The night is a blur of shadows and running.
We don't stop. We can't. The forest is a place of horrors after sundown, and the memory of the attack is a fresh, gaping wound. Every rustle of leaves is a claw, every hoot of an owl is a shriek. We push forward, driven by a primal terror that eclipses even our exhaustion.
My body moves on autopilot, one foot in front of the other, my lungs burning, my muscles screaming. But my mind is somewhere else entirely. Reliving the fight. The sensation of the Gloom in my mental grasp. The look on their faces. The accusation in Thomas's voice.
He is one of them.
The words echo in the caverns of my mind. Am I? The thought is a poison, seeping into the cracks of my resolve. My power comes from the same source as theirs. It responds to the same emotions. It feels... natural. Horribly, terrifyingly natural.
Flynn's grip on my arm is the only thing that feels real. It's a constant, grounding pressure, a silent refusal to let me drift away into my own dark thoughts. He doesn't speak. Neither do I. What is there to say?
We run until the moon is high in the sky, a cold, indifferent eye. Finally, Thomson calls a halt in a small, rocky clearing. There's no water, no shelter, just a brief reprieve from the relentless forward motion.
The group collapses, a collection of ragged, trembling figures. No one speaks. The silence is heavier than before, laden with a new kind of dread. The fear of the Gloom Dwellers has been joined by a fear of one of their own.
Me.
I move to the edge of the clearing, putting as much distance as I can between myself and the others. I lean against a cold rock face and slide to the ground, wrapping my arms around my knees. I don't look at them. I can't bear to see the suspicion, the fear, the hatred in their eyes.
Footsteps approach. I don't have to look up to know who it is. Flynn sits down beside me, close enough to be a comfort but not so close as to threaten my fragile space. He doesn't say anything at first, just stares out into the oppressive darkness of the forest.
"They're scared," he finally says, his voice quiet. "Scared people do stupid things."
"They're right to be scared," I murmur, my own voice barely audible. "And right to be scared of me."
Flynn turns to look at me, and even in the dim moonlight, I can see the earnestness in his eyes. "No. They're not. You saved us, Caden. Both times. If you were one of them, you would have let us die. It would have been easier."
I want to believe him. A part of me, a desperate, selfish part, does. But the doubt is a persistent, gnawing thing. "How do you know? Maybe this was all a game to me. Luring you into a false sense of security."
He snorts, a short, sharp sound that is so very Flynn. "Please. I've known you for years. You're the laziest person I've ever met. Planning the downfall of the Order requires effort. Way more effort than you'd ever put in." He claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Whatever this is... it's you. And you're on our side."
I don't have an answer for that. I just sit there, the weight of his words settling uncomfortably on my shoulders.
Across the clearing, Amelia is trying to talk to the others. Her voice is a low, urgent murmur, but I can catch the gist. She's defending me. Telling them what Flynn told me. That I saved them. That I'm not the enemy.
She's met with a wall of hostility.
"We can't trust him," Thomas insists, his voice like poison. "His power is an abomination. It's the very thing we've sworn to destroy."
"He's Tainted Blood," Nicole adds, her tone dripping with scorn. "This was always going to happen. We should have purged them from the Order when we had the chance."
The word 'purged' hangs in the air, ugly and vile.
Amelia's spine straightens. "His bloodline is one of the strongest in the Order's history! His mother was the greatest exorcist who ever lived!"
"His father was a human!" Rachel sneers. "And now we see what happens when you mix with them. You get monsters."
"They're not wrong, you know."
I jolt at the sound of Thomson's voice. He stands over us, a towering shadow in the moonlight. His face is unreadable, carved from stone and grief.
"Sir..." Flynn begins, rising to his feet.
"About the danger," Thomson continues, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. He's not looking at Flynn. He's looking at me. "His power is a risk. An unknown. Something we do not understand."
My heart sinks. So even he...
"But," Thomson says, the single word cutting through the despair like a shard of ice, "so was that humanoid on the island. So was this coordinated attack. The rules have changed. Our knowledge is obsolete." He finally looks away, turning his gaze on the assembled, terrified students. "And unless one of you have another hidden power greater than Caden's, he is the only hope The Order has left to survive long enough to rekindle the light." He gives them a look that brooks no argument. "We will not turn on our own. We will not fracture. We are Exorcists. Now act like it."
He doesn't wait for a response. He turns and walks to the center of the clearing, taking the first watch. The dismissal is absolute.
The tension doesn't vanish, but it recedes, banked down by the sheer force of Thomson's will. It's replaced by a sullen, resentful silence. No one looks at me. No one speaks to me. But they don't try to cast me out, either. For now, that's as much a victory as I can hope for.
I lean my head back against the rock, the cold stone a welcome, solid presence against my skull. I close my eyes, but I don't sleep. Sleep is a luxury I've lost.
I don't know if I'll ever get it back.