The Trance

  Nick strode down the dimly lit hallway, a smug smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. The apple in his hand spun effortlessly through the air, rising and falling in time with his steps. He barely acknowledged the students he passed—until her voice sliced through the air.

  “You!" Abelle’s hand clamped around his arm, nails digging in just enough to make a point. Her breathing was sharp, uneven—furious. "What the hell was that?" she snapped, shoving him back a step.

  Nick barely blinked. He took a slow bite of his apple, chewing deliberately. "Excuse you?" His voice dripped with feigned confusion.

  "Don’t play dumb with me," she spat. "That room. The black mist. The doorway that disappeared. What the hell are you up to?"

  Nick rolled his eyes and took another bite, his expression unreadable. "I don’t know what you’re talking about." He brushed past her, forcing her to step aside. "And even if I did, it would be none of your concern."

  Abelle’s fists clenched at her sides. "You always do this," she muttered. "You sneak around, stir up trouble, and then act like it’s everyone else’s fault when things go to shit.”

  Nick paused mid-step, turning slightly. "And you always do this," he shot back, his voice quiet but razor-sharp. "Pretend you’re the moral compass when all you really want is a front-row seat to the chaos, so you can come in and be “little miss sunshine” and save the day.”

  Her jaw tightened. He wasn’t wrong, and she hated that he wasn’t wrong. "Why won’t you just tell me what you’re doing?" she demanded. "For once—just be honest."

  Nick exhaled sharply through his nose, as if the request was both absurd and exhausting. He adjusted the ring on his finger—a nervous tic, not that he’d ever admit it. "Tell that to your little gossip group," he muttered, turning away.

  Abelle huffed in disbelief, her frustration boiling over. "You prick.” She didn’t wait for his response. With a sharp pivot, she stormed in the opposite direction, arms crossed so tightly her nails dug into her own skin.

  Nick watched her go, expression unreadable. For the briefest moment, something flickered in his gaze—hesitation, maybe. Regret. But then, just as quickly, it was gone.

  He picked up his pace, his smirk returning as he approached the old limestone wall. His fingers pressed against the stone, muttering the incantation under his breath. The black mist swirled, reshaping into a familiar doorway.

  This time, before stepping through, he cast a long, careful glance over his shoulder. No one was there. Still, he muttered a few extra words as a safeguard spell, an extra lock, just in case. Then, he disappeared inside.

  As Abelle stormed down the hall, her fingers still curled into tight fists. Nick’s words rattled inside her head, and she wanted to scream. He’s hiding something. I know he is.

  A loud thud sounded from the classroom to her left. She turned a corner, heading toward the infirmary. Her fingers still stung from a minor flare-up during spell practice that morning—a small price for getting angry enough to throw Nick against a wall. Maybe some burn salve would at least take the edge off.

  But the second she stepped inside, she knew something was wrong.

  Lily was convulsing on one of the infirmary beds. Her body jerked violently as the nurse rummaged for supplies.

  "Hold her down!" the nurse instructed, but as she turned to grab a vial, her body swayed.

  "Hey, are you—" Abelle started, but before she could finish, the nurse collapsed onto the floor. Abelle’s heart slammed against her ribs. Her hands moved on instinct, hovering over Lily’s forehead. Glowing green light pooled from her fingertips as she channeled the only spell she could think of: a peace charm, a grounding spell, anything to break this feverish thrashing.

  But Lily resisted—as if something inside her was actively fighting back.

  Abelle grit her teeth and pushed harder. She had no idea what was wrong, but she knew one thing: she wasn’t letting Lily go under.

  The bell signaled the start of second period. Monday exams marked the official end of the weekend, and today was no different. Elora tapped her foot under the desk, her pencil twirling idly between her fingers.

  Ms. Stewart yawned loudly as she handed Elora the last Theory of Practical Magic exam packet.

  "Great. Just great."

  "You have one hour," Ms. Stewart mumbled, stifling another yawn before dropping into her chair. She barely glanced at the clock. 10:25 AM. before leaning back, arms crossed. "Begin."

  Elora flipped the packet over and scanned the first question. Name the three keys to successful spell work. "Easy. Intent, clear-mind, and…” Her mind blanked.

  A pencil tapped her shoulder. Elora turned, locking eyes with the girl next to her, who nodded toward Ms. Stewart.

  Ms. Stewart’s head lolled back against the chair, eyes completely shut.

  "Is she—?" Elora mouthed.

  The girl shrugged.

  A boy in the back threw a pen. It bounced off Ms. Stewart’s arm and hit the floor. No response.

  “She’s out cold,” someone whispered.

