Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cater Diamond had always been one of the popular kids at school—rich, clever, stylish, a Magicam influencer who seemed to live a charmed life.

Or so he wanted everyone to believe.

No one could have begun to imagine the dark truth behind the Diamond household.

His mother, Lady Diamond—better known by her stage name, Madame Diamant—was the daughter of an old elite family and a fashion designer who launched her own brand, Diamant, at just nineteen. Two years later, she married an actuary named Mr. Periclase, who had fallen deeply in love with her. What he never realized was that her affection was far less sincere: Madame Diamant had married only for his money, at a time when her company was under financial strain.

She bore twin daughters, Vira and Vanica, who were groomed from birth to inherit the fashion empire. Cater’s arrival two years later had been unplanned—and unwanted.

Madame Diamant despised her son, and she raised her daughters to do the same.

Periclase’s career was in high demand, and his work kept the family constantly on the move. Frequently gone for days at a time and blinded by devotion to his wife and daughters, he remained unaware that, in his absence, Cater was treated less like a brother than a servant.

Constantly catering to his sisters’ every whim left Cater with no time for himself—no chance to hang out with the few friends he managed to make, no extracurriculars, not even the peace to do his homework.

The only friendships he managed to maintain were with three boys he met during the Diamonds’ longest stay in one place: two months in the Queendom of Roses. There was Riddle Rosehearts, the only child of two doctors, so tightly controlled by his mother that he had to sneak out just to play; Trey Clover, the dependable eldest son of a local baker with more siblings than he could count; and Artemiy ‘Chenya’ Pinker, a carefree heir raised under the indulgent eye of his grandfather.

Cater clung to those friendships whenever he could, though keeping them alive was harder than he cared to admit. The Diamonds never stayed anywhere long enough for him to feel settled, and every time he thought he might build something like a real home, his father’s job whisked them away again. Letters went unanswered, calls grew less frequent, and eventually Cater stopped expecting his friends to still remember him by the next move.

At home, life only grew lonelier. Vira and Vanica flourished under their mother’s eye, praised for their poise, their beauty, their talent—every dress they modeled, every runway appearance carefully staged to showcase them as the future of Diamant. Cater, meanwhile, was relegated to the background, useful only as an errand boy or scapegoated whenever something went wrong.

He learned quickly that smiling made things easier. If he acted unbothered, if he played the part of the easygoing brother who never complained, then his sisters grew bored of tormenting him faster. If he joked instead of sulked, the sting of his mother’s sharp words didn’t seem to cut quite so deep.

As Cater grew older, the mask became second nature. On the outside, Cater Diamond looked untouchable: the guy who always knew the latest trend, who turned even a bad hair day into a fashion statement, who laughed off insults and brushed past loneliness like it was nothing.

But behind closed doors, the mask slipped. Late at night, when the rest of the household was asleep, Cater would lie awake staring at the ceiling, wondering what it would feel like to be wanted—for who he was, not for how well he could play along.

By the time he reached his teens, the divide in the Diamond household had only widened. Vira and Vanica bloomed under the constant praise of their mother, already appearing in magazines as the next shining faces of the Diamant brand. Their schedules brimmed with fittings, photoshoots, and exclusive galas. Cater’s, by contrast, was filled with chores, ‘favors’ for his sisters, and the endless expectation that he’d be useful but never noticed.

School offered no escape. His sisters spread rumors to undercut him, their mother whispered poison in the ears of teachers and acquaintances, and no matter how much effort he put in, it was never ‘enough’. He wasn’t smart enough, charming enough, talented enough—at least, not compared to Vira and Vanica.

So he reinvented himself.

Every morning, Cater practiced his smile in the mirror until it looked effortless. He memorized the latest trends, tracked what Magicam’s rising stars were posting, and built an online presence that sparkled brighter than anything his real life could offer. If his family was determined to treat him as invisible, then he would craft a persona the rest of the world couldn’t ignore.

His following grew. Soon, strangers praised him for his confidence, his style, his carefree energy. For the first time in his life, Cater felt seen. It didn’t matter that it was all curated, a performance. It didn’t matter that he often scrolled through the comments late at night with a hollow ache in his chest. If people believed in ‘Cay-Cay the Magicam star’, maybe—just maybe—he could believe in him, too.

By the time he turned fifteen, Cater had perfected the act. At school, he was the social butterfly, always up on the latest gossip. At home, he laughed off his sisters’ barbs, knowing better than to show how much they stung. With his father constantly away and his mother uninterested in anything beyond her empire, Cater had only himself to rely on.

Then came the coveted NRC Acceptance Letter.

Night Raven College: an elite arcane academy, known for training some of the most powerful and influential mages in the world. It was the chance Cater hadn’t dared hope for—a chance to step out of the shadows of the Diamond household and create a life of his own.

His mother sneered when she saw the letter, dismissing it as a waste of time. “You’ll be naught but a distraction,” she told him, as she always did. His sisters laughed, certain he would come crawling back after failing to measure up.

Cater smiled, as he always did. He posted a celebratory picture on Magicam, all flashing peace signs and cheerful emojis.

But beneath the glow of his phone screen, a new thought pulsed in his chest:

For once, he wasn’t just running away.

For once, he had a chance to be more than the mask.

Chapter Text

Stepping into the Mirror Chamber at Night Raven College, Cater couldn’t help but gawk at the sprawling columns, the looming gargoyles, the sheer otherworldly grandeur of it all. Even with his feed already stocked with filtered shots of the school, the real thing still made his stomach flutter. For once, he wasn’t ‘Madame Diamant’s disappointment’ or ‘Vira and Vanica’s errand boy’.

Here, he was simply Cater Diamond.

A freshman. A blank slate.

He adjusted his collar, plastered on his practiced grin, and sauntered into the crowd of other first-years—only to stop short when he spotted a familiar face.

“Trey?”

The other boy turned, blinking in surprise. For a heartbeat Cater wondered if he was mistaken, but then Trey Clover’s expression broke into a wide, warm smile.

“Cater? No way—it’s really you!”

Cater laughed, half in disbelief, half in relief. “Talk about a glow-up, Trey! You didn’t tell me you were aiming for NRC!”

“Didn’t think I’d make it in,” Trey said with a chuckle, adjusting his glasses. “Looks like we’ll be classmates again, huh?”

Before Cater could answer, a singsong voice echoed from his other side.

“Caaaterrr~!” Chenya slowly materialized into view, first his head, then the rest of his body. He flashed a sharp-toothed smile.

“You two just couldn’t stay outta trouble without me, huh?”

Cater’s jaw dropped. “Chenya?! What are you—wait, don’t tell me…”

“Royal Sword Academy,” Chenya said proudly, puffing out his chest. “Freshman, same as you. And guess what? It’s right across the island. Looks like we’re neighbors again!”

The three of them burst into laughter, their voices overlapping in a way that felt startlingly natural, as if no time had passed since the Queendom of Roses.

Cater’s grin this time wasn’t practiced, wasn’t painted on—it was real. He hadn’t expected to find anyone familiar here, let alone two of the only people who had ever treated him like more than a shadow.

“Okay, okay,” Chenya said, waving a baggy sleeve as he faded back out of sight. “Sorting ceremonies, boring rules, whatever—we’ll get them over with. But afterward, meet me in town. I wanna hear everything.”

“You got it,” Trey agreed easily.

“Deal,” Cater said, his chest lighter than it had been in years. For once, he didn’t need to force the brightness in his voice. “After sorting, it’s a date!”

Later that evening, when the Dark Mirror declared both Cater Diamond and Trey Clover as new residents of Heartslabyul, Cater felt the threads of something he hadn’t had in a long time: a home worth claiming.

The town between the two schools was alive with lantern light and chatter, the cobblestone streets crowded with students from both schools and island residents alike. Vendors called out over sizzling food stalls, shop windows glittered with enchanted trinkets, and the salty sea breeze carried laughter through the air.

Cater slipped through the crowd, waving off greetings from strangers who already recognized him from his Magicam posts earlier that day. He’d made a point to document his first steps into NRC—perfect smile, perfect angle—but tonight wasn’t about the followers. Tonight was about something he hadn’t dared hope for: being with friends.

He spotted Trey first, leaning against the wall outside a little café, hands in his pockets, posture as relaxed as ever. Chenya dangled upside-down from the café’s signpost overhead like it was the most natural perch in the world, tail swishing lazily.

“There he is!” Chenya crowed, flipping down to land right in front of Cater. “Fashionably late, as always.”

“Hey, gotta keep the brand alive,” Cater said with a wink, though the grin that followed was genuine.

Trey chuckled and waved them both inside. “I got us a table. Let’s catch up properly.”

They squeezed into a booth in the corner, ordering pastries and tea from a floating menu. The moment the plates arrived, Chenya dug in with wild abandon, smearing jelly from a filled donut all over his face.

“So, spill,” Chenya said through a mouthful of tart. “What’s NRC like? Anybody set fire to the hallways yet? Or was Orientation nothin’ to write home about for once?”

Cater laughed, leaning back in his chair. “Sorting was… intense. The Dark Mirror sizes you up, stares into your soul, and then—bam—‘Heartslabyul’. Trey landed there too, so at least I won’t be suffering alone.”

Trey smirked. “That makes two of us. I’m already bracing for strict rules and late-night studying.”

“Pfft, bo-ring,” Chenya said, waving a hand. “RSA’s got style. Singing, dancing, dueling—oh, and Headmage Ambrose made this big dramatic speech about destiny or whatever. I almost conked out halfway through.”

“#ClassicChenya,” Cater said, shaking his head. “Still allergic to authority, huh?”

“You know it!”

“So… how’s Riddle been?” Cater asked, trying to sound casual.

Both Trey and Chenya’s expressions immediately fell.

“Literally two days after you left, Riddle finally got busted,” Chenya said solemnly.

“Dr. Rosehearts screamed at everyone for, like, half an hour before dragging him home by the ear,” Trey added. “She was redder than a maraschino cherry. I swear, I had nightmares afterward.”

“And we ain’t seen him since,” Chenya finished.

Cater frowned, tapping his fingers on the table. “Wow… that’s… awful. Poor guy.”

Trey nodded. “Yeah. Rules are one thing, but she… she really went off the rails. Even I didn’t dare breathe near her.”

Chenya slumped in his seat, tail flicking irritably. “I mean, he’s fine, technically. But seeing him hauled off like that? Man… it’s brutal. He’s probably hiding in his room, plotting his revenge or crying into his pillow. Maybe both.”

Cater chuckled softly, though his eyes were clouded with worry. “I hate that I’m not there to help him.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Trey said gently. “You couldn’t have done anything from where you were. And honestly… we’d probably have made it worse anyway.”

Chenya grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “Speak for yourself. I’d have walked right into her wrath just to mess with her. Classic Chenya, remember?”

Cater smirked despite himself. “Yeah… I remember. But still, it sucks that Riddle’s stuck there all alone.”

A quiet moment fell over the table. For once, there were no jokes, no sarcasm, no Magicam-ready quips—just three guys thinking about the friend they couldn’t reach.

Then Chenya broke the silence with a dramatic flourish, pointing a powdered-finger at Cater. “Okay, enough doom and gloom. Tonight’s about us. Riddle can survive a few days without us screwin’ around, and when he finally resurfaces, he’ll be lucky to see how awesome we are.”

Cater laughed, the tension finally easing from his shoulders. “Yeah… you’re right. Tonight, we catch up. Tomorrow, we deal with the rest of the world.”

“And make sure NRC knows not to mess with Heartslabyul’s finest,” Trey added, smirking.

“Exactly,” Cater said, raising his tea in a mock toast. “To friends, past and present. And to surviving without accidentally burning down the school.”

The three of them clinked cups, laughter spilling into the night, carrying a rare warmth that even Cater’s carefully curated social mask couldn’t fake. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he belonged somewhere—somewhere that wasn’t dictated by his mother, his sisters, or even the spotlight he usually hid behind.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Cater woke to the scent of flour and sugar. For a brief, dreamy moment, he thought he was back in the Queendom of Roses, sneaking into Trey’s family bakery before sunrise. Then he blinked, glanced around, and remembered he was in his shiny new Heartslabyul dorm room.

Trey was already dressed, hair neat, apron tied over his Heartslabyul uniform as he kneaded a small lump of dough on a makeshift board.

“You’re kidding,” Cater mumbled, not bothering to pull the blankets off his face. “We’ve been here one night, and you’re already baking?”

“Stress relief,” Trey said simply, smiling faintly. “Besides, it makes the place feel a little more like home.”

Cater groaned theatrically but finally peeked out from under the blankets. Their room wasn’t anything like the grand family estate he’d grown up in—just a bunk bed (Cater in the top bunk, Trey on the bottom), two desks, and a wardrobe each. But already, Trey had a small potted plant in the window and an orderly stack of books on his desk. Cater’s side, by contrast, had decayed into a mess of clothes, accessories, and his ever-present phone charger.

“You’re really leaning into the #ReliableBigBro thing, huh?” Cater said, stretching. “Guess it balances out my ‘fun, carefree roommate’ vibe.”

“Guess so,” Trey agreed, but there was a knowing look in his eyes.

Cater ignored it, grabbing his phone and snapping a picture of the sunlight streaming through the curtains. Within seconds, it was up on Magicam: New dorm, new adventures *peace sign hand emoji* #NRC #Heartslabyul #FreshmanLife.

Classes began quickly, and Heartslabyul’s rules made themselves known even quicker. Between the Queen’s 810 Rules, the schedule packed with lectures, and the looming presence of certain professors, Cater found himself juggling more than he expected. Trey seemed to thrive in the routine, calmly following the rules, offering explanations when others grew confused. Cater, meanwhile, smiled and joked his way through, earning popularity among his peers but hiding the fact that half the time, he was just barely keeping up.

At night, when the noise of the dorm finally quieted, Cater would flop back onto his bunk, scrolling endlessly through his feed. Trey, usually reading by the lamplight, would glance up and ask, “You okay?”

“Yeah, totes,” Cater would reply, never missing a beat. “Just checking up on my followers. Gotta keep the brand alive, y’know?”

But sometimes, when Trey didn’t press further, Cater caught himself staring at the little potted plant by the window. The way it leaned toward the sunlight. The way Trey cared for it without ever making a show of it.

And he wondered—if anyone ever looked at him the same way.

Life in Heartslabyul quickly fell into a rhythm—though ‘rhythm’ meant something very different for Trey and Cater.

By the third evening, Trey’s desk was already neat as a shop counter: books aligned by subject, a tidy notebook laid open, pen at the ready. Cater’s side looked like a boutique had exploded—scarves draped over the chair, a half-unpacked suitcase spilling across the floor, phone cords tangled in jewelry chains.

And yet, somehow, it worked.

“You’re not seriously going to leave that there, are you?” Trey asked one night, pointing at the glittering pile of bracelets stacked on Cater’s desk.

“Of course,” Cater replied, lounging on his bed with his phone above his face. “It’s called aesthetic clutter, Trey. Super trendy right now.”

Trey gave him a long look, then shook his head and returned to his notes. “If you say so.”

“Don’t worry,” Cater said with a grin. “I’ll make sure my chaos doesn’t spill over to your half. Pinky promise.”

The days were busy with lessons and endless rules drilled into them, but the quiet evenings became their own small refuge. Trey often studied late, the warm glow of the desk lamp outlining his calm, steady posture. Cater, after his nightly post to Magicam, would sometimes catch himself lowering his phone and watching him.

“You really don’t get rattled, huh?” Cater asked once, half-teasing but half-curious.

Trey looked up. “Not much point in losing your head over things. Somebody’s gotta stay steady.”

Cater laughed, but it came out softer than he intended. “Guess that makes me the fun roomie, then.”

“Fun,” Trey said, smiling faintly. “Sure. That’s one word for it.”

Cater pretended to pout, but his chest tightened at the gentle honesty in Trey’s voice. Most people only ever saw the mask—the jokes, the filters, the easy charm. Trey saw him, or at least little pieces of him, and didn’t call him out on it.

The first real crack in the mask came a week later. Cater had flopped down on his bed after class, still grinning at a joke some Scarabia guy had made, when his phone buzzed with a notification from home. His smile froze. He didn’t move until the screen dimmed, hiding the message.

Trey noticed, of course. “Bad news?”

Cater blinked, then forced a laugh as he quickly swiped the message away. “Nah. Just family crap. Y’know. The usual.”

Trey didn’t press, didn’t pry. He simply turned a page in his book, his quiet presence steady as ever. Cater sank deeper into his bunk, grateful and guilty all at once.

