As Mr. Collins' voice drones on in a low hum against the flickering fluorescent lights of World Civilization II, I drift in and out, catching bits of his lecture. He's currently delivering a lecture on ancient Druidic civilizations, but his words blend together, stretched thin by the repetition. I stare at the chalkboard, and my mind wanders to what I missed in that nightmare.
I signed up to care for patients, not recite Druid priests' burial ceremonies. I'm almost sure none of my future patients will ask for that between morphine treatments.
Daydreaming has always been my escape route. No matter where I am, I find myself abandoning the classroom, bus, or dinner table, and my imagination enters like fog. Scenarios of daring escapes, secret identities, and emissaries from forgotten realms readily captivate me. Sometimes I swear I've been in those lives before.
My father used to despise it. "Keep your head out of the clouds," he would say, as if imagination was a disease. Mom, however, was different. She supported it. Said that my best creations stemmed from the imaginary worlds I created in my head. She was absolutely correct. My sketches are modern silhouettes with echoes of the past.
Freshman year, I made my spring formal outfit to resemble something a forest nymph might wear if she lived in Manhattan. I wore a hunter green halter gown with a keyhole bodice, slits up both legs, and a gossamer trim that shimmered like dew. It had a little train that whispered mysteries as I walked. People still discuss it. For a little while, I was the next big thing.
However, daydreaming was not only for fun. It was about survival. My parents' marriage dissolved beneath the weight of their silence. When my father cheated, Mom terminated everything. That happened four years ago. Since then, I've been living in two worlds: the one I walk through and the one I imagine.
Mom came up with the idea for the Pagan Academy. She enrolled me when I was ten. They said it would help me "connect with my roots." Since then, I've been researching ancient civilizations such as the Mayans, Greeks, Druids, and Babylonians. It is not Hogwarts, despite Shelby's jokes. No wands. There are no flying brooms here. There are only long hours, dusty scrolls, and the occasional herb-induced rash.
Still, I enjoy the herbalism courses. There's something fulfilling about combining traditional medicines with modern sensibility. I once prepared a sleeping potion using a centuries-old formula. I made a few changes, adding some and removing others. What was the result? I slept for seven days straight.
Mom almost had a heart attack. My teachers were infuriated. But I awoke feeling incredible—rested and clear, as if I had been rebooted. I named it Snow White Glamour. The name requires work. I've never used it again. Just in case.
There is only one regulation at the academy: no casting outside the school grounds unless supervised. We are not of legal age and have not had adequate training to wield power. But Mom signed a waiver that allowed me to practice alone. She's busy. Always has been.
The oddest element of the academy isn't the spells or rituals; it's what no one dares to discuss. The Umbra Ascension.
Even here, where fire bends to breathe and stone rises with a whisper, the Ascension stands out. We treat it like a bruise hidden beneath a sleeve: don't press on it, don't address it, and pretend it doesn't exist.
It does, however, blossom once per century.
It begins with the disappearance.
Initially, you notice it in your hallways. A student disappears during morning drills. Another disappears while retrieving her cloak. Occasionally they just leave their beds, covers still warm and shoes neatly tucked beneath.
But it's not only here. Not only us.
The limited scrolls reveal the truth: college students disappear all over the world. Not just witches and warlocks, but even demi-gods are bred for magic. Promising young athletes in mid-sprint, students crouched over books, and pureblood heirs strolling across marble courtyards. They disappear from dorm rooms, libraries, sports fields, and late-night cafes. A basketball player from Serbia. A violinist in Italy. A swimmer in the United States. Everything is gone, as if it never existed.
The outside world explains it away: catastrophic accidents, kidnappings, and inexplicable disappearances. Their names appear on news tickers, relatives tape their faces to telephone poles, and vigils burn until the wax consumes the flame. But nobody connects the dots. Nobody wants to. Only we at the academy, and those who delve too far into the forbidden manuscripts, can glimpse the truth. Every hundred years, disappearances increase like clockwork. Always young. Always promising. Always the same.