  Murmurs spread across the room. Some students exchanged answers under their breath, while others flipped through their notes. She turned in her seat, scanning her peers for an easy way out.

  Within thirty-five minutes, every exam was finished. Students filed out, leaving the stack of tests untouched on Ms. Stewart’s desk. Elora hesitated. The slow, steady rise and fall of Ms. Stewart’s chest should have been comforting. Instead, it unsettled her. Something wasn’t right. She turned and left, stepping into a hallway bursting with chaos.

  Everywhere, students roamed free—no teachers, no supervision. Paper airplanes whizzed overhead, the Astrology class had turned into a betting ring, and a distant Banshee scream from Potions class echoed through the halls. Even Volk, who never missed his morning rounds, was nowhere to be seen.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  "What the hell is going on?"

  “Elora! Elora!”

  She barely had time to react before Mystic sprinted toward her, dodging stray planes and half-hearted spellcasting. Her breath came in short, panicked bursts.

  "It’s Lily!” The words hit like ice water.

  Elora didn’t hesitate—she shoved past the crowds, Mystic at her heels. Claire, noticing their urgency, fell in step behind them. They barreled into the infirmary.

  “Come on, Lil’,” Mystic pleaded, her voice thick with panic. "Wake up! Please!"

  Lily shook violently in the bed, thrashing against the sheets.

  Abelle stood over her, palms glowing with a faint green light, struggling to maintain a spell.

  Elora’s stomach twisted. "What happened?!"

  Abelle barely glanced up. “I don’t know. I came in for a bandaid, found her like this. The nurse tried to help, but she—” She motioned toward the floor.

  A tall, red-haired nurse lay crumpled near the cabinets, breathing even and slow—just like Ms. Stewart.

  “We tried to wake her,” Abelle continued, "but nothing. Everyone’s asleep. The spell isn’t taking."

  Lily’s back arched suddenly, a strangled shriek ripping from her throat. Then she collapsed, motionless—before convulsing again.

  “Oh my god,” Claire whispered.

  Elora whirled on her. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Claire dropped her bag, stepping forward despite Elora’s glare. "I heard something was wrong and came to help."

  “They’re all asleep,” Elora repeated. Her voice was clipped, desperate. "Ms. Stewart, Nurse Polledo, even Keltore. And now look at Lily!"

  “Professor Cyola too," Claire added. “She could barely stay awake before class let out. I think—” She hesitated. “A sleeping curse?”

  Abelle gritted her teeth, magic flickering unsteadily over her palms. "If it is, Lily’s not under the same one." She pressed both hands against Lily’s forehead, trying to force the calming spell through. It was like pressing two positive ends of a magnet together—the spell refused to settle.

  "No," Elora murmured, crouching beside the unconscious nurse. "These are two different things."

  Lily screamed again, her body twisting unnaturally before flailing the blankets off the bed.

  "The professors are peaceful," Elora continued. “Lily’s like—”

  “Like she’s been poisoned,” Claire finished.

  Silence fell between them. Then, in unison. “The bake sale.”

  Elora’s hands curled into fists. "That doesn't make sense. I ate the bake sale food, and I’m fine."

  Claire’s expression darkened. "The fudge."

  Mystic froze mid-breath.

  Elora’s head snapped toward her. “What?”

  Claire swallowed hard, "Ms. Stewart took a whole plate of it to the faculty meeting, remember?”

  A heavy silence settled between them. Elora’s stomach twisted. “School Rule: food isnt allowed to be enchanted.”

  Mystic hesitated. Her fingers clenched around the hem of her sleeve as if trying to steady herself. Finally, she closed her eyes. “Thomas."

  The air turned razor-sharp. Mystic wiped her face, her shoulders shaking. "I helped him with the recipe," she whispered, barely able to breathe past the words. "But there was nothing in it. He—he wouldn’t—"

  She didn’t finish. Mystic’s hands curled into fists—then, before anyone could stop her, she bolted for the door. “I’ll find him.”

  “I’m coming too!” Claire started after her.

  Mystic didn’t slow. Elora hesitated, but in the end, she let them go. She turned back to Lily, watching her body seize against the bed. Whatever had been done to her, it wasn’t going away.

  Mystic stormed into the Living Lobby, scanning the room. It didn’t take long to find him—Thomas sat at a wiry table, scribbling into his notebook, headphones half-plugged into his ears.

  Mystic didn’t slow down. She slammed her hands onto the table, making it rattle. “You poisoned them, Thomas!"Her voice cut through the noise, turning every head in the room. "Lily, the faculty—everyone who ate that fudge is in a coma! What the hell did you do?!"

  Thomas jerked back, eyes wide. “I—what?” He shook his head, already pushing his chair back. "No. No way. That’s not possible."