That night, his Magicam post was brighter than ever—peace signs, emojis, captions full of cheer. But once the light was out and Trey’s breathing had evened into sleep, Cater lay awake staring at the ceiling, the mask slipping in the dark.

And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel completely alone.

Chapter Text

The quiet rhythm of dorm life didn’t last long. At the end of the first week, the school’s students were herded into the Cafeteria for a ‘mandatory networking event’ that turned out to be little more than a glorified mixer. Long tables groaned with food, chandeliers blazed with enchanted light, and the air buzzed with nervous chatter as students from every dorm gathered.

Cater leaned on the back of his chair, phone poised. “Mandatory or not, this is #PrimeContent. Lighting’s perfect, food’s immaculate… shame the crowd’s a little stiff.”

“Maybe try eating before photographing everything,” Trey suggested dryly, filling his plate with something simple.

Cater waved him off—then froze when he spotted who else was in the room.

Leona Kingscholar lounged near the far wall, posture lazy but gaze sharp, like a lion waiting for prey. His uniform was worn loose, his dark brown hair ruffled, his whole aura screaming don’t screw with me unless ya feel like bookin’ a hospital stay. Cater nudged Trey. “Wait, isn’t that the Sunset Savannah’s second prince? What’s he doing slumming it here?”

“Same reason as the rest of us,” Trey murmured. “Guess NRC doesn’t care about royal bloodlines.”

Across the room, another figure drew nearly the opposite kind of attention. Vil Schoenheit, already a household name as both actor and supermodel, carried himself with effortless poise, his sharp violet eyes scanning the crowd like a spotlight. Every movement seemed deliberate, every gesture polished. Students whispered his name as he passed, but he paid them no mind.

“Talk about #StarPower,” Cater said under his breath. “Kinda makin’ me look like a B-lister over here.”

“Don’t start,” Trey said, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Then came the Shroud brothers. Idia Shroud appeared only briefly, a mass of flaming blue hair and a hunched posture that radiated plz don’t talk 2 me. Before anyone could approach, he had already retreated to the corner, fiddling with his tablet. His ‘little brother’, Ortho, was by far the smallest one here—though his polite smile, mechanical movements, and faint metallic gleam made it clear he wasn’t human.

“An android?” Cater whispered, eyes wide. “No way.”

“Keep your voice down,” Trey warned, though he looked just as curious.

And then the room shifted. Conversation dipped as a new presence entered—tall, pale, with horns that brushed the chandelier light. Malleus Draconia, crown prince of Briar Valley, exuded a quiet power that seemed to darken the very air around him. Students instinctively stepped back as he passed, uncertain whether to bow or flee.

Floating at his side was a much smaller figure, grinning as if nothing in the world could faze him. Lilia Vanrouge, Malleus’s rumored bodyguard, hummed cheerfully as he snagged a pastry from the buffet. The contrast between the looming prince and the carefree soldier was jarring, almost comical.

“Okay,” Cater whispered, gripping Trey’s sleeve. “So NRC is… way above my pay grade. Like, why are all these #VIPs here?”

“Same reason as us,” Trey said calmly, taking a sip of tea. “They’ve got talent. They want to hone it. Don’t psych yourself out.”

“Easy for you to say,” Cater muttered, sneaking a quick selfie with the crowd in the background. “You’re not competing with, like, actual royalty and supermodels.”

Trey gave him a steady look. “No one’s asking you to. Just be yourself.”

Cater smiled for the camera, peace sign raised high. But inside, he wondered:

Was ‘himself’ really going to be enough around here?

Cater was in the middle of snapping another discreet shot when a shadow fell over the table.

“Takin’ selfies at a mixer?” drawled a voice, low and edged with boredom. “Bold move for an herbivore.”

They both looked up to find Leona Kingscholar standing there, hands shoved in his pockets. His feline-green eyes flicked from Cater’s phone to Trey’s plate.

Cater laughed a little too quickly, tucking the device away. “What can I say? Gotta document the vibes. No harm in that, right?”

Leona smirked faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Depends. You plannin’ to post those, or keep ‘em for yourself?”

“Depends on the lighting,” Cater shot back with a grin. “If it doesn’t flatter me, it’s not seeing the light of day.”

Trey sighed softly, trying to head off whatever this was. “You’re Leona, right? From Savanaclaw? I’m Trey Clover, this is Cater Diamond.”

Leona’s gaze lingered on Trey for a moment before he shrugged. “Yeah… Don’t expect me to remember names.” And just like that, he slouched off toward the quieter end of the cafeteria.

Cater exhaled. “Whew. Guess that’s the royal way of saying ‘nice to meet ya’.”

Before Trey could reply, another presence slid into the conversation like a knife through silk.

“You might want to be careful about who you antagonize, spudling,” said Vil Schoenheit, his voice perfectly smooth. He regarded Cater with cool violet eyes, posture immaculate even as he leaned slightly against their table. “Leona is not someone who tolerates frivolity.”

Cater blinked, starstruck. “Wait—you’re Vil Schoenheit. Like, the Vil Schoenheit.”

Vil arched a perfectly-sculpted brow. “So I’m told.”

Trey nodded politely. “We’ve heard a lot about you. It’s… surprising to see someone with your career here.”

Vil’s expression softened—barely. “My work is important, yes. But mastery requires refinement. NRC provides that, even for me.” He glanced at Cater again, lips curving faintly. “And if you insist on flaunting yourself with those little snapshots, at least make sure the angles are worthy. The world remembers bad photographs just as keenly as good ones.”

Cater flushed. “Ouch. Guess that’s a pro tip from the top.”

“Take it as a kindness,” Vil replied, already turning away, his hair catching the light like spun gold. “Not everyone will bother to correct your flaws.”

When he was gone, Cater slumped back in his chair. “Okay, note to self: NRC’s freshman class is terrifying. One lazy prince who could eat me alive, and one movie star who just roasted my entire existence.”

Trey chuckled, finally taking a bite of his food. “Look on the bright side. At least they noticed you.”

Cater was still nursing his bruised ego when a mechanical whir broke through the din.

“Excuse me—are you two from Heartslabyul?”

They turned to find Ortho hovering a foot off the ground, framed by a blue glow, with shining eyes and a cheerful grin.

“That’s us,” Trey said cautiously. “And you are…?”

“Ortho Shroud!” The boy extended a metal-clad hand with surprising enthusiasm. “Ignihyde freshman. Well, technically not a student in the ordinary sense—we’re a package deal. My brother’s the genius—Idia Shroud. He’s around here somewhere… probably hiding.”

Cater blinked, then quickly shook Ortho’s hand. “Whoa, you’re, like… a legit android? That’s amazing!”

Ortho beamed at the praise, the lights in his frame pulsing gently. “Thanks! My brother designed and built me himself. Ignihyde’s really into cutting-edge technology, so I’ll fit right in. You guys should stop by sometime—we’ve got the best VR setups on the island!”

“Sounds like a blast,” Trey said warmly.

Cater leaned in with a grin. “Do those setups include, like, social filters? Because I think I could use one after getting roasted by Vil just now.”

Ortho tilted his head. “I can design one for you if you’d like! It’d be fun to test.”

Trey chuckled. “Careful, Cater. He might actually do it.”

Before Cater could retort, the hall’s hum dipped ever so slightly. A presence approached—not loud, not flashy, but unmistakable. The crowd seemed to part without thinking, and into that space hovered two shadows, one much taller than the other.

“Malleus Draconia,” Trey murmured, recognizing him instantly from whispered introductions earlier.

Ortho perked up. “Oh! Prince Malleus, sir!” He zoomed a little higher, waving enthusiastically. “Over here!”

Malleus paused, eyes drifting toward the table. His gaze was cool but not unkind as it fell on Trey and Cater. “Heartslabyul students.”

Cater, caught mid-gulp of soda, nearly choked. “Y-yeah, that’s us! Cater Diamond and Trey Clover, at your service.”

Malleus inclined his head slightly, then glanced toward Ortho. “You are far from Ignihyde’s wing, little one. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Of course! Everyone’s so interesting,” Ortho chirped. “I was just telling them they should come visit our dorm!”

Before the conversation could stiffen, Lilia leaned forward with a chuckle. “Don’t look so tense, boys. Our young prince may be imposing, but he’s quite harmless when he’s not frying ignorant fools with lightning.”

Cater’s eyes went wide. “You’re joking, right?”

Lilia winked. “...Mostly.”

Trey exhaled slowly, managing a polite smile. “Well… it’s an honor to meet you both. This year’s new recruits are certainly more impressive than I expected.”

Malleus studied him for a moment, unreadable. Then, very softly, he said, “We shall see.” With that, he moved on, Lilia floating after him like a mischievous shadow.

As soon as they were gone, Cater slumped into his chair again. “Okay, I’m officially calling it: this school is a circus. A really, really dangerous circus.”

Ortho giggled, hovering beside them like it was all perfectly normal.

When the networking event at last wound down, the two Heartslabyul freshmen trudged back to their dorm room and kicked off their shoes—Trey collapsing into his desk chair while Cater hauled himself up the ladder to the top bunk.

“Whoooo!” Cater groaned. “Cay-Cay’s head is spinning like Cray-Cray!

“Yeah, no kidding,” Trey replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t think we’d be rubbing elbows with so many high-and-mighty types in one night.”

Cater peeked over the edge of the bunk, hair falling into his eyes. “I mean, can you believe that? Future king, second prince, A-list celebrity, tech genius—bam, bam, bam, all lined up like trading cards. This place is stacked, dude.”

Trey gave a short laugh. “Yeah. Kinda makes two ordinary Joes like us feel out of place, doesn’t it?”

“Puh-LEEZ. Don’t sell yourself short, Trey-Trey. You’ve got the #ReliableStraightMan market cornered.” Cater grinned and flopped back onto his pillow. “And me? I’m destined to go viral someday. Just you watch. NRC is my stage.”

“You mean our shared dorm room is your stage.”

“Details, details.”

Trey shook his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “Still, it’s a lot to take in. Heartslabyul’s rules are one thing, but I wasn’t expecting to be classmates with royalty and household names. Makes you wonder how long we’ll be able to keep up.”

“Aw, you worry too much,” Cater said. “Stick with me, and we’ll surf the chaos together. Who knows? Maybe all those big-shots are just as messed up as the rest of us.”

The room went quiet for a moment, only the faint hum of the lamp filling the space. Trey leaned back in his chair, thoughtful, while Cater stared at the ceiling, already imagining the stories he’d spin out of their first week.

“Guess tomorrow’s when things really start,” Trey murmured at last.

“Yep,” Cater replied, voice already going drowsy. “Bring it on.”

Chapter Text

As the semester progressed, a pattern began to emerge.

Trey was the kind of student professors loved—prepared, steady, and quiet. His neat notes stacked in precise piles on his desk, he always seemed to know when to raise his hand with the right answer. Most of his grades came back stamped with solid A’s, the occasional B only because he didn’t have time to proofread an essay before lights out.

Cater, on the other hand, was a different story. His notebooks were covered in doodles, half-filled sentences, and the occasional smudge of ink where he’d clearly rushed to finish before the bell. He scraped by on C’s and a smattering of B’s, always just enough to avoid a lecture from the professors.

“Another ‘See me after class!’, huh?” Trey asked one afternoon as they walked back from Alchemy.

Cater flashed him a grin, waving a folded assignment in the air. “All part of the Cay-Cay charm. I’m keepin’ the bar low so when I do ace something, it’ll blow everybody’s minds.”

Trey gave him a look. “Or you could just study.”

“Ugh, boring,” Cater groaned dramatically, throwing his arm over his forehead like a stage actor in distress. “Besides, what good are grades when you’ve got personality? That’s the real magic here.”

“Tell that to Professor Crewel,” Trey muttered.

Despite his lackluster academics, Cater managed to stay afloat thanks to his knack for networking. He’d already memorized the names of half the dorm, knew exactly who to sit next to for easy conversation, and had somehow finagled extra help sessions by charming upperclassmen into sharing their notes.

Meanwhile, Trey quietly shouldered the role of ‘the responsible one’, making sure Cater didn’t forget deadlines or wander into the wrong classroom while engrossed in Magicam. It was unspoken, but everyone around them had already pegged Trey as the dependable straight-man to Cater’s showman.

One evening, while Trey was finishing an essay at his desk, Cater peeked down from the top bunk.

“Hey, don’t look so stressed, roomie. You’re killin’ it. Straight A’s and all.”

Trey adjusted his glasses, not looking up. “Grades aren’t everything. They’re just… proof I’m keeping up.”

Cater smirked. “Well, I’m living proof you can get by without ‘em. #Yin&Yang, right? We balance each other.”

Trey chuckled softly. “Yeah… balance.”

But he couldn’t help wondering just how long that balance would last.

Especially because, unbeknownst to them, stricter Heartslabyul rules were looming on the horizon.

Before they knew it, the winter holiday had arrived. While everyone else rushed around packing their bags, Cater was internally dreading six weeks back under his mother’s thumb, though he never let it show. He kept smiling, kept laughing, kept cracking little jokes as if he couldn’t wait to be home again.

Diamant Manor loomed over him when he finally arrived, a castle-like sprawl of glass and stone. From the outside, it screamed luxury. From the inside, it felt like a cage. The moment he stepped through the front gate, the weight settled on his shoulders.

“Catie, fetch our bags!”

“Catie, take our coats!”

“Catie, stand straight when you greet the guests!”

The routine was suffocatingly familiar. Vira and Vanica had their tutors, their music lessons, their dances. Cater had errands, carrying, cleaning, keeping out of the way unless called upon—always presentable, always agreeable, always polished. An accessory in Madame Diamant’s perfect picture of family life.

He played his role flawlessly. Nobody noticed the strain.

Every day began the same way, with Madame Diamant’s voice calling down the hall before sunrise. Her slight French accent clipped his name into quatre—too elegant, too sharp, too unlike him. Then came the list: escort the girls to their lessons, pick up fabric from the tailor, stand quietly and smile while tutors praised his sisters’ progress. Cater was the extra pair of hands, the background piece—helpful, cheerful, never allowed to show fatigue.

“Cater, stop slouching.”

“Cater, fix your collar.”

“Cater, you will smile when the neighbors are watching.”

The orders never stopped.

“Oh, Catie, be a dear and carry these upstairs, won’t you?” Vanica would sing, brushing past without a glance.

“And don’t wrinkle them,” Vira would add. “Mother will have your head if you do.”

Their superiority was effortless. They didn’t need to order him cruelly; it was simply understood that he filled the gaps. Fetching bags, fetching tea, fetching approval he never seemed to earn.

Madame Diamant praised her daughters’ accomplishments, spoke of their bright futures, and turned to Cater only to correct his posture, his tone, his hair. He knew how to smile, how to nod, how to agree—but inside, it hollowed him out.

The second his bedroom door clicked shut, his face went slack.

Only at night, alone with the glow of his phone, did the mask slip. He scrolled through NRC photos, posted meaningless snaps with cheerful captions, and whispered promises to himself.

“Six more weeks.”

“Five more weeks.”

“One third down, two to go.”

The countdown was the only thing that made the holiday bearable.

Silence pressed heavy. He stared at his phone for hours, scrolling through nothing, snapping pictures of meaningless objects—his shoe, the ceiling, half a smile in the mirror. He uploaded a few with sunny captions, just enough to keep up the illusion.

By the fourth week, his chest felt like it was caving in. His mother’s praise for his obedience made his stomach twist. Errands blurred together until he wasn’t even sure what day it was anymore.

And still, each night, the ritual repeated. His phone glowing faintly in the dark, his whispers counting down the time.

“Just two more weeks.”

“Just one more week.”

“Just a few more days.”

Back on campus, Cater slipped seamlessly into his role again. He was Cay-Cay, the guy who always had a wink, a joke, a funny story about the chaos of school life. He posted selfies in the cafeteria with cheerful captions, tagged Trey and Chenya in a few staged candids, and dropped compliments on classmates’ feeds like confetti. Nobody questioned it—why would they?

“Bro, you always look like you just walked out of a magazine,” one of the second-years commented as Cater leaned back in his chair, phone in hand.

“Guess I just woke up flawless,” Cater quipped with a grin, slipping the phone back into his pocket like it was nothing.

On the surface, he was doing fine. Classes? Barely keeping up, but he brushed off concern with a breezy laugh. “C’s get degrees, right?” Dorm life? Easy smiles, casual chatter, always offering to snap a group photo. The mask stayed firmly in place.

But when the others headed off to study groups or late-night card games, Cater found excuses to duck out. Sometimes he claimed he had editing to do. Other times he said he was calling home. Really, he just wandered to quiet corners, pulled out his phone, and scrolled through feeds in silence.

