The main hall filled too fast.

  Students poured in from every corridor like something had gone wrong — because something had gone wrong. Half-dressed, half-awake, whispering urgently. Staff clustered along the walls instead of the front, faces tight, eyes scanning. Even Pine Hollow came in quieter than usual, as if instinct alone had told them to stop joking.

  Garrett stood at the podium, cloak crooked on his shoulders, fingers gripping the edge of the wood hard enough to leave marks.

  Think. Think. Think.

  Ermin stood beside him, arms folded, already tense, already bracing.

  The doors slammed shut.

  Garrett opened his mouth.

  Closed it.

  Opened it again.

  “We—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat sharply. “We have inspectors.”

  The hall reacted like he’d thrown a glass plate onto stone.

  Voices spiked. Chairs scraped. Someone whispered under their breath.

  “Quiet,” Garrett snapped — too sharp, too fast. The word echoed. Silence snapped back into place.

  “Normal inspectors,” he added, pacing once behind the podium before forcing himself still. “Yes. Those inspectors. If you’re confused, good. So am I.”

  A nervous laugh rippled. Died instantly when Garrett didn’t smile.

  “They came across this school by accident,” he said, voice tight. “An accident that should not exist. And now they are coming back tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow.

  His stomach turned just saying it.

  “You will all become normal people tomorrow,” he said quickly, as if listing rules might keep the walls from collapsing. “There will be no Quanta use. None. No demonstrations. No training. No glowing, humming, exploding, vibrating, or otherwise defying basic physical law.”

  His gaze swept the room, wild for half a second before he reeled it back in.

  “You will not wield. You will not channel. You will not do anything that cannot be explained by chalk, ink, or poor posture.”

  A hand twitched upward.

  Garrett locked onto it.

  The hand dropped.

  “If you cannot manage that,” he continued, breathing hard now, “I strongly recommend you wake up tomorrow with a tragic and convincing illness.”

  He swallowed.

  “We are pretending,” he said, slower, deliberate, “that Elkington is exactly what it looks like on paper.”

  That landed worse than the inspectors.

  Garrett dragged a hand down his face and pointed.

  “Lavender Vales.”

  The children stiffened.

  “You are children,” he said, almost pleading.“You will talk about lessons. You will talk about meals. You will not talk about anything regarding Quanta.”

  A small hand lifted, trembling. “Sir… what if they ask about Quanta?”

  Garrett smiled too fast.

  “You have never heard that word.”

  She nodded immediately.

  “Maple Glade!”

  They inhaled sharply in unison.

  “Rearrange the library. Anything theoretical. Anything advanced. Anything coded, layered, symbolic, or clever.”

  One of the Maples adjusted his glasses. “If we remove too many volumes, the shelves—”

  “Rebalance them. Fake the spines.” Garrett cut in. “Make it boring.”

  There was actual offense at that.

  “Oak Crest!”

  They straightened.

  “Hide the weapons.”

  He paused.

  “All of them,” Garrett added, already knowing the question.

  “…Where?” someone asked.

  Garrett stared at them like that was the part that mattered.

  The Oaks nodded grimly. “We’ll manage.”

  “Willow Shade — grounds. Cover marks. Training damage. Anything that screams combat.”

  “What about scorch—”

  “Yes,” Garrett barked. “All scorch.”

  “Cedar Grove — Work with the staff. Deal with records. Schedules. Subjects. Make them coherent. Make them dull. Make them legal.”

  Someone whispered, “…We’ve never finalized arithmetic.”

  “Congratulations,” Garrett said, sounding hysterically calm. “You are mathematicians now.”

  He turned.

  Hesitated.

  “Elm Ridge.”

  The healers went very still.

  “The infirmary,” Garrett said, choosing every word like it might explode. “Remove anything that cannot be explained to a village medic.”

  “…That’s most of it,” someone muttered.

  “Yes!”

  “Birch Haven—you’re my sanity line,” Garrett said. “You will teach everyone else how to look ordinary.”