The gods do not care whether you are mortal, demigod, or pureblood. They see you as a piece on their board. And when the cycle arrives, they search the world for the smartest, fastest, and strongest. They don't only steal from supernatural academies. They steal from anywhere.
The Umbra Ascension.
That is what the scrolls call them. A tournament of champions for the gods' delight, a culling disguised as entertainment. On paper, they appear as magnificent and glorious trials. However, if you read for long enough, the awe turns to fear.
Poseidon's trial always comes first. They call it the "storm without a shore." Survivors describe black-sand islands shifting like dice over a turbulent sea. Waves rise higher than cathedrals, drawing athletes and spellcasters into a bottomless sea. Olympians drowned in swim lanes, as did witches who attempted to bind the tide with words. The sea does not want you to win; it wants to know what you would do to stay afloat.
Then Ares takes them. His battleground is so big that the horizon bends. Soldiers drawn from the battlefield fight with mortal boxers, demi-god wrestlers, and pureblood heirs wielding light blades. They initially waged war against one another. The arena then joins in. Sand hardens into glass, which may cut through boots. Drums pound until hearts beat in time with their rhythm. Weapons fall like meteorites from above. The survivors are not always the strongest or most courageous. They often know when not to attack.
By then, half of the names have disappeared.
Next, Hades awaits. His maze of shadows is made out of memories, not barriers. Doors appear branded HOME, and voices scream out with the laughter of moms and lovers long gone. A medical student from Cairo rushes to the sound of her brother's voice. A demigod from Athens pursues his father's shadow. None of it is real. The labyrinth is designed to hollow you out until nothing remains but what the gods require. Hardly any people emerge whole. Some never appear at all.
Between these horrors, the Fates incorporate puzzles into the Games. They're quieter and crueler. The maps change as you navigate through them. Ropes braided by the river current. The language is filled with riddles that you can barely comprehend. Failure does not kill, at first. However, each error shortens your route. In the Games, time is a lethal weapon.
By the equinox, the tally cords around each competitor's neck are gleaming with branding. Some shine softly, gained via clean triumphs. Others smolder, wounds from desperate decisions—closing a door on a buddy, stepping on a hand that begs for help. The ropes maintain the tally. The brands preserve their shame.
Then, at the winter solstice, comes the reality that the academy never tells. Survival does not equal freedom.
The winners are not crowned. They are claimed.
Guardians. That is what Olympus calls them. Survivors are branded with ownership rather than honor. Oaths are engraved beneath the skin. Divine brands were etched onto their hearts. They don't go home. They do not live freely. They serve. Some gods keep their guardians loyal through promises, while others use fear or twist their very souls into weapons. Every deity creates a cadre, an army of champions drawn from the Games.
This is the true goal of Umbra Ascension. Not to entertain. Not to glorify. To harvest. To cull. To enslave before a threat may emerge.
Mortals are pawns. Demi-gods are unpredictable—too powerful to ignore, too defective to trust. Purebloods are vanity entries intended to remind us that Olympus will never relinquish its reign.
We at the academy prefer to think that it only happens to us. That the disappearances elsewhere are coincidental. But the scrolls indicate differently. They say that every university and college campus around the world is a hunting ground. The gods cast a wide net, capturing anyone who is bright enough to attract their attention.
That explains why there are no memorials here. No shrines. No plaques. The school maintains silence because it is safer. But I've seen professors' hands tremble when a kid does not show up for class. I've noticed vacant mattresses left undisturbed, as if tidying them might reveal the truth.
And I have heard the whispers. That three witches are always apprehended, regardless of where they are discovered. One who gives life. One to take it. One must decide when it ends.
I never imagined I'd be one of them. I told myself I wasn't the fastest, brightest, or selected material. But when the lights flicker, the air becomes thick, and a name is muttered without any response, I find myself wondering.
Because it isn't only us. It's the entire globe.
And the gods are always choosing.