The countdown still whispered in the back of his mind. This time, it wasn’t about weeks—it was about semesters.

“Three more months of school.”

“Just get through spring break.”

“Summer vacay'll fly by.”

He told himself the same promises, only now with bigger gaps between them. He had to hold it together. As long as nobody saw the cracks, as long as he kept the smile polished, nobody would know how much he hated the thought of going back.

Chapter Text

Summer came and went.

Trey and Cater found themselves sitting through their second Orientation, watching the Dark Mirror sort a fresh crop of nervous first-years.

Well—watching was generous.

Trey was hunched forward, fighting to keep his eyes open out of sheer boredom. Cater had slouched so far down into his chair that he was practically horizontal, lazily tapping away at some mobile game. Even he was starting to nod off.

That was when Trey jolted upright and shook his shoulder.

“Cater!” he hissed. “Look who just showed up!”

Cater blinked blearily, then turned toward the front.

There before the Dark Mirror stood a boy almost as small as Lilia, with sharp grey eyes and deep red, neatly middle-parted hair that Cater would’ve recognized anywhere.

“State your name,” the Mirror intoned.

“Riddle Rosehearts.”

Cater was suddenly wide awake. He whipped out his phone, snapped a picture on instinct, and shot off a text to Chenya.

CATER: DUDE

CATER: U R NOT GONNA BELIEVE THIS

CATER: [IMAGE]

The reply was instant.

CHENYA: NO. FRICKIN. WAY.

CHENYA: WE’RE ALL BACK TOGETHER AGAIN!!!!!!

After the Sorting Ceremony finally wrapped, the hallways outside the Mirror Chamber were buzzing with students. Trey and Cater slipped out into the crowd, and sure enough, they spotted a familiar redhead standing stiffly at the edge of the Heartslabyul group.

“Riddle!” Cater called, waving as he jogged over. Trey followed at a more measured pace.

For a moment, Riddle’s eyes softened—just for a moment. Then his expression snapped into something tighter, sharper, almost eerily reminiscent of his mother. “Cater. Trey. It’s… good to see you again.”

Before Cater could reply, a shadow dropped down from above a door.

“Surprise!” Chenya popped into view, grinning ear to ear. “Didja miss me, lil’ buddy?”

Cater burst out laughing. “Classic Chenya entrance!”

But Riddle didn’t laugh. He looked from Chenya to Cater to Trey, his jaw tightening. “You three should know better than to disrupt school decorum like this. Orientation just ended, and already you’re behaving like hooligans.”

Cater blinked. “Uh… chill, Riddle. We’re just happy to see you again after—what, four years?”

Riddle folded his arms. “Happy reunions can wait until after proper procedures are followed. There are rules here—rules we must respect. Heartslabyul has standards, and as its members, we’re expected to uphold them without exception.”

Chenya’s grin faltered. “Dude. You sound just like—”

“My mother?” Riddle cut in sharply. “Yes. And for good reason. She was right about discipline being the foundation of success. I won’t tolerate childish antics interfering with my studies—or anyone else’s.”

Cater and Trey exchanged a glance. The boy they remembered sneaking around to grab cookies, the one who’d once begged for five minutes of fresh air, was gone. In his place was a miniature Dr. Rosehearts in red hair and ceremonial robes.

Chenya let out a low whistle. “Yikes. Sounds like somebody’s been drinkin’ castor oil.”

Riddle’s glare could have cut glass.

Cater, still forcing a grin, tried to lighten the mood. “Well… this’ll be fun.”

It didn’t even take a full week.

By the time classes settled into routine, word was already spreading across campus: Heartslabyul had had a change of authority.

The new first-years hadn’t even gotten used to the dorm layout before the Dark Mirror’s smallest recruit was standing in the middle of Heartslabyul’s common room, arms crossed, voice sharp enough to cut stone.

“The Queen’s Rules are not suggestions,” Riddle declared, his tone brooking no argument. “They are mandates. Housewarden Ellery failed to enforce them properly, and so I have taken the responsibility upon myself. Effective immediately, I am Heartslabyul’s Housewarden.”

And just like that, Ellery was dethroned. The older student barely got a word in before Riddle recited chapter and verse of rule violations—missed curfews, improper uniform, unauthorized tea blends, even furniture arrangements that didn’t match the Queen’s precise standards. No one could keep up. Riddle knew the Queen’s Rules better than anyone, and he wielded her rulebook like a blade.

Within days, Heartslabyul transformed. Unbirthday parties began exactly on the clock, with cups aligned to the millimeter. Late homework earned lectures. A misplaced fork could trigger an entire speech on etiquette. Riddle was cracking down on Heartslabyul harder than a cliffside during an earthquake, and every student felt the tremors.

Trey and Cater—already used to Riddle’s mom-shaped discipline—watched the chaos with mixed emotions.

“Yeesh,” Cater whispered one evening as they stood at attention during roll call. “Guy’s going full-on Tyrant Mode.”

Trey adjusted his coat, his face carefully neutral. “He’s just… serious. Maybe too serious.”

“Serious?” Cater muttered under his breath. “He’s one teacup away from a #CoupDetat.”

Across the room, Riddle’s sharp gaze flicked in their direction. Cater immediately plastered on a wide grin.

“Smile and wave, Trey. Just smile and wave.”

By the end of the week, Riddle wasn’t just Housewarden—he had his Vice Housewarden, too.

“Trey Clover,” Riddle announced with all the solemnity of a royal decree. “Your sense of responsibility makes you the only logical choice.”

Trey accepted with his usual calm, though Cater could see the tension in his friend’s shoulders. From that moment on, Trey became Riddle’s second-in-command, the steady hand meant to balance his explosive authority.

Cater, on the other hand, wasn’t given a title. But he might as well have been branded ‘damage control’. Every time Riddle went off about crooked teacups or misquoted Queen’s Rules, it was Cater who swooped in with a grin and a “Hey, don’t take it personally, guys! Riddle’s just super passionate, y’know?” before shoving the conversation toward safer ground.

“Come on, Cater,” Trey muttered one night as they trudged back to their dorm rooms after another exhausting tea ceremony. “You don’t have to cover for him every time.”

Cater flopped onto his bunk with a sigh. “What’s the alternative? Let him bite everybody’s heads off? No thanks. I like my neck attached.”

Trey rubbed his temples. “You’re not wrong. But if this keeps up, the whole dorm’s gonna snap.”

And Trey was right. Already, whispers were circulating through Heartslabyul—upperclassmen muttering about how a first-year had seized the throne, underclassmen terrified to breathe too loudly in case Riddle found fault.

Through it all, Cater kept smiling, kept smoothing things over, kept distracting people with stories or selfies. He played the jester, the easygoing friend, the one who ‘didn’t take it too seriously’.

But every time he scrolled through his phone at night, eyes burning in the dark, he caught himself counting again.

“Three more years.”

“Just three more years of this.”

And then he’d grin at his own reflection on the phone screen.

“Fake it till you make it, Cay-Cay.”

Heartslabyul was suffocating.

Every day brought a new rule, a new lecture, a new punishment for some trivial mistake. Cards had to be stacked in perfect suits before tea. Shoes had to be polished until you could see your reflection. No one dared sit unless the chairs were properly aligned.

And Cater, who was supposed to be the ‘fun upperclassman’, found himself crumbling inside.

He did what he always did: smiled, joked, snapped pictures for Magicam. When dormmates grumbled, he shrugged it off with a laugh.

“Rules, rules, rules, am I right? Gotta love the Heartslabyul life, haha!”

But behind the grin, he was choking.

Every ‘fix your tie’ from Riddle felt like an echo of his mother’s voice. Every ‘stand up straight’ drilled into his ears like he was back home in Diamant Manor, nothing more than a prop. Even when Trey, calm and patient as ever, tried to soften Riddle’s blows, it didn’t stop the orders from coming.

“Cater, correct your posture.”

“Cater, adjust the centerpiece.”

“Cater, your smile looks forced.”

The last one nearly broke him.

Because it was forced. He knew it. He knew Trey probably knew it. But if he let the mask slip—if he stopped being the cheerful Cay-Cay everyone expected—what was left of him?

At night, Cater lay in the dark, phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline. His feed was a blur of bright pictures and captions, all fake, all cheerful. He scrolled through them until his chest ached.

He caught himself whispering again.

“Two years, eleven months. That’s all. Just keep it up for two years, eleven months.”

But the promise wasn’t comforting anymore. It sounded more like a sentence.

And for the first time, he wondered if he could actually last that long.

By mid-semester, Cater’s mask was fraying.

The late nights on Magicam, the endless bragging texts from home, the constant suffocation in Heartslabyul—it all piled up. His coursework slipped through the cracks. What had once been shaky C’s and the occasional B slid further, the neat red ink of ‘Needs Improvement’ bleeding into the margins of his assignments.

And then came the first D.

It was like blood in the water.

“CATER DIAMOND!!!” Riddle snapped in front of the entire dorm after class, his sharp voice cutting through the common room like a whip. “EXPLAIN TO ME HOW YOU THOUGHT THIS GRADE WAS ACCEPTABLE!!!”

Cater froze, papers clenched in his hand. “Heh—guess Alchemy just isn’t my strong suit, y’know?” He tried to laugh it off, but the sound fell flat.

Riddle’s eyes narrowed. “THAT IS NO EXCUSE!! Heartslabyul does NOT tolerate mediocrity! If you have time to play on that smartphone of yours, you have time to study!”

Heat crawled up Cater’s neck. “I—”

“Effective immediately,” Riddle continued, “you will attend mandatory study hours each evening! Trey, see that he does. If his performance does not improve, there will be consequences.”

The word consequences hung heavy in the air, and everyone knew Riddle meant it.

Cater forced a grin, slipping his phone into his pocket like none of this mattered. “Sure thing, Ri—er, Housewarden. Cay-Cay’ll be hitting the books, promise.”

But when he finally collapsed on his bed that night, his mask slipped again. He stared at the glowing screen in his hand, thumb hovering over the camera. He snapped a meaningless photo of his ceiling and captioned it with a cheerful ‘Study grind *flexed bicep emoji, sparkles emoji* #WorkHardPlayHard’.

Then he dropped the phone onto his chest and whispered to himself, voice cracking.

“Two years, ten months. That’s all. Just two years, ten months.”

But even he didn’t believe it anymore.

Chapter Text

As November drew to a close, something strange and unsettling happened on campus.

Vil, leaving the cafeteria after a late-evening Film Club meeting, ducked into the restroom. He finished his business, washed his hands, and was just about to step out when a hint of movement at the far wall caught his eye.

Cater was standing there—motionless, his back to Vil.

Vil frowned. Odd. He hadn’t heard him come in. And why was he just standing there?

Slowly, Vil crossed the tiled floor.

“Cater?”

No reaction.

He reached out, placing a hand on Cater’s shoulder.

“Cate—”

Cater suddenly whirled around.

Vil staggered back with a startled yelp. What stared at him wasn’t Cater at all.

It had no face.

No eyes, no nose, no mouth.

Just smooth, pale skin stretched flat over where features should be.

Revulsion gave way to fury in an instant.

“NOT. FUNNY, DIAMOND!!! Ho-ho, you are in for it now!”

Seething, Vil stormed down the row of stalls, yanking each door open. He expected to find the real Cater hiding inside, trying to smother his laughter.

But the stalls were all empty.

When he turned back, the faceless imitation was gone. No sound of retreating footsteps, no creak of the door—simply vanished.

All that remained was a black smear circling the floor drain, dissolving away into nothing.

Blot?

The next morning, Heartslabyul was shaken awake by raised voices in the lounge.

“DIA-MOND!!!!”

Vil Schoenheit swept in like a storm, immaculate as ever, fury glinting in his violet eyes. The Heartslabyul students froze mid-breakfast, spoons halfway to their mouths. Even Riddle looked taken aback at the intrusion.

“I want to speak to Cater Diamond. Now.”

Riddle bristled. “You can’t just barge into another dorm demanding—”

“Spare me, Rosehearts,” Vil cut him off icily. “This is not a request.”

There was a shuffle of feet, and moments later, Cater descended the stairs, rubbing his eyes with a bleary grin. “…What’s with the early-morning drama? Cay-Cay hasn’t even had his mocha yet.”

Vil’s gaze hardened. “Last night. 10:30 PM. Cafeteria restroom. Care to explain why you thought a faceless doppelgänger prank would be amusing?”

The room went silent.

Cater blinked. “Uh… wut.”

“Don’t play dumb. You were standing there—” Vil’s lip curled with disgust “—without a face. I nearly called the faculty then and there.”

For once, Cater didn’t laugh it off. His expression shifted, uneasy but still wearing that practiced half-smile. “Dude. I have no frickin’ clue what you’re talking about. I was already out cold in bed by then. Ask Trey—he was right next door when I knocked out.”

Heads turned to Trey, who nodded slowly. “He’s right. Cater went to bed before me. I didn’t hear him get up again.”

Vil’s scowl faltered, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty. “So you expect me to believe I imagined it? That I hallucinated a faceless version of you dripping blot onto the floor?”

Cater shrugged, trying for ‘casual’ but coming off stiff. “Guess so? Maybe you were just tired from filming?”

The silence that followed was heavy, uncomfortable. Even Riddle, ever eager to scold, had no rule prepared for this.

Vil studied Cater for a long moment, searching his face for cracks. Finally, he hissed through his teeth and turned on his heel. “If I catch sight of it again, Diamond, you’ll answer to me directly. Denials or not.”

With that, he swept out, leaving murmurs in his wake.

Cater rubbed the back of his neck, forcing a grin. “Whew. Guess somebody needs a nap, huh?”

But Trey was watching him with an expression Cater couldn’t quite read.

Meanwhile, things at home were only getting tougher—Cater’s mother and sisters had begun resenting him for being the only mage in the family.

At first, it was small comments. Vira and Vanica would roll their eyes when he mentioned schoolwork, or mutter things like, ‘I’m sure magic makes it easy for him.’ Madame Diamant never said it aloud, but the way her lips pinched whenever Cater used magic around the house told him more than words could.

The chores began to pile higher. His sisters claimed they were too busy, shoving more housework onto him whenever he visited home. His mother doubled down on her expectations, demanding better grades, sharper etiquette, and perfection in all things—as if magic alone made him responsible for carrying the family’s image.

Cater kept his mask on, of course. He plastered on his cheerful smile, brushed off their digs with a joke, and tried to act like the pressure didn’t get to him. But the holiday home had left him a little more drained.

Chapter Text

Back at Night Raven, Cater compensated the only way he knew how: by leaning harder into his persona. A little louder in the cafeteria. A little sunnier when greeting classmates. A few more selfies in the courtyard with some filters slapped on for color. Anything to keep people from noticing the cracks.

But Trey noticed. Trey always noticed.

“You’re running yourself ragged,” Trey muttered one night when Cater was still scrolling through Magicam at two in the morning. “If you keep this up, you’ll burn out.”

Cater only grinned, throwing a peace sign toward the ceiling. “Nah, chillax, Trey-Trey! Cay-Cay’s batteries recharge quick. I’m like… solar-powered or something.”

But when he finally turned off his phone and rolled onto his side, his grin slipped away. The room was dark. Too quiet. And with no one watching, it was harder to pretend he wasn’t suffocating.

To make matters worse for Cater—and everyone else living under Heartslabyul’s roof—Riddle came back from winter break with a brand-new weapon in his arsenal: his signature spell.

Called ‘Off With Your Head’, it conjured a thick red-and-black collar around its victim’s neck. Once it clamped shut, it cut off their magic completely until Riddle deigned to release it.

And Riddle was slinging these collars around like crazy.

The first time, it had been almost theatrical: a rule-breaker caught red-handed, the collar snapping into place with a sharp glow. Everyone gasped, and Riddle gave a speech about discipline and the sanctity of rules. But by the third week of the semester, collars were so commonplace in Heartslabyul that the clink of metal on stone floors had become background noise.

Trey had tried reasoning with him, gently suggesting moderation. Cater had tried joking, lightening the mood, ‘C’mon, Housewarden, don’tcha think you’re running a magic fashion show here?~’ But Riddle’s glare cut him down instantly.

For Cater, the collars were a nightmare. Every time he so much as yawned in class, he half-expected to hear Riddle snap his fingers and feel cold metal locking around his throat. He doubled down on his mask—smiling, nodding, playing the easygoing upperclassman—but inside, his nerves were shredded raw.

And the stress wasn’t just internal. His grades, already slipping thanks to the pressure at home, took another hit. One test came back with a fat, crimson F emblazoned across the top that nearly made him gag. Riddle and Madame Diamant would both have his head.