  “Sir–”

  “Facial expressions. Tone. Body language. Manners,” he went on, not letting any soul interrupt. “If someone forgets how to be a sane person, you fix it.”

  Then his gaze slid — unavoidably — to Pine Hollow.

  His eyes twitched.

  “And Pine Hollow,” he said hoarsely, “you are blocking the mission hall.”

  The room erupted.

  “There is no time to hide what’s in there.” Garrett shouted over them. “So you are not hiding it. You are closing it.”

  “How?”

  “Construction,” Ermin said flatly.

  Garrett seized on it like a lifeline. “Yes. Scaffolding. Signs. Warnings. Make it look unsafe, illegal, and boring.”

  Trey raised a hand. “Explosives?”

  “No!”

  “Fake explosions?”

  “No!”

  “Professor Spangley will supervise you,” Garrett snapped. “Personally.”

  The Pines groaned like they’d been sentenced.

  Garrett drew a breath that didn’t quite steady him.

  “All of you have one job,” he said, voice hoarse now. “One.”

  His gaze swept the hall — Oak Crest, Maple Glade, Willow Shade, Cedar Grove, Elm Ridge, Birch Haven, Lavender Vales, Pine Hollow.

  “Pretend. Lie convincingly. Do not be interesting.”

  He paused.

  “…And behave yourselves.”

  By nightfall, the school moved.

  Books vanished. Shelves shifted. Weapons were reclassified, relabeled, and buried. Ivy crawled over stones like it had always belonged there. Training dummies disappeared. Signs appeared — some misspelled.

  The Lavenders practiced saying I like reading and songs until it sounded haunted.

  The Oaks hauled crates until their arms shook.

  The Maples argued over shelf symmetry like lives depended on it.

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  The Elms quietly debated how many bandages were “normal.”

  The Birches coached everyone else on posture, tone, and how not to look guilty.

  The Cedars assembled an entirely new curriculum that might impress the royal academies themselves.

  The Pines erected scaffolding with terrifying efficiency.

  Near midnight, exhausted students collapsed where they stood.

  “We did it,” someone whispered.

  “…Right?”

  Garrett did not sleep.

  He stood alone in the main hall, staring up at the stone ceiling like it might answer him.

  Weapons — hidden.

  Books — replaced.

  Records — falsified.

  Halls — sealed.

  His chest hurt.

  One day.

  Just one day.

  Morning arrived with knives.

  Not literally—Garrett checked—but the kind of sharp, clean morning that made stone look honest and lies feel fragile.

  The inspectors arrived exactly on time.

  The iron gates opened. Two figures stepped through with unhurried precision, coats immaculate, boots polished, expressions neutral in the way that meant nothing escaped them.

  Garrett was already waiting, spine straight, smile prepared, pulse trying to escape through his ears.

  “Headmaster,” the man said, offering a shallow nod. “Bernard Hawthorne, Senior Registry Inspector.”

  “Miriam Lockwood, Compliance Officer, Crown Registry,” the woman added. Her gaze moved—not wandering, cataloguing.

  Good. We both answer to the same throne. Only one of us knows the truth of it. Garrett thought as he bowed just enough to be polite. “Garrett Halverton. Welcome to Elkington Academy.”

  “We inspected Clearwater Academy yesterday,” Hawthorne said mildly as they began walking.

  “Closed it.”

  Garrett nearly tripped over a decorative stone.

  “Closed?” he echoed, too fast.

  “Structural violations,” Lockwood said. “Inconsistent curriculum. Student safety concerns.”

  Hawthorne flipped a page in his ledger as they passed the first building. “The structure may be condemned.”

  Garrett laughed. It came out wrong.

  “Well,” he said quickly, gesturing ahead, “I can assure you Elkington maintains the highest—”

  “We’ll decide that,” Lockwood said, without breaking stride.

  They walked.

  Garrett walked with them because of course the inspectors required the headmaster’s presence. Of course his heart had chosen this exact morning to forget how to function.

  The first classroom door opened.

  Chalk dust. Paper. Fear.

  Hawthorne gestured toward a student. “What’s today’s lesson?”

