The Grounds Keeper

Chapter 8 Bad First Impression

Chapter 8: Bad First Impression

The boys' dorm was a five-story sandstone monolith, its thick timber door weathered with time. Rusted hinges groaned as Eathon stepped inside. His boots clicked softly on old wooden floorboards beneath the welcome mat, and a gentle hum lit the entryway — orbs of yellow light drifted among the arched rafters like lazy fireflies.

Portraits lined the walls, each showing men and women in the immaculate uniforms of the Academy. One caught his eye — a striking man with skin like polished obsidian, wrapped in a green robe, a staff in one hand and a lightning-charged orb in the other. His scarf obscured part of his face, but his golden eyes shone through.

Then — footsteps.

Eathon turned.

A short, muscular woman in a fur-lined robe approached, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her voice cracked like sandpaper over gravel.

"You're either up too early or far too late. Either way, I don't appreciate being woken mid-slumber. Who are you?"

"Eathon Lorenzo. I'm new. Missed orientation. Bit of... an incident with another student."

The woman stepped into the glow of the lights. Her hair was silver, tied in a long braid down one side. Her skin — cracked and smooth like a riverbed baked dry — had a metallic sheen. Power radiated from her compact frame. Her sharp eyes raked over him.

"So, you're the new Groundskeeper," she said, voice thick with sarcasm. "Poor Tomaj. I imagine he'll keep his distance from now on."

Eathon froze.

She knew.

This woman instantly identified him, meaning she was either very well-connected — or very dangerous.

He tried to slip past her toward the stairs, but her hand clamped onto his arm. It felt like stone. One squeeze, and she could turn bone into pulp.

"Cause trouble in my dorm," she growled, "and I'll ruin you."

Eathon's temper flared. It always had. Before he could stop himself, his shadow surged — a massive fist of darkness wrapped around her, lifting her from the ground.

Her grin widened, revealing perfect teeth. "Ah. A strength contest, then."

With a burst of her legs, she launched them both into the air, flipping him mid-flight and slamming his back toward the ceiling. Eathon barely reacted in time, cushioning his impact with a plate of shadow.

She twisted, spinning him like a top. He fought against the momentum, flexing every muscle to resist the tearing forces. He managed to grab her mid-spin, pulling himself close, and wrapped her in a cord of shadows.

With a grunt, he ripped it like a spinning top string — sending her into a high-speed drill toward the floor below.

He followed after, conjuring a massive shadow fist and slamming her downward.

The dorm floor shattered. Her head embedded into the marble, shoulders buried.

Eathon landed hard, creating a cushion beneath himself. He lay on his side, bruised and panting, clutching his aching arm. He stared at the unmoving figure, stunned. Who the hell was she? And why was she—

CRACK.

The sound echoed like a gunshot. She was on him before he saw her move, hand clamped over his mouth. Her fingers crushed his face, and he felt a molar shatter. Blood filled his mouth.

He tried to scream, but only a muffled cry escaped. Shadows struck her from all sides — and bounced off her like tennis balls on concrete.

She leaned in close. He was taller than her, but now, even standing below him, she felt bigger.