By March, Cater felt like he was being suffocated from both sides: his family demanding perfection, Riddle demanding obedience, and him stuck in the middle with nowhere to breathe.

Then, it happened.

During afternoon tea.

The dorm was gathered in Heartslabyul’s ornate lounge, china clinking as the first-years fussed over steeping the leaves exactly so. Cater sat at one of the tables near Trey, phone propped discreetly against the teapot, idly scrolling through Magicam between bites of croissant.

He wasn’t even being loud. Just a tiny escape. A way to keep his mind from unraveling.

But Riddle noticed.

“Diamond,” Riddle’s voice rang out across the room, sharp as a whip.

Cater froze, thumb hovering over his phone screen. “Uh—yeah, Housewarden?” he asked with his usual lilt, turning the grin on like a light switch.

“You know the rules. No phones at the table. You’ve been reminded of this more than once.”

Cater laughed weakly, sliding the device back into his pocket. “Whoops, my bad. Won’t happen again, swearsies!”

But Riddle’s eyes narrowed, and his hand snapped upward.

“OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!!!!”

The collar materialized around Cater’s throat with a sickening metallic shnk. It clamped tight, not choking, but heavy, suffocating in its own way. The glow pulsed once before fading, leaving the band cold against his skin.

The room went dead silent. Even the teapot whistling on the side burner sounded shrill in the stillness.

Cater’s smile twitched, faltered—but he forced it back into place. “Heh… wow, guess I had that one coming, huh?” He tugged at the collar with two fingers, laughing hollowly. “Doesn’t exactly go with my outfit, though—bit of a clash, ya know?”

Trey rose halfway out of his chair, eyes flashing with anger. “Riddle, that was—”

“Necessary,” Riddle cut in coldly. “Rules are rules. If even upperclassmen like Cater cannot uphold them, what example does that set for the first-years?”

Cater raised his hands in mock surrender, still smiling like it didn’t sting, like his chest wasn’t caving in. “Nah, nah, it’s fine, Trey. Housewarden’s right. Gotta #LeadByExample, right?~”

But when he caught his reflection in the polished teapot, his stomach dropped. The red-and-black collar around his throat glared back at him, stark and unforgiving, like his mother’s scolding voice made manifest.

The laughter caught in his throat.

And for the first time, Cater truly felt the mask slipping.

That night, long after the lounge had emptied and the dorm had gone quiet, Cater sat hunched at his desk in the dark.

The collar was gone—Riddle had released it before curfew—but the ghost of it lingered. His neck still felt raw where the metal had dug into him, and worse, the memory of it pressed tighter than the real thing ever had.

He leaned forward, phone lighting his face in cold blue. Swipe. Scroll. Double-tap. Post.

On Magicam, his grin was wide, his captions peppy:

*sparkles emoji* Heartslabyul tea party aesthetic! *sparkles emoji*

*camera with flash emoji* Filter makes the collars look cute lol

*strawberry emoji* Living the dorm life, wouldn’t trade it for anything~

It was a flawless lie, and dozens of likes poured in within minutes.

But as soon as he set the phone down, his smile crumbled.

Cater pressed the heel of his hand hard against his chest, right over the place where the collar had sat. His breathing hitched, shallow, unsteady. His reflection in the darkened window looked hollow, maskless.

He whispered to the glass, to himself:

“Don’t crack. Don’t let ’em see. Just hold it together, Cay-Cay.”

But the words didn’t soothe. They only bounced back at him, brittle, empty.

For a fleeting second, he thought of home—of Madame Diamant’s clipped orders, of Vira and Vanica’s casual superiority, of that same suffocating weight pressing down on his throat long before Riddle had ever conjured his first collar.

He gripped his phone like a lifeline, thumb hovering over the camera. He almost snapped a photo of himself then and there, eyes red, face drained, no smile at all. Something real.

But at the last second, he couldn’t. He shoved the phone face-down on the desk, slumped forward, and let his arms cover his head.

The silence was crushing.

“Just… a few more days until the weekend,” he whispered. “A few more days… I can keep smiling ’til then.”

But in the dark, he wasn’t sure he believed himself.

By morning, the cracks were gone.

Cater strolled into the lounge with his usual lazy grin, hands tucked in his pockets like nothing in the world could faze him. The light caught on his hair just right, and he tilted his phone for a perfectly angled selfie.

“Morning, fam~! Heartslabyul lookin’ cute today, right?” he chirped, voice sing-song as he framed Trey in the background and snapped a shot. Trey groaned, waving him off, but Cater only laughed.

Not a hint remained of the hollow-eyed boy slumped over his desk the night before. His tone was bright, his movements smooth, practiced. He joked with Chenya over text, tagged Trey in a post, complimented one of the freshmen on their tie.

Even Riddle, striding through with the kind of presence that made half the dorm stiffen, received the full Diamond smile. Cater bowed slightly, hand half-raised in a mock salute.

“Housewarden! Lookin’ sharp as ever~,” he quipped, tone breezy, like the memory of cold metal around his throat didn’t make his skin crawl.

Riddle gave him a curt nod and moved on.

The dorm exhaled.

Cater just kept smiling, sliding his phone back into his pocket as if it were armor. He was sparkling, sociable, Cay-Cay again.

No one would ever guess that last night, he’d almost broken.

But ever since they’d started at NRC last year, Trey had carried quiet suspicions.

The way Cater clung to his friendships with Trey, Riddle, and Chenya, as if they were lifelines.

The way he always slept curled up tight, blankets pulled over his head like a shield.

The way his bravado had cracked during that first collaring.

Trey couldn’t shake the feeling that Cater was hiding something.

Chapter Text

Another doppelgänger incident struck.

Jamil had just finished basketball practice and was alone in the gym showers, toweling off and pulling on his clothes. Yet the silence wasn’t complete—there was a faint rustling that didn’t belong to him. Every time he turned, nothing was there.

He shut his locker with a snap. That was when a dribble of black liquid splattered onto the bench beside him.

It looked like blot.

Jamil’s stomach tightened. Slowly, hesitantly, he raised his eyes.

Something inched along the ceiling like a spider.

It looked like Cater—but wrong. The body was elongated, joints twisted backwards, limbs bending at grotesque angles. Its back was pressed to the ceiling, head lolling until the face came into view.

Where Cater’s smile should have been was a gaping mouth, ripped ear to ear like a jagged knife wound, oozing blot as it rattled out a hoarse, deathlike wheeze.

The head cocked sharply to one side. The grin widened. More blot dripped down.

Jamil staggered back, snatching his bag.

The Cater-thing dropped from the ceiling, landing on all fours with a sickening crack. With an inhuman screech, it scrambled toward him, blot splattering in its wake.

Jamil bolted. He tore out of the locker room, down the hall, and through the gym doors, screaming all the way, before slamming them shut behind him. With a desperate sweep of his arm, he conjured a wall of stalagmites to wedge them closed.

Panting, he sagged against the rock, sliding down it like melting cheese.

“Jamil? What happened?”

He looked up—Silver stood there, equestrian gear in hand. But before Jamil could speak, someone let out a strangled grunt above him.

Riddle, also carrying his equestrian gear, dangled from one of the stalagmites, the stone having hooked neatly under his shirt.

“Grk—! Sorry, Riddle!” Jamil yelped. He quickly cast a levitation spell, lifting the Heartslabyul Housewarden free and lowering him gently to the ground.

Riddle straightened his shirt with a huff, face redder than his hair. “Jamil Viper, you will explain yourself this instant! What is the meaning of this—barrier, screaming, and nearly impaling me on my way to practice?”

Silver glanced between them, brows furrowed. “You looked… terrified.”

Jamil pressed a hand to his chest, still trying to steady his breathing. “There was something in the locker room. I swear—it looked like Cater, but all twisted, like some kind of… blot-born monster. It chased me out.”

Riddle’s scowl deepened. “Nonsense. Cater Diamond may be flighty, but he is hardly capable of—whatever that was. Now lower this ridiculous barricade before you draw the whole campus’s attention.”

Jamil clenched his teeth but relented, flicking his wrist. The wall of stalagmites dissolved into dust, leaving the gym doors clear once more.

The three of them stepped cautiously inside. The air was thick and damp, tinged with something acrid.

Silver pointed to the floor. “Look.”

A thin, glistening trail of black stained the tile, snaking from the hall back into the showers. Drops still clung wetly to the benches.

But the Cater-thing itself was gone.

Jamil felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. “I’m telling you—it was right there.”

Riddle’s eyes narrowed at the blot-slick trail. For once, he didn’t argue. He only crossed his arms, looking grim.

“…If what you saw was real, then this is no prank,” Riddle said quietly. “Something unnatural is happening. And I intend to get to the bottom of it.”

Silver crouched by the blot trail, touching a finger to it, then frowning as he wiped the residue off on his sleeve. “This is fresh. Whatever it was, it hasn’t been gone long.”

Riddle’s jaw tightened. “Then we should find Cater and demand an explanation. If he was meddling with dark magic—”

“He wasn’t,” Jamil cut in sharply. “He couldn’t have been.”

Riddle arched a brow. “And how would you know?”

“Because I saw him earlier this afternoon—heading into town with Trey and Chenya. They were still there when I came here for practice. He couldn’t possibly have been in two places at once.”

For a moment, the gym was silent except for the faint drip-drip of blot onto tile.

Riddle’s frown deepened, though the certainty in his voice wavered. “Then what you saw was a copy. An… imitation. Something deliberately trying to take his shape.”

Silver stood, eyes still on the shadowed corners of the room. “And if it’s imitating Cater, that means it could be anywhere. Anytime.”

The thought lingered in the heavy air, darker than the blot stains themselves.

Word traveled faster than anyone expected. By the next day, whispers slithered through the halls: Another double. Again in Cater’s image. Jamil swears it chased him out of the gym.

Cater laughed it off whenever he caught wind of the rumor, brushing it aside with a flutter of his hand. “Me? Nahhh, no way. I was in town with my bros. Promise, I didn’t bend all outta shape and start crawling on the ceiling, lol.”

His grin was flawless, his voice light. But inside, the pit in his stomach churned.

It wasn’t just that something had impersonated him again—it was the way people looked at him now. Quick glances. Double-takes. A whisper that cut off the moment he walked by.

Even Riddle’s sharp eyes lingered on him longer than usual. Trey asked, “You okay?” more than once. Chenya teased, “Yo, Cater, better check you don’t got an evil twin,” but his laugh didn’t reach his eyes.

That night, Cater sat on his bunk with his phone glowing against his face. He tried to scroll through Magicam, post something breezy, anything to drown out the buzz in his head.

But the thought kept circling, gnawing at him:

Why me? Why is it always me they’re seeing?

The next day at lunch, Cater had just finished snapping a photo of his lunch in the cafeteria—cheerful caption half-typed—when a shadow fell across his tray.

“Diamond.”

Vil’s tone was ice. Cater looked up to see the Pomefiore Housewarden standing over him, arms crossed, violet eyes narrowed to slits.

“Oh! Hey, Vil!” Cater said with his trademark grin, slipping his phone facedown on the table. “What’s up?”

Vil leaned down, close enough that only Cater could hear. His voice was smooth, sharp, every word a blade. “What’s up is that your grotesque likeness is terrorizing this campus. First faceless in the restroom, now twisted and dripping blot in the gym. And all the while, you prance about snapping selfies as though nothing is wrong.”

Cater’s smile faltered, just slightly. “H-Hey, it’s not like I asked for a #CreepyStuntDouble, y’know? I was in town with Trey and Chenya. Got alibis!”

Vil’s lip curled. “You think anyone cares about your flimsy excuses? Your name is already on every whisper in the hall. Every eye is waiting for you to slip, to prove the monster is more real than you are.”

Cater’s chest tightened. He forced another smile, weaker this time. “C’mon, Vil, that’s kinda harsh, don’tcha think—?”

“Harsh?” Vil cut him off, straightening with a cold laugh. “Harsh is watching my reputation tainted by association with a classmate whose face is plastered on monsters. Harsh is cleaning up the mess you leave behind. If you cannot control your shadows, Diamond, then perhaps you should stay out of the spotlight entirely.”

Cater sat frozen, phone still under his hand, smile stretched thin as glass.

Vil gave him one last disdainful glance before sweeping away, leaving Cater staring at his untouched food, his appetite gone.

Cater held his smile until Vil’s footsteps faded down the cafeteria hall.

Only then did his hand slip off his phone. He exhaled a shaky breath, shoulders sagging as though the strings holding him upright had been cut.

The cafeteria chatter around him blurred into meaningless noise. He stared at his tray—perfectly plated food, bright colors that would’ve made for a killer Magicam shot—and felt his stomach twist.

Vil’s words replayed in his head, sharp and merciless: If you cannot control your shadows, Diamond, then perhaps you should stay out of the spotlight entirely.

His smile had always been his shield. His spotlight, his lifeline. Without it… what was left?

The thought hollowed him.

He fumbled for his phone like a reflex, swiping to the camera. His reflection grinned back at him, filters smoothing out every trace of strain. For a moment, he almost believed it.

Then he caught the tiniest tremor in his hand, the faint redness at the corner of his eyes. The cracks weren’t hidden as well as he thought.

His thumb hovered over the post button, then dropped. The phone went dark.

Cater shoved the tray away and bolted, heading for the quietest corner of campus he could find.

Only when he was certain no one was around did the grin collapse completely. He pressed his palms hard against his eyes, breath coming fast and shallow.

“Don’t crack, Cay-Cay,” he whispered, voice raw. “Don’t let them see. Don’t let them see…”

But in that lonely moment, even he didn’t believe it anymore.

Cater’s breath came ragged and uneven. He pressed his palms harder against his eyes, willing the sting away, until he felt sure nothing would leak out. His chest still trembled, but he forced himself to straighten, rolling his shoulders like he was just stretching after a long day.

The phone came back out. Camera app on. Grin up. A quick check—redness fading, tremor almost gone. He adjusted the angle so no one could see the rawness in his gaze.

Perfect.

He snapped a pic, flicked on a cheerful caption about the ‘gloomy NRC weather’, slapped on a bright filter, and posted it without hesitation. The likes started rolling in almost instantly, a steady stream of validation flooding in to patch the crack.

By the time footsteps echoed in the hall behind him, Cater was already back in performance mode. He glanced over his shoulder, waved casually at a group of underclassmen, and tossed out a breezy, “Yo~ how’s it going?” as if nothing had happened.

The underclassmen laughed and waved back, none the wiser.

Inside, Cater clenched his phone tight.

If there was one thing he had to keep—had to protect at all costs—it was this mask.

Chapter Text

The doppelgängers weren’t the only thing putting Cater in the hot seat.

The school year was nearly over, and he was the only sophomore who still hadn’t manifested his signature spell.

It was open season on him now—every troublemaker on campus had found fresh fuel to mock him with, and the sting of their laughter clung worse than any collar Riddle could conjure.

Cater couldn’t walk across campus without someone making a jab.

In Heartslabyul, the freshmen whispered about him behind their hands—“Vice Housewarden Trey’s doing fine, but that Diamond guy’s useless with only basic magic.”

In Octavinelle, Floyd draped an arm over his shoulder and sang, “Maaaan, you still don’t have a sig spell? What a rip-off, yo!” while Jade politely pretended to ‘advise’ him on how to train properly, a smile hiding the sting of every word. Azul didn’t even need to join in—the smirk on his face said enough.

Even Pomefiore chimed in, Vil coolly reminding him that some people were ‘simply not meant for center stage’.

But nowhere was it worse than Savanaclaw.

Leona didn’t waste his time, but his goons had a field day. Every time Cater passed through the courtyard, Ruggie and a few of the other beastmen would pounce on him like vultures.

“Yo, still spell-less? You sure you’re not just a poser?”

“Maybe that’s why he takes so many selfies—trying to distract us from his fail grade.”

“Hey, Diamond, bet my grandma’s got a sig spell before you do!”

Cater laughed it off every time, forcing a grin, snapping a mock peace-sign pic to ‘play along’. But it wasn’t fun anymore, not when the whole school cackled behind him. Not when the teasing followed him all the way back to Heartslabyul.

The mask held—but the cracks were spreading.

By the end of the week, Trey and Chenya had had enough of watching Cater get needled from every angle. The poor guy had laughed through it all, but Trey could see the shadows in his eyes, and Chenya had hissed more than once about ‘picking fleas off Savanaclaw mutts’.

So when Saturday rolled around, Trey suggested a trip into town.

“Clear our heads. Forget the signature spell stuff for a while.”

