Nothing annoyed Aden Welex more than fame.

  It clung to him like burrs after a hike through Gremlin's Thicket—persistent, irritating, and borderline painful. And the worst part? It hadn’t always been this bad. Sure, he’d always gotten extra attention because of his mom, but it had ramped up right after he turned fourteen. He had expected it to die down eventually, but the constant fawning hadn’t faded two years ter. If anything, it had gotten worse.

  And he had no idea why.—persistent, irritating, and borderline painful. If he had his way, he’d be just another student suffering through high school, not 'Amelia’s son', not 'the magic prodigy' (which was ridiculous, considering he didn’t even have magic—just his weird talent), and definitely not the walking embodiment of everyone's expectations. But no, fate—or maybe just really bad luck—had other ideas.

  The air in the hallway felt thick, pressing against his skin like an unspoken warning. He peeked around the corner like a fugitive, muscles tensed, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. The hallway churned with movement, lockers smming like miniature thundercps, tunics swishing against restless bodies, and the constant hum of voices blending into a chaotic symphony of gossip and teenage energy. Typical. If he could just slink to css without—

  Too te.

  Tiny Paul’s voice shot through the hallway like a firecracker. “Hi, Aden!”

  Tiny Paul, as enthusiastic as ever, practically vibrated with energy. And just like that, heads snapped toward him. A hush fell, like he’d just stepped onto a royal balcony instead of into a poorly maintained school hallway.

  Aden barely resisted the urge to sm his head into the nearest locker. "Oh, great." “Here comes the fan club.”

  “Aden, can you help me study for the math exam?” a girl with far too much perfume leaned in, her eyes hopeful.

  “Aden, my cousin’s friend’s sister saw you cast a spell once—can you show us something?”

  “Aden! You single?”

  That st one made his soul physically wither.

  A muscle jumped under his skin, irritation crackling through him like static before a storm. He was half a second away from using his magic talent of equal mass exchange to swap pces with an unsuspecting freshman—until salvation arrived in the form of his twin sister, Adora.

  With her usual smooth confidence, she stepped beside him, and the invisible spotlight expanded to include her. Instantly, the questions pivoted.

  “Adora! Who’s the lucky guy for the dance?”

  “Adora, sign my book bag!”

  “Adora, let’s hit the mall after school!”

  Aden exhaled, trying not to look too relieved. With practiced ease, Adora smiled, answered, and 'redirected' while simultaneously steering him into a less chaotic corridor. Once free of the mob, she smirked at him.

  “Annoying, isn’t it?”

  He shot her a look. “Gee, what gave it away? The silent plea in my eyes or my attempt to manifest invisibility?”

  She grinned. “Do I have to tickle a real answer out of you?”

  Aden recoiled like she’d threatened him with fire. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Oh, I 'would'.” She wiggled her fingers menacingly.

  “Adora,” he said slowly, stepping back. “Do you 'know' how much chaos I could cause if I used magic to escape? Last time, you ended up in a broom closet, 'remember'?”

  She snorted. “Yeah, but it was still better than getting caught by Mrs. Finkle and her wrath of overdue library fines.”

  A ugh scraped its way up his throat before he could stop it, unbidden and traitorous. “Fine, truce. But if you try, I’ll repce all your socks with the itchy ones.” He raised both hands in surrender. “But seriously, keep your tickle weapons to yourself.”

  “Noted.” She bumped his shoulder as they neared the cssroom. “You ready for the st exam?”

  Aden squinted at the narrow window in the door, the warped gss catching the flickering overhead lights like trapped fireflies. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Adora cpped a hand on his shoulder. “One st test,” she said. “Then we’re free for two and a half weeks.”

  “Yeah,” he muttered, flicking a stubborn piece of lint off his vest like it personally offended him. “Two and a half weeks of thrilling, action-packed nothing.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Try to enjoy it.”

  “I’ll try. And fail. But mostly try.”

  The bell rang before she could reply, and they filed into css. As he made his way to his seat, Carl reached under his desk for his datapad, accidentally knocking over a stack of books. Without thinking, Aden caught them mid-fall and handed them back.

  "Thanks!" Carl whispered.

  "Anytime," Aden muttered, before finally slouching into his chair.

  He barely had time to settle before Mrs. McCool—who had exactly 'zero' tolerance for nonsense—stood up and announced, “Before I send you off, it’s essay time.”