  An Oak Crest boy stared at him like he’d been asked to recite his own bones.

  “I—uh—history?”

  “Which period?”

  Silence stretched.

  Before it could snap, a Maple Glade girl leaned forward, smile pleasant, voice steady.

  “The agricultural development of Valebridge,” she said. “Specifically crop rotation following floodplain expansion.”

  Hawthorne nodded. Lockwood didn’t.

  She watched the Oak Crest boy. Then wrote something down.

  Garrett did not breathe until the door closed behind them.

  They moved on.

  Another classroom.

  The Lavenders sat cross-legged on the floor, while several teenagers hunched beside them, expressions carefully vacant.

  Luna was also among them, sitting very still.

  Lockwood stopped in the doorway.

  “Why are adolescents and children taught together?”

  The instructor swallowed. “Remedial instruction.”

  One of the teenagers nodded immediately. “I’m bad at sums.”

  Another added, solemnly, “Very bad.”

  Hawthorne pursed his lips. “Admirable honesty.”

  Luna did not look up. She had learned long ago that being noticed was rarely a good thing.

  Garrett felt his soul peel slightly from his body as they continued down the corridor.

  The music room was next.

  Metal plates. Tuning forks. Too many things that could not possibly be justified.

  Hawthorne tapped one.

  The resulting BOOM rattled the windows.

  Hawthorne jumped back a step. Lockwood didn’t flinch.

  Trey, seated far too casually, smiled. “For my theme song. Very rhythmic.”

  Hawthorne cleared his throat. “Noted.”

  Garrett mouthed I will kill you and kept walking.

  The art room smelled faintly of smoke.

  Oh no. They’re everywhere.

  Garrett rubbed his temple. He had just attempted—and failed—to telepathically communicate with the redhead in the middle of the room.

  He did not, in fact, have that skill.

  A canvas, the one in front of her, was blackened. Charred.

  Lockwood tilted her head. “The paint melted.”

  Reid crossed her arms. “Heat-based shading.”

  Hawthorne considered this. “Art is… evolving.”

  Lockwood wrote something down anyway.

  They reached the library.

  Garrett slowed, dread coiling tight in his chest.

  Lockwood’s hand reached for a book.

  “No,” the librarian whispered, eyes wild.

  Too late.

  Before the cover could fully open, the Maples at the central table exploded.

  “That edition is misprinted!”

  “No, it’s the translation that’s flawed!”

  Chairs scraped back. A book slapped down hard enough to echo.

  “Chapter four contradicts itself!”

  “Only if you can’t read the subtext.”

  “The underlying energy flow—”

  “—is a METAPHOR,” another Maple snapped instantly. “For political influence.”

  “Say that again and I’ll cite you into the ground.”

  Voices layered over one another, rapid and merciless, fingers jabbing at pages, arguments branching and multiplying like wildfire.

  Hawthorne paused mid-step.

  Lockwood slowly withdrew her hand.

  “…Is this,” Hawthorne asked carefully, “part of the curriculum?”

  The librarian straightened, clutching a stack of returns like a shield.

  “Independent analysis,” she said firmly.

  One Maple slammed a book shut. “And peer review.”

  Garrett, heart still attempting to exit his body, gave the faintest, most reverent thumbs-up of his life.

  The infirmary came next.

  Garrett felt it before they even stepped inside.

  Too large.

  Too clean.

  Too prepared.

  Sunlight streamed through tall windows, catching on white sheets and neatly aligned beds—too many of them, stretching farther than any normal school clinic had a right to. Cabinets lined the walls. Shelves were stocked with supplies arranged with almost military precision. Not chaotic. Not improvised.

  Intentional.

  Lockwood slowed.

  Her eyes moved once—left to right, top to bottom—cataloguing everything.

  “Why so many beds?” she asked.

  Garrett didn’t hesitate. “Teenagers.”

  Hawthorne nodded immediately, the weary understanding of a man who had survived adolescence. “…Yes.”

  Lockwood’s gaze lingered.

  “You expect injuries?”

  “Constantly,” Garrett replied. “Exploration. Climbing. Poor judgment. A heroic belief in personal invincibility.”