Chenya perked right up. “Ohhh, yeah! Candy shop run, maybe the arcade, then boba!”

Cater had smiled when they pitched it, but his heart felt heavier than it should. Still, he agreed. It beat another day of enduring Riddle’s rules or the student body’s whispers.

To their surprise, Riddle asked to join.

“There are no pressing duties today,” he said briskly, hands folded behind his back. “And you three clearly need supervision.”

Chenya groaned loudly, but Cater and Trey just exchanged amused looks.

In town, the four of them wandered between storefronts and stalls. Chenya practically vanished into the candy store, reappearing ten minutes later with a bag bigger than his head. Trey picked up some fresh bread for later. Riddle was… oddly relaxed, even allowing himself to browse stationary without scowling.

Cater made the most noise, snapping pics, laughing too loudly, making silly faces in reflection windows. Every now and then, he’d stick a bubble tea straw in Chenya’s nose or stack candy boxes on Trey’s arms while he wasn’t looking. His voice rang out bright as ever.

But when he thought nobody was watching, the corners of his smile drooped. He scrolled through his Magicam feed and paused on comments—

“Still no spell?”

“Fake Heartslabyul prefect.”

“Shouldn’t even be at NRC if you can’t keep up.”

His thumb hovered before he flipped the screen off and stuffed the phone away.

Trey noticed. He always noticed. But he didn’t call him out here—not in front of Chenya, not with Riddle nearby. Instead, he just passed Cater a warm bread roll. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”

“Aw, Trey-Trey, you’re the sweetest~” Cater sang, mask snapping right back on as he tore into the bread.

The four of them had barely made it halfway down the main street when a group of older boys stepped out from the jiujitsu dojo, blocking their way. Ten of them, each wiry and grinning like they’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“Well, well, look who it is,” one of them drawled, cracking his knuckles. “Heartslabyul’s little mascot crew. Heard Diamond’s a dud—no sig spell, huh?”

Cater’s grin froze. Trey stepped forward immediately, arm slightly out in front of him. “We’re not here to cause trouble. Move along.”

“Oh, we are causing trouble,” another dojo boy sneered. “We’re here to see how tough Heartslabyul really is. Betcha can’t even land a hit.”

Before Riddle could bark out a retort, they rushed. Fast. Too fast.

Cater whipped out a spell, but his target ducked under it, sweeping his legs. He stumbled back, nearly dropping his phone as he scrambled upright. Trey conjured hard-light shields, but the jiujitsu boys slipped around them, striking from angles he couldn’t cover in time. Chenya threw up his cloaking signature spell, but one of the jiujitsu students somehow managed to grapple and throw him while he was invisible.

And Riddle… Riddle tried his hardest to bark orders and sling spells, but the boys anticipated his casting time, cutting him off mid-incantation with lightning-quick counters.

Four against ten should have been manageable with magic. But not when the opponents fought like smoke, weaving and striking faster than spells could pin them.

Cater’s mask cracked for the briefest moment as he backpedaled, heart hammering. He’d never felt so useless in a fight—magic flying wide, spells dodged like nothing. His chest tightened, panic gnawing the edges of his thoughts. They’re too fast—what the heck do I even do?!

Trey, Riddle, and Chenya lay sprawled on the ground, bruised and bloody, nursing their pride as much as their wounds. The ten dojo boys grinned and cracked their knuckles, closing in on Cater to finish the job.

He staggered back two more steps—then his heel caught on a chunk of sidewalk jutting up from an old tree root. He went down hard.

The boys pounced.

Cater curled into a defensive ball, bracing for the blows—

But none ever landed.

He cracked an eye open. The dojo punks were being pummeled—both physically and magically, thrown back against the pavement by…

…multiple Caters?!

Without stopping to question it, Cater leapt to his feet and jumped into the fray himself.

“My vision’s all wonky,” Chenya muttered, clutching his head. “Pretty sure I got a concussion…”

“No, you’re not seeing things,” Riddle groaned, forcing himself upright. “I can feel Cater’s magic surging.”

Trey’s eyes widened. “You don’t think it’s—?”

“RETREAT!!” one of the boys bellowed.

The whole group bolted, sprinting down the street in full panic, leaving behind four battered and bewildered mages.

“YEAH, YOU BETTER RUN!!” Cater hollered after them, shaking a fist.

Trey, Riddle, and Chenya dragged themselves up just in time to watch the extra Caters dissolve one by one into puffs of glittering magic.

The adrenaline rush crashed all at once. Cater swayed, knees buckling—Trey caught him before he could hit the ground.

“I’m okay… I’m okay…” Cater wheezed, chest heaving. “What… what even was all that?!”

Then it clicked.

Eyes wide, he turned to Riddle. The Housewarden only gave a solemn nod.

A grin split Cater’s face. “I… I did it! I finally have my signature spell!” He punched the air with a whoop.

“Aw, yeah! Dat’s right!” Chenya crowed, slapping him on the back.

“I guess those meatheads at school won’t be giving you grief anymore,” Trey added with a tired smile.

By the time they made it back to campus, Cater had already christened his shiny new signature spell.

After getting patched up in the infirmary, he, Trey, and Riddle headed to the cafeteria for dinner.

“Whoa, what the hell happened to you three?” Leona drawled around a mouthful of steak as they walked in, bandaged and bruised.

“Those delinquents from the dojo picked a fight,” Riddle sniffed. “We should have dispatched those magicless fools easily, but they were faster than we anticipated.”

“Yeah,” Trey admitted, wincing as he sat down, “I honestly thought we were done for.”

Cater, however, was still glowing. “Pfft, nah. You shoulda seen Cay-Cay go ham on those guys!”

To the shock of everyone watching, a second Cater slid into view beside him with a grin. “I totally #SentEmPacking!”

Then a third Cater appeared on his other side, chiming in, “They ran off like a buncha scared little girls!”

“Uh…” Floyd blinked, mid-bite into his tuna sub. “Am I seein’ double? …Or triple?”

“Nope!” the middle Cater said brightly. “These bad boys are my signature spell!”

He threw up a pair of peace signs.

“SPLIT CARD!!” all three Caters shouted in unison.

The cafeteria exploded into chaos, a deafening chorus of: “WHA?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

For a heartbeat, there was dead silence. Then the place erupted into noise.

“Holy crap, that’s awesome!” a freshman shouted from the Heartslabyul table.

“Way to go, Cater!” a Scarabia junior added, grinning as he smacked the table in excitement.

Even Vil, who normally dismissed rowdiness, raised a brow and offered a nod of approval. “At least one of you Heartslabyul students understands the importance of standing out.”

“Not bad, Diamond,” Leona rumbled, tearing into his steak again with a lazy grin. “Didn’t think you had it in ya.”

“Eh? That’s actually pretty cool!” Kalim cheered from the Scarabia table, nearly spilling his juice in the process. “You can, like, throw a party with just yourself!”

Floyd leaned forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Heh-heh… now I really am gonna call you Sea Bream. Split up into a whole school of ‘em, all flappin’ around. Won’t that be fun~?”

Idia, communicating remotely via his tablet as usual, muttered under his breath, “Tch… OP as hell. Clones with mass? That’s busted…”

Ortho, sitting beside the tablet, clapped enthusiastically anyway. “Congratulations, Cater!”

From the Diasomnia table, Malleus tilted his head, watching the extra Caters with an amused smile. “Fascinating. A spell that lets one be in many places at once… Very useful.”

“Yo, Cater!” Chenya popped his head through a nearby window with perfect comedic timing. “You finally caught up with the rest of us! Nice goin’, buddy!”

Cater flushed under all the attention, rubbing the back of his neck as the clones waved to everyone like celebrities on parade. For once, the smile on his face wasn’t fake.

The cafeteria doors banged open and Professor Trein walked in, ready to scold the chaos—only to stop dead at the sight of three Cater Diamonds grinning back at him, flanked by a beat-up Riddle and Trey.

“…I don’t even want to know,” he muttered, adjusting his jabot before stalking back out.

The room roared with laughter. For the rest of the evening, Cater Diamond was the center of celebration, cheers, and congratulations.

And for the first time in a long time, he let himself bask in it.

That night, the cafeteria never quieted down. Cater’s clones had practically turned dinner into a magic show. One Cater helped Trey carry trays to the table while another leaned against the wall tossing peace signs at passing students. The third was busy swiping selfies with anyone who asked.

Cater’s cheeks hurt from smiling, but for once, the grin wasn’t forced. He wasn’t some lame dud after all—he finally had something flashy, unique, and fun. And the best part? Everyone loved it.

“Split Card!” he called again, sending two clones skidding across the room in opposite directions like they were on rollerblades. The cafeteria burst into applause. Cater laughed and drank in every second.

But as the crowd thinned and students drifted off to their dorms, a subtle unease lingered. Trey noticed first—when the clones poofed out in a shimmer of light, a faint residue darkened the tile where they’d stood. Like ink, only gloppier.

Riddle bent down, frowning. “Is that… blot?”

Trey glanced at Cater, who was still laughing with Chenya at the window. The stuff was faint enough that no one else noticed, and Trey quickly scuffed his shoe over it before Cater could turn around.

Later, back in the dorm, Cater sprawled across his bed with his phone hovering above him. His gallery already brimmed with hundreds of selfies: Cater-and-Cater, Cater photobombing Cater, Cater with the crowd cheering behind him.

“Finally…” he whispered to himself. “Finally, I’m not a joke anymore.”

His mask slipped for a moment—not the fake smile this time, but a flicker of raw relief.

For that one moment, everything was perfect.

Chapter Text

And then that moment ended.

When Cater got home for the summer, something felt wrong in Diamant Manor. Too quiet. The lights were dimmed like the whole place was holding its breath.

“Uh… hello?” he called down the hallway. “I’m home!”

No answer.

Dragging his suitcase behind him, he walked deeper into the mansion and found his older sisters in the parlor, seated across from each other.

Aside from the family’s trademark diamond-green eyes, Cater looked nothing like them—or his mother. Where his copper hair paired with faint freckles that she forced him to hide beneath layers of concealer, Vira and Vanica were flawless reflections of Madame Diamant. The twins were nearly identical save for hair color—Vira a soft brunette, Vanica a deep blonde—and the beauty marks at opposite corners of their mouths.

Cater’s stomach dropped when he realized they were wearing matching black funeral dresses.

At the head of the coffee table, Madame Diamant sat like a queen in mourning, obsidian hair gleaming against the stark lines of her own striking black gown. Vanica on her right, Vira on her left.

Cater froze. He didn’t want to believe it, but the dread pressing down on his chest demanded he ask. “…What’s going on here?”

Vanica’s reply shattered what little hope he had.

“Daddy is dead.”

Cater’s breath caught in his throat. His knees felt weak, like the floor might give out from under him. The words rang in his ears, louder than they should have—Daddy is dead.

He swallowed hard. The only word he managed to utter was, “…How?”

Vanica’s lashes lowered. Vira spoke for them both. “A landslide. The mountain shifted while he was on-site. Several were lost, including Daddy.”

The words hit Cater like stone. He staggered back a step, clutching the handle of his suitcase for balance. Landslide. Just like that. Gone.

Before he could gather himself, Madame Diamant’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and final. “And you have been reassigned.”

Cater blinked, still dizzy. “Reassigned…? What do you mean?”

Her diamond-green gaze fixed on him without a flicker of sympathy.

“Your room is now in the basement, where servants belong.”

Cater deflated instantly.

“Yes… Mother,” was all he managed.

He gathered his suitcase and trudged to the back of the kitchen, where a narrow flight of rickety stairs led downward. Each creak under his weight seemed to drive home what he’d lost.

The basement was a maze of dust and shadows, partitioned into a few cramped rooms. At the farthest end, Cater found the one set aside for him.

Heaps of discarded junk crowded the walls. In the middle sat a battered wardrobe and a sagging metal cot topped with a tough, tattered mattress and ratty, worn bedding. The smell of mold clung to everything.

Cater dropped his suitcase and sat on the cot. The springs groaned beneath him. He pressed his palms to his eyes, but the tears came anyway, leaking through his fingers in quiet streams. He bit his lip hard, struggling to stifle any sound.

At least there was an outlet—grimy, discolored, but still usable—on one wall. He clutched his phone like a lifeline, the glow of the screen blurring through the haze of his tears. At the very least, he could keep it charged.

The first night was the worst.

Cater lay curled on the sagging cot, staring at the cracked ceiling above him as the muffled sounds of the household filtered down through the floorboards—his sisters’ laughter, Madame Diamant’s sharp, commanding tone. None of them came to check on him. Not even to mock. He might as well have ceased to exist.

The air down here was damp and smelled faintly of mildew, and every so often water dripped from a rusty pipe into a dented tin bucket in the corner. Drip. Drip. Drip. The steady rhythm mocked his attempts at sleep.

Eventually, he fished his earbuds from his bag, jammed them into his ears, and let a mindless playlist wash over him until his eyes burned with exhaustion.

Days blurred together after that. His sisters tossed laundry down the basement stairs for him to wash, their voices deliberately too sweet: ‘Be a dear, Catie, and take care of this, won’t you?’ He smiled and nodded when they were watching, then hauled the heavy baskets into the laundry room with aching arms once they were gone.

Meals, when he dared eat upstairs, were coldly polite affairs. More often he scavenged leftovers from the kitchen after everyone else had retired. Back in the basement, he scrolled through Magicam, carefully curating his summer feed with bright filters and breezy captions. Nobody needed to see the peeling paint on the walls behind him or the cot that sagged like a dying thing.

Sometimes, late at night when the loneliness pressed too heavy, he summoned his clones. Split Card flickered to life, and suddenly there were three Caters sitting cross-legged on the floor around him. For a little while he could almost pretend—laughing with himself, practicing poses, filling the silence. But the clones always faded, dissolving into motes of magic until only Cater remained, hugging his knees in the dark.

And in those moments, when no one could see, he buried his face in his pillow and let the tears come. Quiet, stifled, private. The kind of tears that left him with a pounding head the next morning, but never showed in the photos he posted online.

Chores piled up even higher.

Whenever Madame Diamant wasn’t entertaining guests, Cater was reduced to kitchen boy—mopping floors, scrubbing toilets, washing dishes, working until his arms ached and his eyes blurred. The tasks dragged on so long that he often found himself still scrubbing the last of the dinner dishes long after Madame Diamant and his sisters had gone to bed.

When no one was watching, Cater sometimes summoned a clone or two, their quiet presence making the endless work a little easier—and a little less lonely.

Days blurred into weeks, and Cater lost count of how many hours he spent bent over sinks, buckets, or scrub brushes. His hands stung constantly, raw from soap and harsh cleaners, but he kept his mask on when he could. He couldn’t give Madame Diamant or his sisters the satisfaction of seeing him falter.

Still, whenever he thought the coast was clear, a clone or two shimmered into existence to help him haul laundry or scour pots. It wasn’t glamorous, but it shaved precious minutes off the mountain of chores, and Cater clung to that tiny reprieve like a lifeline.

One evening, though, as Cater and a clone worked side by side at the sink, laughter echoed down the hall. He froze.

The dining room door slid open. Vira and Vanica stepped in, their identical green eyes snapping toward the kitchen, toward the sight of two Caters standing shoulder to shoulder, scrubbing the same dish.

For the first time in weeks, Cater felt true cold lance through him.

Vira’s lips curled upward first, a sharp laugh bursting out of her. “Oh my gods—look at this! Two little Caties scrubbing dishes like the help they are!”

Vanica folded her arms, smirking with wicked delight. “No wonder he keeps up with the chores. He’s cheating.”

Cater dismissed the clone in a puff of light, but it was too late. His sisters were circling him now like vultures, savoring his discomfort.

“Does Mother know you’ve been sneaking your little magic trick into the chores?” Vanica’s voice dripped with mockery.

“Mm, I think she’ll find it very interesting,” Vira added, pretending to tap her chin thoughtfully. “Our dear baby brother can’t even manage his chores on his own without multiplying himself.”

Cater forced a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Heh… hey, I was just, you know, practicing. Gotta keep my new spell sharp, right?”

The twins laughed in unison, sharp and cruel. “Practicing in the kitchen sink? How pathetic.”

Vanica leaned close, whispering so her breath tickled his ear. “Wait ‘til Mother hears about this.”

And with that, they swept out of the kitchen, giggling all the way upstairs—leaving Cater rooted in place, bile rising in his throat.

Cater had just finished stacking the last of the plates when the click of heels echoed towards the kitchen door. His stomach dropped.

Madame Diamant entered the kitchen with Vira and Vanica at her heels, both girls glowing with smugness. She crossed her arms, gaze sharp as glass.