  “Yeah? Then explain why your fudge is the common denominator?” Mystic took another step forward, fists trembling. “You can fix this. Right? Now?”

  Claire slowed her pace, hanging back for a second, studying him carefully. Thomas looked… genuinely shaken.

  "Thomas," she said, calm but firm, "we need to know exactly what went into that fudge."

  Thomas whipped his head toward her like she’d grown a second head. “Are you seriously accusing me too?”

  Mystic wasn’t interested in explanations. "You’re the only one who could’ve done this, Thomas!"

  Thomas took a step back, running a shaky hand through his hair. “No. No, that’s—I wouldn’t—I didn’t do anything like that.”

  “You sure about that?” Claire pressed.

  His hands curled into fists. “I didn’t put anything in the damn fudge!”

  “You don’t exactly sound convincing.” Mystic’s voice was sharp, but now, it carried more frustration than certainty.

  Thomas suddenly slammed his hands against the table, making the papers jump. “Because I don’t know what’s going on! You think I wanted this on purpose? A prank to get out of calculous?” His voice cracked, frustration spilling into something dangerously close to fear.

  And that was the first moment Mystic really looked at him. Really saw him. Thomas wasn’t lying. She frowned, her shoulders finally deflating. "Then who did?"

  Thomas exhaled sharply. His hands twitched like they didn’t know whether to grab something or throw a punch.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. Then, suddenly, his face drained of color as he realized what the girl said.

  Lily.

  Thomas didn’t wait for another accusation. He bolted.

  Mystic barely had time to react before he was already halfway down the hall, shoving past students, sprinting full-force toward the infirmary.

  Claire and Mystic exchanged a quick look before racing after him.

  Darkness. A vast, endless void swallowed Lily whole. No pressure, no air, no gravity. She drifted weightlessly, her body no longer her own. Nothing existed here, not even sound.

  She tried to breathe, but even that felt stolen from her. Her voice barely reached her own mind.

  "Hello?"

  The void did not answer. It only pulled her deeper.

  Cool grass squished between her bare toes. The air smelled sweet, like freshly sliced watermelon, thick with the promise of summer.

  Lily blinked against the brightness. The sky stretched above her, a perfect blue, unmarred by a single cloud. The sun’s rays kissed her skin. Not burning, not searing, just gentle, familiar, human. Her lips curved into a smile.

  She folded her legs beneath her on a red checkered picnic blanket, reaching for a smooth ceramic bowl filled with ruby-red watermelon cubes. She ran her fingers over the cool silver spoon, turning it slightly, catching her reflection in its polished surface.

  Blue eyes stared back. Long, pin-straight blonde hair danced in the wind. She was normal again.

  "Can you pass the ball back?"A voice called from the field.

  Lily turned, spotting a mud-stained football resting beside her on the blanket. The stitching was frayed, the leather worn and patched with duct tape.

  She reached for it, fingers curling around the familiar shape.

  Then a scream.

  Lily’s head snapped up. The kids in the field weren’t playing anymore.

  They were running.

  "Freak!" One voice rang out, sharp and piercing.

  "Keep her away!" Another.

  "What’s wrong with her?!"

  Lily's breath caught. Her hands shook. She looked down. The football was gone. In its place, an IV bag, bulging and swollen with thick, congealed blood. The plastic tubing dangled from her fingers, dripping dark red onto the picnic blanket.

  She gasped, shoving it away. The scent hit her next. Rotten copper, sharp and rancid.

  Heat scorched her skin. The sun, once gentle, was now a blazing inferno. Her arms blistered, her shoulders seared. The golden warmth turned to an unbearable burn.

  Lily stumbled to her feet, gasping for air. She couldn’t breathe. Her perfect day shattered before her eyes. The grass blackened and shriveled beneath her feet. The sky was gone.

  "Drink it, Lily.” A voice, cold, commanding, and unrelenting spoke out. "Drink it. Now."

  Lily shook her head violently, tears welling up. “No. Please don’t make me. I don’t want to.”

  The shadows around her stretched. She turned, but there was nowhere to run. She pressed herself against the bark of a tree, her skin boiling under the light. She clutched the IV bag to her chest, squeezing her eyes shut. "I don’t want to, I don’t want to.”

  The tubing found her lips. Her body moved without her consent.

  Her mother’s voice was inside her head, twisting, suffocating. "You ruined this, Lily Reed. Nothing will change that."

  A single, thick clot slid down her throat. She gagged.

  Silence.

  The void swallowed her again.

  Cool grass squished between her bare toes. The air smelled sweet, like freshly sliced watermelon, thick with the promise of summer.