  Groans echoed through the room. Aden faked his. Secretly, he didn’t mind these quizzes. They were like pop trivia for nerds, and he 'was' a nerd—just one with better branding.

  “Datapads out, card slots empty.”

  Mrs. McCool handed out their assignments. When she got to him, she dropped a stapled packet on his desk with the same energy one might use to throw down a challenge. He flipped it over.

  ''Expin in your own words the Battle of Song Grass Hills and its aftermath in at least 150 words.''

  Aden stared at the page, his stomach sinking. 'Seriously? Did I anger a past life?' Of 'course' today’s essay had to be about 'that.'

  His fingers curled around the pencil, pressing grooves into his skin as he let out a slow, measured breath. No getting out of this one.

  'The Battle of Song Grass Hills wasn’t exactly Spectra’s best day, but it was definitely memorable. My mom—sorry, Amelia Quenton, as the textbooks like to call her—pretty much saved the entire kingdom with some of her final magic. She created a magical "allergy barrier" that stopped King Thour and his army from invading. Apparently, it’s hard to wage war when you can’t stop sneezing. Yeah, super impressive, I guess.'

  His grip on the pencil tightened. 'Impressive… and the st thing she ever did.' He swallowed, forcing himself to keep writing.

  'Of course, that wasn’t the end of it. The kingdom was still in chaos because our king—Vale Leopold Anderson or something like that—mysteriously disappeared right after the battle. Some people thought he’d been kidnapped, others figured he just ran away. Either way, no one saw him again. Cssic royal drama.'

  'After that, Queen Marlene took over and sent an army into Thoria, Thour’s kingdom, to try and put an end to the conflict for good. Unfortunately, that didn’t exactly go as pnned. We lost a lot of people, and it just made things worse. Then, to top it all off, there was a bombing at the Grand Wizard’s Tournament, which hit the wizarding community pretty hard. Queen Marlene wasn’t even at the tournament—she was off taking care of her sick son—but it still caused a lot of damage. After she was killed a few years ter, the Royal Council took over until her son, Eric, became king. He had a fresh approach, writing to the people instead of holding fancy court sessions. That was pretty new.'

  Aden slumped back, the air thick with the musty scent of old textbooks and unwashed gym uniforms, pressing against his lungs like an invisible weight. His pencil hit the desk in a soft, rhythmic thud—his own personal countdown to freedom. That was… what, 150 words? He skimmed it again. 189. Good enough.

  'In the end, the Battle of Song Grass Hills was a turning point for Spectra, but it came with a lot of complications. And it’s not like anyone’s forgotten about it, especially not me.'

  With that, Aden gnced around the room. Twenty minutes to the bell. His techno-allergy made no sense. Whoever heard of tech going haywire just because someone was looking at it? He didn't even have to touch it—just his focus was enough to make things glitch. Not exactly the easiest way to blend in.

  He stole a gnce at the datapad. Allen was browsing the datanet, presumably for a song to py at the end of the school dance. Adora sat before him, pying solitaire. He used to love pying solitaire after his school work, but the day he turned fourteen, he became allergic to technology.

  'That eight of spades can go on the nine of hearts,' he thought. When static shot across the screen, Aden quickly averted his eyes. His techno-allergy made no sense. Whoever heard of tech going crazy when someone pays attention to it? He scanned the room, carefully avoiding the datapads.

  Jimmy Jackelson, the css bully and the mayor’s son, lounged in his chair like he owned the pce. He typed with one hand and, with the other, pretended to shoot at various students when Mrs. McCool wasn’t looking. The teacher gnced up but didn’t say a word. Aden arched a brow. 'So we're just letting that slide now? Cool, cool. No consequences for Jimmy. Got it.'

  Aden locked onto Jimmy’s datapad, watching with quiet satisfaction as digital static jittered across the screen like an angry swarm of fireflies. Jimmy was so busy “shooting” the other students that he didn’t notice until the machine let out a mangled tunk-tunk-tunk-pshhhh noise.

  He froze, mid-motion, his head snapping toward the screen as it let out a final, pitiful whine before fading into bck. Aden quickly flipped a page and started doodling on it, pretending to be utterly absorbed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jimmy twist around in his chair to gre at him.

  Jimmy returned to his datapad, smacking it in frustration. Aden barely suppressed a smirk. The st time he’d glitched someone’s tech this badly, they had to buy a new one. He gnced up at the clock. Fifteen minutes to freedom—assuming, of course, trouble didn’t find him first.