“I hear,” she said coolly, “that you’ve been… duplicating yourself to shirk responsibility.”

Cater swallowed hard, fighting the urge to shrink back. “It—it wasn’t like that. I was just—”

“Enough.” Her voice cracked like a whip. “Do you think I haven’t noticed how lazy you’ve become? How sloppy? You dare to cut corners in my house?”

Vira smirked. Vanica let out a laugh behind her hand.

Cater’s mask nearly slipped, but he forced his voice steady. “I wasn’t cutting corners, Mother. I was trying to—”

“Silence.” She pointed toward the sink. “If you have the energy to play games with your magic, you can redo the entire dining room. By hand. Every surface spotless. Not a crumb, not a speck. And if I so much as suspect you’ve used that ridiculous trick again—” Her eyes narrowed into slits. “—I shall confiscate your phone. For the remainder of the summer.”

The breath left Cater’s lungs. He barely managed a quiet, “…Yes, Mother.”

“Good boy.” Her tone carried no warmth. With a sharp pivot, she swept out of the room, her daughters trailing like shadows.

The kitchen door clicked shut, and Cater sagged against the counter. His phone suddenly felt like the only tether keeping him from drowning.

The days blurred together.

Morning after morning began well before dawn with Madame Diamant’s sharp voice cutting through the basement door: “Cater! Up! Now!” He would drag himself from the cot, sore muscles protesting, to the endless grind of chores.

Scrubbing floors until his knuckles cracked.

Polishing silverware until his reflection warped back at him through a thousand distorted smiles.

Carting trays for Vira and Vanica as they lounged in the sunroom, sipping iced tea and giggling at his expense.

Every night, he returned to the basement with aching limbs, the smell of soap and grease clinging to him.

Sometimes, when the girls were too wrapped up in their lessons or soirées to bother, Cater stole a moment to lean against the cool stone wall and summon a clone—just one. Together they’d race through laundry or dishes before dismissing it in a puff of magic, his secret accomplice vanishing without a word.

But Madame Diamant’s threat always loomed. He never dared overuse it.

Sleep came in restless snatches. Quiet tears blurred his phone screen as he scrolled NRC group chats, pretending to laugh at memes he couldn’t bring himself to reply to. He posted meaningless photos: a cup of tea, his shoes, a crack in the basement wall. Captions chirped with cheer, masking the suffocating silence pressing in on him.

The weeks crawled.

His hands toughened, his back ached, his smile grew brittle.

And then—finally—one morning, his suitcase was shoved into his arms with a curt: “School begins again. Do not embarrass me, Cater.”

He could barely suppress the tremor of relief in his chest as he stepped onto the carriage. For the first time all summer, the mansion shrank behind him instead of looming ahead.

The carriage wheels rattled to a stop at the gates of NRC.

Cater stepped down, suitcase in hand, stretching his arms as if he were just stiff from the ride.

But Trey caught the dark circles under his eyes, the way his smile didn’t quite reach.

“Rough summer?” Trey asked gently, falling into step beside him.

Cater gave his signature laugh, a little too quick. “Hah, you know me! Always the family man. Totally fun, totally chill, totally stress-free.”

“Uh-huh,” Trey murmured, unconvinced.

Riddle, already adjusting his tie with his usual precision, gave Cater a sharp once-over. “You look exhausted, Cater. Have you been neglecting your rest? That is highly irresponsible for a student mage.”

Cater waved both hands, grinning wide. “Nah, nah, I’m fine! Just jet lagged, you know? #BackToSchoolJitters and all that. Don’t worry, Riddie, Cay-Cay’s good to go!”

Chenya, perched backwards on a bench like he owned it, tilted his head. “Funny, looks more like you’ve been put through the wringer. Like, cartoon steam comin’ outta your ears, all ‘blehhhh’.” He waggled his tongue for emphasis.

Cater chuckled along, raising his phone to snap a quick selfie of the group, angling the shot so the shadows under his eyes weren’t as obvious. “Cheeeese~! Gotta mark the first day back somehow, right?”

The click of the camera shutter filled the silence.

Trey glanced at Riddle. Riddle frowned. Chenya’s ears flicked.

But Cater just kept smiling, all bright cheer and easy charm.

“C’mon, let’s get back inside,” he said. “Can’t wait to see what this year’s got in store!”

And with that, he walked ahead, shoulders squared like nothing was wrong.

As Cater strode ahead toward the main hall, the three lingered behind.

Trey adjusted his glasses. “He’s putting on a front.”

Riddle sniffed, arms folded. “Of course he is. I’ve seen that smile enough times to know when it’s false. The question is why.”

“Somethin’ wore him down this summer,” Chenya said, tail flicking behind him. “Not just tired—ground down. Like he spent the whole break chewin’ on gravel.”

Riddle frowned. “His family situation is… peculiar. Perhaps they demanded more of him than usual?”

Trey gave a quiet hum. He’d seen Cater deflect before, but the exhaustion in his eyes was new. “Whatever it was, he doesn’t want us prying. You know how he gets—better to act like it’s all sunshine and rainbows than admit he’s struggling.”

Chenya leaned forward, grinning lopsided. “Then maybe the trick’s catchin’ him off guard. Pull him outta his act before he can say, ‘Cay-Cay’s all good, don’t worry~!’” He mimicked Cater’s singsong tone with uncanny accuracy.

“Be serious,” Riddle snapped, though his scowl was more worried than harsh. “If something is wrong, it’s our duty as his dormmates to address it.”

Trey put a hand on Riddle’s shoulder before he could march after Cater. “Not yet. He’s clearly not ready to talk. We’ll keep an eye on him. If it gets worse, we step in.”

Riddle’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. “Very well. But I won’t tolerate him pushing himself into collapse.”

“Fair enough,” Trey said.

Chenya smirked. “Guess it’s a watch-and-wait game, then. And hey, if he keels over mid-selfie, at least we’ll have photographic evidence.”

“Chenya,” Riddle barked.

But Trey only sighed, because even through the joke, Chenya’s ears were angled back—worried.

Cater shut the door to his dorm room and leaned against it, his smile crumbling the moment it clicked shut. His shoulders slumped as if the weight of the whole summer came rushing back the instant he was alone.

He tossed his suitcase aside and flopped onto the bed. For a moment, he just lay there, staring up at the canopy. The mattress felt softer than the cot in the basement had, but instead of relief, the difference only made his chest ache.

“Back to normal, huh?” he muttered, pressing the heel of his palm against his eyes. “Normal Cay-Cay. Fun Cay-Cay. Always-smiling Cay-Cay.”

The words sounded flat, hollow.

He could still feel the sting of dishwater in his hands, still smell the mildew from the basement walls. No amount of glamour filters or cheery selfies could scrub away the memory of dragging his aching body up those rickety stairs every dawn, bracing for whatever new chore Madame Diamant had waiting.

Cater rolled onto his side, pulling his phone from his pocket. Notifications blinked up at him—likes, comments, little bursts of digital affection from people who thought they knew him. His thumb hovered over the screen, but he couldn’t bring himself to answer.

With a quiet groan, he set the phone face-down on the nightstand and curled into himself. Just a little nap, he told himself. Just enough to reset before anyone noticed.

But even as his eyes drifted shut, he knew there was no reset button this time. The exhaustion wasn’t something sleep could fix.

Not anymore.

Chapter Text

Unfortunately, junior year turned out to be anything but restful for Cater.

The first blow came just a few weeks in when Heartslabyul finally revolted against Riddle’s endless collars. The rebellion ended with Riddle’s Overblot, the rose garden ripped apart in his fury. When Riddle was finally restored, he did relax the Queen’s Rules—ableit slightly—and with lots of help from Cater, Trey, and Chenya.

Then came Savanaclaw’s downfall. Leona’s attempt to sabotage the Spelldrive tournament backfired, ending in his own Overblot. It had been satisfying to fool Savanaclaw with Cater’s Split Card clones posing as Diasomnia players, then pummeling Savanaclaw on the field as payback—but after spawning so many clones simultaneously, Cater was running on fumes.

He had barely caught his breath before Octavinelle struck. Azul’s latest web of contracts snared half the school, Ace and Deuce included, and when that scheme unraveled it, too, ended in an Overblot.

By the time the winter holiday arrived, Cater wasn’t relieved. He was bone-deep weary.

And the moment he stepped back through the gates of Diamant Manor, Cater was sent straight to the kitchen again.

Where summer had left him perpetually drenched in sweat, winter punished him differently—icy drafts soaked through his water-flecked clothes until he shivered constantly, and his hands went numb after the dinner dishes, stiff and useless as if frozen solid.

The cold meant extra chores, too. He was forever shoveling paths, stoking fireplaces and lugging heavy buckets of coal from out back. If the coal was damp with slush, it smoked and hissed instead of catching, leaving him to wrestle with stubborn flames while his sisters complained about the chill.

And his new basement quarters, cool enough in summer, had turned into a bitter icebox. At night Cater curled up on his sagging cot, blankets pulled tight around him, still shivering until sleep finally claimed him.

Days blurred together in a cycle of frostbitten drudgery.

If Madame Diamant wasn’t hosting parties, Cater was polishing floors until they reflected candlelight, or carrying trays so heavy his arms ached. When she did host, he stood behind the guests like a shadow—refilling glasses, fetching coats, pretending he didn’t hear the veiled remarks about ‘the stray among jewels’.

His sisters seemed to delight in winter’s cruelty. They ordered him outside for errands even during snowstorms, silk-clad and smirking in the doorway while he slogged through knee-deep snow for groceries. Sometimes they’d ‘forget’ to tell him about extra chores until he came back inside soaked to the bone, dripping meltwater across the rugs.

At night, the cold made his magic sputter. Summoning clones felt like pouring energy into a sieve; he managed one, maybe two at best, before dizziness forced him to stop. And so, more often than not, he worked alone—scrubbing, shoveling, hauling—while Split Card flickered uselessly in his hands.

The only warmth Cater found came from his phone, its little glow keeping him company in the dark basement. He scrolled through old Magicam posts until his eyelids grew heavy, clinging to images of friends, of NRC, of anywhere but here.

And as the holiday weeks dragged on, he counted down the days until he could escape back to school—back to chaos, back to collars, back to anything that wasn’t this frigid prison he called home.

He’d managed to avoid punishment through the entire winter.

But on the very last day before returning to NRC, he slipped up—literally.

Madame Diamant and the girls had ordered him to bring tea to the parlor.

Exhausted from trudging errands through the snow, the silver tray loaded with pastries and fine china felt like it weighed a ton. Between the strain and his own fatigue, Cater wasn’t watching his surroundings and got his feet tangled in the rug’s tasseled edge.

The crash was deafening. He couldn’t tell what was louder: the china shattering, or Vira’s shriek as hot tea splattered across her skirt.

Pain flared sharp and sudden in his left side—he must’ve grazed the fire poker on his way down.

Before Cater could even push himself up, Vira’s boot drove into his ribs. Vanica followed with a vicious kick to his shoulder, her face blotchy red with fury.

“You idiot!” Vira shrieked. “Do you have any idea how much this dress cost?!”

Another kick. And another. Cater curled in on himself, arms wrapped tight to shield his head as the twins rained blows. Each impact drove him further into the rug, breath wheezing out of him in short, pained bursts. His side screamed where he’d hit the poker, but there was no pause, no mercy.

Finally, when their anger had spent itself, the girls stepped back, breathing hard. Cater stayed hunched on the floor, too dazed to rise.

From her seat, Madame Diamant hadn’t moved once. She set her teacup down with deliberate grace, and when she finally spoke, her voice was colder than the snow outside.

“Look at you,” she said. “Pathetic. You shame this family with every breath you take. From now on, you will remember your place—and tread carefully. I won’t be so forgiving next time.”

Her eyes flicked briefly toward the shattered china before returning to him, sharp as blades. “Clean it up.”

The room fell quiet once the twins had stormed out, their heels clicking sharp and angry against the floor as they vanished upstairs. Madame Diamant sat unmoved in her chair, sipping from a fresh cup of tea Vira had poured for her before the accident. She didn’t spare Cater a second glance.

Cater remained crumpled on the rug for a long, aching moment, cheek pressed against the cool floorboards, ribs throbbing with each shallow breath. When at last he pushed himself upright, the pain made him wince so hard his vision blurred.

The parlor was a battlefield. Splintered china littered the carpet, dark tea soaking deep into the fibers and staining the once-pristine floral patterns. A crooked pastry sat half-crushed where it had rolled under the table.

Cater swallowed hard, then went about his work. He picked up shards with trembling hands, each one cutting into his fingertips when he wasn’t careful enough. He fetched rags and blotting cloths from the kitchen, scrubbing the tea into a wider, messier smear in his desperation to erase the evidence. His shirt clung damp to his side where the poker had caught him, but there was no time to tend the wound. Not while the mess still stared him in the face.

By the time the parlor was spotless again, Cater’s knees ached from kneeling on the hard floor and his fingertips were nicked and stinging. He tucked the bloodied rag into the bottom of the laundry basket, out of sight, then quietly returned the tray to the kitchen.

The house was silent, but Cater still moved like he was being watched.

It wasn’t until after he finished the dinner dishes that Cater finally slipped into the bathroom to assess the bodily damage.

His torso was a patchwork of bruises, each one throbbing beneath skin already tender. The cut along his side was worse—his shirt clung wet with blood, and the wound itself gaped in a way that begged for stitches.

But stitches weren’t an option. Not here. Not for him.

He dabbed it clean with a wet rag, wincing at every touch, then pressed a lump of gauze against the worst of it before staggering off to bed. Explaining this one at school was going to be rough.

The cut burned and pulled whenever he shifted, keeping him awake well into the night. By morning, he was so drained that dragging his suitcase up the basement stairs felt like scaling a mountain.

The carriage driver offered no more than a disinterested glance as Cater climbed in, his shirt hiding the damage. That small mercy was enough.

He was asleep before the wheels had even left the drive, and it took the driver shaking him by the shoulder to rouse him when they finally arrived at NRC.

The moment Cater stepped off the carriage, Trey, Riddle, and Chenya were already waiting near the gates.

“Cater!” Trey waved, his expression warming—then faltering. “Geez, you look…” He trailed off, concern knitting his brow.

Riddle adjusted his gloves, frowning. “Are you ill? You’re pale. Paler than usual.”

“And your eye-bags, bro,” Chenya added, leaning forward with a lopsided grin that didn’t quite hide the worry in his tone. “You look like you spent the whole holiday wrestling yetis.”

Cater gave them his brightest, most practiced smile, though it tugged awkwardly at his sore ribs. “Aw, you guys worry too much. I’m fine, really! Just stayed up way too late binging videos. Cay-Cay’s guilty of being a #TotalNightOwl, tee-hee~”

The three of them exchanged doubtful glances, but Cater was already sweeping his phone out of his pocket, holding it up for a group selfie. “Come on, let’s kick off the semester right! Say cheeeese!”

Click. Smile captured. Mask back in place.

Aside from barely staying awake in class, the first few periods passed without incident. Cater ducked into the restroom after each one to check his gauze and swap it out as needed. The blood never really stopped, though, and the pain gnawed worse with every passing hour.

Then came sixth-period P.E.

Everyone lined up along the gym wall, groaning when Coach Vargas bellowed, “Alright, boys, listen up! I know the lot of ya slacked off during break, so it’s my job to whip you limp noodles back into shape!” He jabbed a finger at Malleus, Lilia, and Ortho. “And that means no antigravity, no levitating, no cheat tricks in my class!”

Cater wasn’t looking forward to this in the slightest, but he kept his trademark grin pasted on. “Yo, Leona, Idia—thought you two always cut on #BleepTestDay.”

“Ruggie ratted me out,” Leona grumbled darkly.

Idia hunched his shoulders, muttering, “Ortho’s mad at me ’cause I forgot to preorder this game he wanted over the break, so he disabled all my Anti-Bleep Test reminders as payback.”

“Oof, rough, buddy,” Cater said with a sympathetic wince.

On the other side of the line, Ruggie nodded toward the Diasomnia crew as they casually stretched like this was any other day. “Oh, man, look at Diasomnia.”

“They love it,” Trey said flatly.

Leona scoffed, crossing his arms. “Wouldn’t surprise me if Lilia bought a Bleep Test machine for his army the second he heard about ‘em.”

The machine let out a long, shrill beep, and the first shuttle began.