  Half the school budget vanishes into medical supplies. And for once, I don’t have to lie about it.

  Hawthorne smiled faintly. “That tracks.”

  The Elms stood at attention near the far wall, hands clasped behind their backs, faces neutral to the point of severity. Too disciplined for a school infirmary.

  Too still.

  Like guards.

  Like sentries.

  Like people who had rehearsed standing still.

  Lockwood noticed. Of course she did.

  “They’re very… organized,” she said.

  “Medical volunteers,” Garrett said smoothly. “Elm Ridge prides itself on preparedness.”

  One student inclined their head in silent confirmation.

  Another adjusted a bandage roll by a fraction of an inch so it lined up perfectly with the rest.

  Hawthorne gestured to the shelves. “That’s a lot of supplies.”

  “We’d rather be overprepared than negligent,” Garrett said.

  And all this only lasts one week.

  Garrett clenched his fists and forced them still.

  Lockwood picked up a folded cloth. Examined it. Clean. Plain. Harmless.

  She set it back exactly where it had been.

  Her gaze flicked once—just once—toward a locked cabinet at the far end of the room.

  Garrett’s pulse spiked.

  “Standard medical practice,” he said, preemptively. “Restricted items.”

  Lockwood hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

  The Elms did not move.

  They did not fidget.

  They did not breathe wrong.

  They stood like people who knew precisely what they were protecting.

  And exactly how much trouble it would cause if anyone asked the wrong question.

  After a moment, Lockwood turned away.

  “Efficient,” she said.

  Garrett let out a breath he had not realized he was holding.

  Outside again, Lockwood paused mid-step.

  A scorch mark marred the stone path.

  “What caused this?”

  Ermin, passing by, answered without hesitation.

  “Night activities. Camping.”

  “On stone,” Lockwood said.

  “Educational,” Ermin replied.

  Garrett exhaled so hard his vision blurred. He grabbed Ermin by the sleeve.

  “You’re with me now,” he hissed.

  They rounded the corner—and immediately hit scaffolding.

  Boards. Rope. Warning signs.

  AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

  STRUCTURAL INSTABBILITY

  Garrett’s eye twitched. Instabbility?!

  Hawthorne stopped. “What’s this?”

  Garrett felt his pulse spike. “Construction.”

  “On what?”

  “Maintenance,” Ermin said flatly. “Stone fatigue.”

  Lockwood peered past the scaffolding, clearly wanting to go in.

  “It’s unsafe,” Garrett said quickly. “I’d hate for the Registry to be liable.”

  Lockwood considered. Then nodded once.

  Garrett nearly collapsed.

  They hadn’t gone three steps before Mr. Cornwall appeared, shouting about locked doors and missing paper slips.

  Blake intercepted him with alarming skill, one arm wrapped around Mr. Cornwall’s shoulder, steering him away.

  Francis appeared with “tea”, and handed it to him.

  Cornwall drank it.

  Francis nodded once to Garrett.

  Garrett nodded back.

  They did not speak of it.

  Then they inspected the locked room, filled with crates, and swords.

  Hawthorne gestured. “Why are these stored here?”

  Oak Crest students straightened as one.

  “Drama club,” a boy said. “Knight play.”

  Hawthorne raised a brow. “Authentic.”

  “We believe in realism.”

  Lockwood stared at the blades for a long moment.

  Then nodded.

  Lunch came with chaos, but a lot less than usual because Garrett had stationed at least two Birches at every table to supervise manners.

  Now there was just noise, movement, and food enough to feed an army.

  “This seems excessive,” Hawthorne observed.

  Garrett smiled weakly. “Teenagers.”

  Hawthorne sighed. “…Fair.”

  By the time they returned to the courtyard, Garrett was operating purely on instinct.

  Lockwood closed her notebook.

  “Very well,” she said. “Your school is… remarkable.”

  Garrett nearly wept.

  “There is only one matter left.”

  He froze.

  “You listed eight dormitories,” she continued. “We’d like to inspect all of them.”

  Garrett aged ten years.