of burning everything down like a bunch of hooligans.”
That does it. Teacher or not, imposing personality or not, destroyed cupboards or not—I’ve had it. We deserve more respect than this. The words spill out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“Maybe you could try thanking us. You’re welcome.” By now, Shadow has all but disappeared, while Slug looks utterly bemused. Kwant raises a chiseled eyebrow, more in surprise than anger, assessing me with a steady gaze.
“Mmm... you’ve got some spunk... and maybe a bit of talent. I suppose this smoking heap of destruction is your doing?” I don’t even answer. “Let’s see, what else do we have here? Your shy friend... ‘light’, yes clearly. And your rather round friend... air? No... time, of course. Rare talent. Hard to control. Most stop moving altogether before high school. He must have a strong mind.”
The fact he talks about us, like we’re laboratory animals ready for dissection, only fuels my anger more, but before I can flare up, his next words strike me like a hammer.
“And... your tiny friend? Something sharp or poisonous? Venom, maybe? No, electricity?”
With a sudden, nauseating jolt, I realize I’ve completely forgotten about Gnat. I begin rambling incoherently, desperate to make up for lost time but only wasting more.
“Gnat—I mean, Charles. He’s wounded. Fred… almost dead… Help… Williams,” I stammer. Kwant seems unfazed, but at the mention of Williams’ name, he looks up in surprise.
“Williams? Isn’t he observing all this from that ramshackle office of his? This must be serious, then.”
This single observation seems to finally spur him into action. Without warning, he moves toward Gnat’s lifeless body, brushing us aside as if we’re nothing. A flicker of hope ignites within me. He must have some kind of power. A talent. Magical healing abilities would be good. But then, without doing anything, he turns and heads back toward his cellar.
Shadow and I exchange a look of dismay, both thinking the same thing: he’s not going to help at all.
“Slug, stay here with him,” I say, pointing at Gnat before running after Kwant, with Shadow only a few steps behind. Through the open door to the cellar, we hear loud banging and slamming sounds. We rush down the steps, only to stop dead in our tracks.
Somehow, I had expected to find a tiny, dark, damp room on the other side—something like the dungeon from The Count of Monte Cristo. But it's nothing like that at all. The room is far larger than should even be possible. It’s enormous. A chandelier hangs from a high, vaulted ceiling. The brown tiled floor is covered in Persian carpets, and the walls are adorned with enormous medieval tapestries woven with epic scenes. Knights, castles, and... a woman wearing a crown. Her clothes are torn, the armor beneath battered and dented. She gazes out over a battlefield littered with corpses and fallen horses. She raises her blood-stained sword high in a gesture of triumph. In response, the surviving knights raise their swords, spears, and banners.
My knees buckle. I... I know that woman, and though I don’t know how, I’m looking at myself.
The room begins to spin. The walls shift, the chandelier sways violently and I'm already unconscious before my head hits the ground.