The gym filled with the rhythmic slap of sneakers on hardwood, the steady rise and fall of breathing, and Vargas’s booming commands echoing off the walls. Cater forced his legs into motion, each stride sending a jolt of pain through his side. He kept his face fixed in its usual easygoing grin, waving or throwing peace signs whenever someone glanced his way, even though every step felt like it might rip him apart inside.

Students started dropping out one by one, collapsing against the wall or flopping down on the floor in sweaty heaps. Cater kept going. Trey gave him a worried glance on one pass, but Cater flashed him a thumbs-up and pushed harder, lungs burning, vision starting to swim.

“Level 18!” Vargas barked. “Only the strong survive!”

By now, only a handful of students were left—Leona loping along with lazy annoyance, Ruggie hanging in with sheer stubbornness, Malleus and Lilia running like it was nothing, Ortho sprinting back and forth having a blast, and, somehow, Cater. His chest screamed, his side throbbed, but he refused to be the one who quit.

Finally, when the final beep echoed, Cater stumbled to the wall and slumped down, gasping for air. He’d made it through. Barely. His shirt clung to him with sweat, and his gauze felt warm and damp beneath the fabric.

But when Trey crouched beside him, concern etched across his face, Cater just shot him a weary smile. “See? No big deal.”

When Vargas finally dismissed the class, the gym echoed with groans of relief. Most of the students limped or staggered toward the locker rooms, while a few collapsed on the benches, too tired to move.

Cater pushed himself upright with a laugh that came out just a little too thin. “Whew! Guess I’m not as outta shape as I thought.” He rubbed sweat from his brow as he trudged into the hallway.

Trey fell into step beside him as they headed for the locker room, Riddle a few paces ahead. “You don’t look so good,” Trey said quietly.

Cater shot him a sunny grin. “Aw, come on, Trey-Trey. I #CrushedIt out there.”

“You look more like you pushed it,” Riddle countered, frowning as he tucked his hands behind his back. “You’re paler than ever, sweating more than usual, and your balance looks off.”

No reply.

“…Cater?”

Thud.

The chatter of the students behind them stuttered into uneasy murmurs. Trey and Riddle whipped around—

—and froze.

Cater lay sprawled on the hallway floor, unconscious, with a knot of students already gathering around him.

“Cater!” Trey and Riddle shouted in unison, rushing back to his side.

That’s when they saw it: a dark, sticky patch spreading along the side of Cater’s jumpsuit.

Riddle quickly unzipped it, revealing Cater’s white undershirt stained with a glaring crimson splotch. The gauze beneath was so saturated it barely clung on, sliding loose to expose the ugly, inflamed wound beneath.

“This injury is infected,” Riddle said sharply.

Trey pressed a hand to Cater’s forehead. “And he’s burning up.”

Jack pushed his way through the circle of students, only to recoil at the large amount of blood. “Whoa! What the hell happened to him?”

“We’re not sure,” Trey answered grimly.

“Jack, help us carry him to the infirmary,” Riddle ordered without hesitation.

“On it!” Jack bent down, hefting Cater up with ease, and together the three of them bolted down the hall.

The infirmary door slammed open, and Jack all but dropped Cater onto the nearest cot while Trey and Riddle moved in at once.

“Where’s the Infirmary Ghost?” Trey demanded, looking around the empty room.

A passing student poked his head in. “He left a few minutes ago—something about picking up supplies from town.” Then, seeing Cater’s condition, he paled and quickly withdrew.

“Of course he’s gone,” Trey muttered, frustration bleeding through.

Riddle pressed his lips into a tight line, already rolling up his sleeves. “My parents are doctors. I know enough to stabilize him until the Infirmary Ghost returns. Trey, fetch clean bandages and antiseptic. Jack, water and a cloth—hurry.”

Both of them snapped to it without question.

With Riddle’s sharp instructions guiding them, they worked quickly—peeling away the soaked gauze, carefully cleaning the angry red wound, trying not to press too hard as Cater twitched faintly in his unconscious state.

But when Trey tugged off Cater’s bloodied shirt, the three of them froze.

His entire torso was mottled with raw, angry bruises, spreading across his ribs and stomach like a stormfront. Some were deep purple, others nearly black—clear signs of having been inflicted very recently.

Jack swore under his breath. “What the hell… these are all fresh. This happened yesterday.”

Trey’s face darkened, his usual calm cracking into something grim. “…And it sure didn’t happen here at school.”

Riddle clenched his fists at his sides, jaw tight as he fought to steady his voice. “Focus. The wound first—then we’ll demand answers.”

The three of them went back to work in tense silence, the only sounds Cater’s shallow breathing and the rustle of bandages as they did their best to hold him together until the Infirmary Ghost returned.

At last the door swung open, and the Infirmary Ghost floated in with a satchel in hand. “What the devil—?” His eyes widened as he spotted Cater on the cot, shirtless, bandages crudely applied, blood still soaking through and dripping into the bowl Trey had been using.

“We did what we could,” Riddle said tightly. “But his wound is severe.”

He set his satchel down with a thud. “Step aside, all of you.”

They obeyed at once. The ghost’s hands moved with brisk precision, cleaning the gash properly before threading a curved needle. Cater stirred and groaned as the ghost began stitching, but he was too weak to fight.

Trey winced in sympathy, muttering under his breath, “Hang in there, buddy…”

At last, the final stitch was tied off, and a clean dressing pressed firmly into place. The ghost layered a thick wrap around his torso before exhaling. “There. The bleeding’s stopped, but he’s dangerously worn down. I’ve given him some medicine for the infection and the fever.”

He glanced at the three boys, his expression stern. “This isn’t the kind of injury one gets from slipping on the stairs. Not with those bruises covering him.”

Trey and Riddle exchanged a heavy look, while Jack’s jaw clenched. None of them spoke, but the same thought weighed on all their minds.

The ghost adjusted Cater’s blanket, his tone softening. “Let him rest. He needs quiet more than anything now.”

Reluctantly, the three friends stepped back, watching Cater’s chest rise and fall with steadier rhythm, though the questions pressing at their throats only grew heavier.

A few days later, Cater was sitting up in the infirmary cot, color creeping back into his face. The stitches still pulled when he moved too much, but at least he could walk again.

Trey, Riddle, and Jack stood nearby as he tugged his shirt back on. “Man, talk about embarrassing, huh?” Cater said with a sheepish laugh. “Guess that’s what I get for trying to land tricks I’m way too rusty for.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Board slipped out from under me. Bam, wipeout. #ClassicCayCay moment.”

The three exchanged uneasy looks. Riddle’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but Trey just forced a small nod. “Well… at least you’re on the mend. Just be more careful, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, no worries,” Cater replied breezily. He flashed them his usual grin and headed out the infirmary door, waving a cheerful goodbye as if nothing had happened.

The moment the door swung shut behind him, the Infirmary Ghost drifted over with arms crossed. His voice was firm, cutting through the silence. “Don’t be fooled. Those bruises—” he gestured toward the cot Cater had vacated—“are not from any skateboarding spill. I’ve seen plenty of those. The patterning is wrong. Too concentrated. Too deliberate.”

Jack’s ears flattened. “So… somebody did that to him.”

The ghost nodded once. “That kid’s hiding something, and it’s not going to heal with medicine alone.”

Trey swallowed hard, glancing at Riddle. For once, even Riddle had no quick answer—just a pale face and a storm brewing behind his eyes.

The three of them left the infirmary, each weighed down by the Infirmary Ghost’s words. Jack shoved his hands deep into his pockets, tail twitching with frustration. Trey stayed quiet, eyes fixed on the ground. And Riddle, though his face was composed, clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles blanched white.

None of them said what they were thinking.

When the two prefects caught up with Cater in the Heartslabyul common room, he was already perched on the arm of a couch, phone in hand, flashing a breezy grin as if nothing had happened.

“Yo! Cay-Cay is back, bay-bee!” he announced to a handful of dormmates, spinning his phone in his fingers. “Miss me too much while I was gone?”

Laughter rippled through the room, easy and careless. Cater basked in it like sunlight, his smile flawless, his tone just as playful as ever.

But Trey and Riddle only watched in silence. They could see it now—the faint stiffness when Cater shifted his weight, the careful way he kept his torso angled away from anyone who might bump him, the tiredness he couldn’t quite hide behind the filters of his grin.

And still, not a crack in the mask for anyone to see.

Chapter Text

Meanwhile, back at Diamant Manor, unease hung thick in the air. News had arrived that Mr. Periclase was alive—and on his way home. Madame Diamant and the girls felt the blood drain from their faces. They had built their cruel kingdom in his perpetual absence, but once he walked through that door, the truth would come crashing down on them. And when Periclase discovered how his wife and daughters had treated his son, there would be no escaping the reckoning to come.

When Mr. Periclase finally stepped through the doors of Diamant Manor, his presence filled the parlor without him needing to raise his voice. His auburn hair was streaked with grey now, but his deep blue eyes held the same steady warmth Cater remembered, a quiet strength that had always set him apart from Madame Diamant’s cold elegance.

Vira and Vanica rushed forward with smiles too wide, their words dripping with false cheer. Madame Diamant glided to his side, clutching his arm as though nothing had ever been amiss.

Periclase listened, but he was no fool. He heard the falseness in their tones, saw the strain at the corners of their painted smiles. And when his gaze swept the house—the gleaming parlor, the polished stair rails, the faint smell of harsh soap lingering in the air—his jaw tightened.

“Where is Cater?” he asked simply.

The women hesitated. Vanica stammered something about him being ‘away at boarding school’, but Periclase’s expression did not waver. He said nothing more, only sat down at the head of the coffee table, the seat Madame Diamant had claimed in his absence.

That night, once the house was quiet, he summoned his solicitor. His voice remained calm, measured, even kind—but the words cut like a scalpel. He would be redrafting his will immediately. His wife and daughters, he explained, had proven themselves unworthy of their position of power. They would not see a single Sorcent of his fortune.

It was Cater’s name he spoke when asked who would inherit.

And though Madame Diamant sat across from him in icy silence, her hands were clenched so tightly around the armrest that her knuckles had gone white.

The silence stretched long and thin across the parlor. Periclase leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze moving from Madame Diamant to each of the twins in turn.

“I’ll ask again,” he said, his voice steady but carrying weight. “Where is my son?”

This time, Vira’s mask slipped. “We told you,” she muttered, arms crossing defensively. “He’s away at boarding school.”

Periclase’s eyes narrowed. “And his room? I checked upstairs. Empty.”

Vanica blurted before she could stop herself: “We put him in the basement!”

Madame Diamant’s sharp glance at her daughter could have cut glass. “He was… growing soft. He needed discipline,” she said smoothly, but there was a faint quaver under the veneer. “I merely saw to it he pulled his weight around the house.”

Periclase stood, and suddenly the room felt smaller. His tone never rose, but each word fell like stone.

“You forced my boy to sleep in the cold while you sat here in comfort. You bruised him. You starved him of warmth in his own home. And you dare to justify it?”

Neither Vira nor Vanica could meet his eyes.

“Cater is my son,” Periclase continued. “The only reason this family had any right to my fortune is because of the legacy I have built for him. And you—” he turned to Madame Diamant, voice still calm but steely enough to freeze the air “—have betrayed that trust.”

Madame Diamant drew herself up, regal mask snapping back into place. “I only did what was necessary. He is a weak link, and I will not apologize for trying to correct it.”

Periclase let the words hang. Then, softly:

“Then you will apologize when the solicitor delivers the papers. I will not leave my estate to wolves who feed on their own blood.”

The color drained from Vira and Vanica’s faces. Madame Diamant’s lips pressed into a thin line, but for once, she had nothing left to say.

Chapter Text

The perpetual chaos of NRC carried on. Cater’s injury troubles were far from his only concern—there were more Overblots to weather, though for the most part he only felt the distant rumblings.

Yuon and Grim filled him in on how Jamil had schemed to overthrow Kalim by trapping Scarabia on campus during break, then hypnotizing everyone with his signature spell, Snake Charmer, to turn the dorm against their Housewarden. But thanks to Azul and the Leech twins—who had stayed behind on campus for their own reasons—the plan collapsed even harder than Leona’s disastrous Spelldrive sabotage, ending with Jamil’s spectacular Overblot.

Then came the school’s annual Culture Fair. Every year, the Song and Dance Competition was the highlight, and every year Night Raven College lost to Royal Sword Academy. Vil swore this year would be different—he would finally outshine his rival and Chenya’s fellow RSA student, Niege LeBlanche. He set brutal standards for auditions. Cater flunked, and at first he was disappointed… until he saw how mercilessly Vil drilled those who passed. Suddenly, being cut felt like a blessing.

But Vil’s perfectionism cracked under pressure. On the day of the competition, he tried slipping Niege a laced apple juice, only to be caught red-handed by his own group. That shame tipped him into an Overblot. And despite everything, NRC still lost—thanks to Rook choosing that exact moment to out himself as Niege’s number-one fan.

Things spiraled further when Rook’s bounty-hunter girlfriend, Astrid, revealed herself to be a Jorōgumo in disguise. Vil, Cater, and others barely fought her off in time to save him. Reeling from heartbreak and the strain on his friendship with Vil, Rook sank into depression. His paranoia peaked when he attempted to assassinate Jack, Epel, and Yuon—students he saw as threats to his bond with Vil—only to be folded by a grumpy, freshly-awakened Leona. The confrontation triggered Rook’s own vicious Overblot.

And then came Idia. Summoned home along with Ortho to serve as Acting Director of S.T.Y.X while his parents were out on some top-secret mission, he quickly realized he wanted nothing to do with inheriting their legacy. His rebellion ended in catastrophe: he Overblotted, tearing through the facility itself. Luckily, none of the imprisoned blot phantoms escaped to the surface.

Not long after the Shroud brothers returned to campus, the PA system crackled to life, summoning all students to the lecture hall for a school-wide assembly once classes ended. When they arrived, they found Idia on stage beside Crowley, tablet in hand and Ortho at his side. A projector hummed overhead, displaying the title slide of a slideshow presentation.

The lecture hall buzzed with chatter as the students trickled in, shuffling to their seats. Onstage, Crowley stood beside the Shroud brothers, puffing up like a proud peacock.

“Attention, attention!” Crowley declared, sweeping his wings. “As many of you are aware, Night Raven College has recently experienced… ah… a slight uptick in catastrophic magical meltdowns. Therefore, I have enlisted our very own Shroud brothers, with their extensive family knowledge of the organization S.T.Y.X, to educate us all about blot—its dangers, and the tragic reality of Overblot.”

He stepped back with a flourish, leaving Idia frozen in the spotlight. The projector flicked on, illuminating the first slide: The Classification of Overblot Phenomena.

“Uh…” Idia’s voice cracked as he tapped his tablet, turning on his AAC app.

“This thing on? ‘Kay. Overblot isn’t random. S.T.Y.X classifies them,” the app spoke. “Different types, each linked to different emotional triggers and survivability rates.” He clicked to the next slide. “So, here we go.”

The words Type I – Fear appeared.

“This is the mildest form,” Ortho piped up, his voice bright in contrast to his brother’s. “It happens when fear drives someone past their magic limit. Some sources don't even consider this a true Overblot, as intervention usually occurs before the Overblot is complete. This type, therefore, has by far the highest chance of survival at 96%—so almost everyone recovers.”

A few students sighed in relief.

Idia clicked the remote again. Type II – Envy.

Ortho’s smile dimmed. “This one is much worse. The intensity of a Type II Overblot depends on the intensity of the victim’s jealousy toward their target. The victim attempts to take their target down with them as a last-ditch effort, even if it means everyone else ends up as collateral. The survival rate… 22%.”

Gasps rippled through the audience. Vil sat stiff as a board. Azul tugged at his collar. Even Rook’s perpetual smile twitched.

“Yeah,” Idia muttered. “Congrats if you’re in this category. You beat the odds.”

The next slide. Type III – Hatred.

“This one festers for years,” Ortho said softly. “These guys got dealt a bad hand pretty much at birth, and Overblot happens when they finally snap. They rampage and usually deal heavy damage, but a Type III is slightly easier to talk down than a Type IV. Even so, the survival rate is only 16%.”

Leona scowled at the screen. Jamil folded his arms, gaze hard.

Idia’s eyes flicked away from the crowd. “Yeah. That’s my category too. Don’t recommend it.”

The hall had gone quiet now, unease seeping through the rows.

Type IV – Anger.

“This one’s the most violent,” Ortho explained. “In their rage, the victim throws everything they have at anyone unlucky enough to be nearby, which guzzles their magic really fast. Riddle Rosehearts is the first Type IV survivor in a very long time. Survival rate… just 3%.”

Every head turned toward Riddle. He sat bolt upright, his face pale but steady, hands folded behind his back.

“Statistically, he should be dead,” Idia deadpanned. “So congrats to him for being a bugged data point.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then the final slide. Type V – Sorrow.

The screen was stark, nothing but black with white lettering: Survival Rate: 0%.

Ortho’s voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “This is the deadliest type of Overblot. So deadly, in fact, that—as far as we know—no mage has ever survived a Type V Overblot. The thing that makes them so impervious is their extremely poor mental state. ‘Suicidal thoughts’ and all that. Sorrow eats away at you completely. Type V’s are usually considered instant losses, because when a mage reaches this stage… there’s nothing left to save.”

A chill swept the lecture hall. Nobody spoke. Even Crowley faltered.

Idia quickly shut off the projector. “So, yeah. Moral of the story: watch your blot levels. Or you’ll end up a cautionary tale.”

Crowley clapped too loudly, trying to break the spell. “Thank you, Shroud brothers! Truly a chilling—er, enlightening presentation!”

The students filed out in murmurs, voices hushed and uneasy.

Cater lingered in his seat, staring at the black projector screen, his grin plastered firmly in place while his stomach sank like a stone.

He walked out of the lecture hall with the rest of Heartslabyul, his smile stretched so wide it almost hurt. Jokes flew past his lips like always, quick little quips about how the Shrouds should’ve added a sixth category: ‘Type VI – Cringe Overload.’ The others laughed, or at least rolled their eyes, but that was fine. As long as nobody looked too close.

Inside, though? His stomach was lead.

The slides kept replaying in his mind—Fear, Envy, Hatred, Anger, Sorrow. Zero percent survival for the last one. Zero. That word echoed like a death knell.

Cater didn’t need a doctor’s chart to know blot had been clinging to him more tightly than it should lately. His signature spell left him bone-weary every time, a half-sick feeling lurking just under his ribs. And with his mask cracking more often these days, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was drifting toward something worse.

But when Trey nudged him, asking if he wanted to grab something from the cafeteria, Cater’s sunny grin snapped right back into place. “Totally! I could go for, like, five milkshakes right now, lol.”

Nobody had to know. Not yet.

Back in the dorm that night, Cater was sprawled on his bed, scrolling through Magicam and humming some half-forgotten pop tune when Trey texted him. What? No! Cater replied when Trey asked if he was tired. All good, Trey-Trey! #HealthyLifestyle, ya know? He even threw in a winky-face emoji for good measure.

When Trey signed off to attend to Prefect duties with Riddle, Cater let the smile slip. His phone screen blurred in his hands, the glow painting tired shadows under his eyes. He flicked past selfies, food pics, group shots from the cafeteria—every post a perfect mask, perfectly curated.

His thumb hovered over the upload button on one of his drafts: just a photo of his desk, captioned ‘grind never stops’. He stared at it a long time before deleting it. Not even a meaningless post felt safe tonight.

Curling up beneath his blankets, Cater whispered the names of the Overblot types under his breath like a curse, stopping short at the last one.

Zero percent.

He turned onto his side, squeezing his eyes shut against the glow of his phone.

Tomorrow he’d laugh louder. Smile wider. Nobody would notice.

Chapter Text

Unbeknownst to Cater, Mr. Periclase was already making his way to Night Raven College. But Sage’s Island was remote, without so much as an airport, and for anyone not tied to one of its two arcane academies, the journey required weeks of travel and more than a few changes in transport.

Far from Night Raven College, Mr. Periclase sat by the window of a slow-moving train, the countryside blurring past. His fingers traced the worn leather of his briefcase, heavy with documents he had kept close since his return. The journey had already taken him through the Shaftlands by rail, across the channel by ferry, and now back onto rails again in the Kingdom of Heroes—each transfer another step toward Sage’s Island.

Travel was tedious, but Periclase didn’t mind. He had spent years buried in work, running from city to city, calculation after calculation, until fate had finally seen fit to deliver him back to the son he had been kept from. He could endure weeks more.

He leaned back, adjusting his tie as the conductor called out the next stop. His heart stirred with a quiet anticipation. Soon, he would see Cater again. And when he did, Cater would never be left out in the cold again.

~—~—~

Meanwhile, Night Raven College was pitching in at the annual Port Fest, each of the five classes running their own food stand. Class B, Cater’s class, had chosen waffles—complete with a topping buffet.

The Port Fest was in full swing, bright banners snapping in the sea breeze and music drifting over the crowded docks. Families bustled between rows of stalls, laughing, sampling food, and haggling with vendors.

Class B’s waffle stand was holding its own. The air smelled of sizzling batter and melted chocolate, and a long line stretched past the booth. Cater, apron tied over his uniform, leaned out the front with his most winning grin.

“Step right up! Fresh waffles, crispy edges, fluffy centers! Top ’em with whatever your heart desires—fruit, whipped cream, chocolate drizzle, you name it!”

Kids ran up clutching coins, pointing excitedly at toppings. Epel worked the topping station, dusted with powdered sugar up to his elbows. “Whoops—guess that’s a little more’n they asked for,” he muttered, shaking the shaker over a waffle that now looked like a snowdrift.

Idia worked his souped-up, automated waffle iron, churning out heaps of perfect golden waffles. “Shoulda welded a ‘DON’T TOUCH ME, I’M CRAZY HOT!!!’ plaque on this thing. Could probably give some idiot a third-degree burn,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead.

Chenya popped his head into the stall, his face already smeared with frosting and sprinkles from Class A’s churros. “Yo! This is like my sixth booth and y’all win the flavor contest, hands down.” He snatched a waffle off Epel’s tray, slathering it with chocolate and cream. “Port Fest MVPs, no contest.”

Epel scowled but didn’t stop him. “Ain’t you s’posed to be holed up in class at yer own school?”

“Nah,” Chenya said through a mouthful. “RSA’s boring. NRC’s where the party’s at!”

Cater laughed, leaning over the counter to wave at the crowd. For once, everything felt easy—the music, the laughter, the sugar-encrusted smiles of kids walking off with overloaded plates. It was one of those rare days where he almost believed his mask.

Almost.

~—~—~

Mr. Periclase’s train screeched to a halt at the border station between the Kingdom of Heroes and the Sunshine Lands. Outside the window, armored guards moved briskly along the platform, checking tickets and cargo with military precision. Inside, the passengers grew restless.

“Unbelievable!” a stout man in a fur-lined coat bellowed, waving his papers at the nearest inspector. “Do you know who I am? You’ll let me through now, or I’ll have your post for this!” His voice carried through the entire car, dripping with arrogance.

Periclase closed his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose. He had seen men like this before—small men made large by titles, their tantrums leaving others to suffer delays. Around him, mothers soothed children, tourists fidgeted with their bags, and business travelers muttered darkly under their breath. Every minute wasted here stretched the journey longer.

He adjusted his tie, fingers tightening around his briefcase. The guards’ patience thinned visibly, hands drifting toward sword hilts as the man continued his tirade. For a moment, Periclase thought the entire car would be forced off for inspection.

Another delay. Another obstacle. Every wasted hour pulled him further from the son he needed to see, from the wrongs he was determined to right. He gazed out at the snowy hills beyond the station, his reflection stark in the glass.

Hold on, Cater, he thought. I’m coming.

~—~—~

Around noon, Cater was on break when he noticed Ace and Deuce strolling over from Class A’s churro stand, snacks in hand.

“Yo, Cater!” Ace waved, churro already halfway gone. “Man, I didn’t think anyone could top our churros, but your waffle line’s insane.”

Deuce held up the other half of his own churro, sugar clinging to his fingers. “We’ve been running low every thirty minutes. Vargas keeps yelling at us to ‘fry faster’, like that even helps.”

Cater grinned, leaning back against the stall counter. “That’s the magic of the Port Fest, boys—sugar-fueled chaos. #SweetToothParadise!” He flicked his phone up, snapping a picture of the churro duo before they could duck out of frame.

“Hey! Delete that!” Ace barked, but Cater only winked. “Nope, too late! #ChurroChamps!”

Epel, still manning the toppings behind Cater, snorted. “Yer churros ain’t got nothin’ on my apple compote waffle stack. Folks’ll remember this one.”

“That’s what you said about the apple cider stand during Halloween Week,” Ace shot back. “And who outsold who again?”

The four of them bickered good-naturedly as Idia quietly kept on sliding waffles down the counter, muttering something about ‘NPC sugar comas’. Chenya, who’d returned for round two with his cheeks full of strawberry filling, only laughed louder.

For a while, it was nothing but sunlight, sugar, and the comfortable rhythm of teasing friends. The kind of simple, fleeting moment Cater wished he could bottle and keep forever.

Then Chenya piped up, licking sugar from his fingers. ‘So, what’re you plannin’ on doin’ next year?’

Cater blinked. ‘Huh? Whaddya mean?’

‘What, nobody told ya?’ Chenya tilted his head. ‘I don’t know how other schools handle it, but at NRC and RSA, seniors don’t stick around. They head off for internships—sometimes abroad, sometimes back home. Trey’s already set; says he’s gonna be a dentist. Lucky guy, there’s an office right near his folks’ bakery. Oh, but Riddle?’ Chenya gave a low whistle. ‘When his turn comes, I bet he’s gonna be stuck right back under his mom’s thumb.’

Cater’s soul practically left his body. His stomach dropped clear into his feet, his smile faltered for just a beat. Nobody had bothered to tell him seniors didn’t get to enjoy campus life.

Cater laughed, quick and hollow, tossing a wink at Chenya like the news didn’t rattle him at all. “Whoa, plot twist! Guess Cay-Cay better start brushing up on those résumés, huh?”

The others chuckled and moved on, but inside Cater’s thoughts were spiraling.

Internships. Leaving campus. No dorms, no friends, no buffer.

His mind flashed with the cold stone of Diamant Manor’s basement, the sound of his mother’s voice snapping orders, the sting of his sisters’ heels.

Going home wasn’t an option.

Going back there… Living there again…

He’d rather lose his phone. Down a sinkhole. With water at the bottom.

His smile froze in place even as his chest tightened. He snapped a picture of Epel making a face at Ace’s half-eaten churro, posted it with a cheerful caption, and let the notification pings drown out the pounding of his own heart.

You’ll get through this, Cay-Cay, he told himself. You always do.

But for the rest of the day, every laugh felt just a little thinner.

~—~—~

By the time the ordeal with the blustering man in the fur coat was resolved, Periclase’s train was running over two hours late. If he missed the connecting ship to the Land of Dawning, it could take days to secure another—precious days he did not have.

When the train finally pulled into the station, he braced himself for disappointment… only to see the vessel still docked at the pier. Relief surged through him.

The moment the doors opened, Periclase snatched up his briefcase and hurried across the platform, weaving through the crowd. He was the very last passenger to clatter up the gangplank before it was raised.

Unbeknownst to him, the delay had worked in his favor—the ship had been held back, waiting on the train’s delivery of important cargo. Fate, it seemed, had kept the way open for him.

~—~—~

Chenya had unknowingly dealt the fatal blow to Cater’s mask.

When Port Fest wrapped up and the dorm settled into its usual evening rhythm—card games in the lounge, tea brewing on the table—Cater slipped straight to his room. This time, the mask didn’t just crack.

It shattered.

Cater shut the door softly behind him, leaning against it as the muffled sounds of laughter drifted from the lounge downstairs. He drew in a shaky breath, tugged his phone from his pocket, and opened the camera. Reflex more than thought.

He managed one smile, weak and crooked, snapping a photo of the dorm ceiling. Caption: #PostFestCrash lol. He set it to auto-post and dropped the phone among his sheets.

For a while, he just sat there on the edge of his bed, hands limp in his lap, staring at nothing. His heart beat too fast, his chest tight. The mask was gone, and with it, the little bit of air he usually had to breathe.

The quiet pressed heavy. He curled in on himself, knees pulled to his chest, head buried in his arms. At first, it was just trembling—tiny shakes he could almost control. Then came the tears, hot and silent, dripping onto his sleeves.

He tried to stop. Tried to breathe. But the thought kept replaying, louder each time: I can’t go back. I can’t go home. I can’t survive that again.

The trembling broke into sobs. His chest hitched, throat raw, gasping around words that never made it past his lips. The kind of sound no mask could hide, no hashtag could cover.

And still, down in the lounge, the others laughed over tea and cards, blissfully unaware.

Trey and Riddle lingered at the bottom of the stairs, watching the rest of Heartslabyul shuffle cards and sip tea. Cater’s sudden retreat hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“He didn’t even sit down,” Trey murmured. “Straight to his room, door locked.”

Riddle frowned, arms crossed. “Suspicious. He’s been… off since noon.” His voice softened slightly. “Go check on him, Trey. You’re closest.”

Trey nodded, setting his teacup aside. He padded up the stairs, pausing outside Cater’s door. From inside came no music, no chatter, not even the sound of his phone camera clicking like usual. Just silence—too heavy to be normal.

He raised a hand and knocked gently. “Cater? It’s me.”

No answer.

Trey hesitated, leaning closer, listening.

Silence.

He glanced back down the stairs; Riddle gave a single, firm nod.

With a quick flick of magic, Trey popped the lock and pushed the door open.

The room was dark. The only sound was the curtains whispering in the draft of an open window.

“Uh,” Trey said slowly, “we would’ve seen him leave… right?”

“Indeed,” Riddle replied, frown deepening. “Try calling him.”

Trey pulled out his phone and hit Cater’s number. A familiar ringtone chimed from inside the room—behind him.

He turned. Cater’s phone lay face-down on the bed.

“Well, this can’t be a good sign,” Trey muttered. “Cater never goes anywhere without his phone.”

Riddle’s gaze sharpened. “But how could he have gotten past us?”

“He couldn’t,” Trey said grimly. “Unless…”

He crossed the room and leaned out the open window. Sure enough, a drainpipe clung to the wall just inches away.

Cater was already out the exit mirror. He sprinted up the path, past the alchemy workshop, past the botanical garden, past Ramshackle.

He didn’t stop. Not when the woods closed in, not when his lungs burned. He just ran—until a tree root caught his foot and sent him sprawling.

He crashed into a moonlit clearing, flooded with the light of the full moon, the foliage still scorched and scarred from Rook’s Overblot.

On hands and knees, he broke. Sobs tore out of him, raw and ragged, until they bled into retching. He heaved until his sides burned, tears dripping into the dirt.

When he finally gasped for air, he wiped his face with the back of his hand—only to see black streaks smeared across his skin.

His breath hitched. Slowly, he looked down.

A dark, gleaming puddle spread beneath him. Blot. Vomited up like poison, its glassy surface reflecting the black tear-stains striping his face.

A mocking mirror.

Cater barely had time to widen his eyes before the moonlight vanished, blotted out by the massive shadow that loomed behind him.

Everything went black.

~—~—~

The moment his feet touched the pier on Sage’s Island, Mr. Periclase was struck by a sudden wave of dread, sharp and suffocating. Something was wrong—terribly wrong. He didn’t know how he knew, only that his son was at the heart of it.

He rushed to the nearest carriage driver. ‘You there! Night Raven College—at once!’

‘That’ll be forty,’ the driver replied, ‘and ten more for the express run.’

‘Fine, fine! Just go!’ Periclase thrust a fifty-Thaumark note into the man’s hand before climbing in.

The driver snapped the reins, and the carriage surged forward, racing up the winding path toward the gothic silhouette of the school perched high on its windswept cliff.

~—~—~

Riddle and Trey stepped back from the open window, the night air tugging at their uniforms.

“We need to inform the staff immediately,” Riddle said, voice clipped with urgency.

Trey nodded and moved to leave—only for his elbow to brush against the desk. The pencil holder toppled with a clatter, pens and pencils scattering across the floor.

“Sorry,” Trey muttered, crouching to gather them up. That’s when he noticed it—something that wasn’t a pen at all. A slim 1-Terabyte flash drive had been wedged in among the writing implements. Its casing was plain silver, except for two strips of tape, one on each side.

On one side, scrawled in neat handwriting: Cay-Cay’s Diary.

On the other: PRIVATE — DO NOT OPEN.

Trey’s breath caught. He held it up, glancing at Riddle. “You think…?”

Riddle’s frown deepened as he adjusted his gloves. “It’s Cater’s. No question. And given his disappearance, I’d say it may contain the answers we’ve been searching for.”

Trey hesitated. “But it’s his diary.”

“Which he left hidden,” Riddle countered, though his voice was quieter now. “He’s in danger, Trey. Perhaps worse. We cannot afford restraint.”

They stood there for a long beat, the little drive heavy between them.

Finally, Trey exhaled. “We’ll have Ortho sift through it. He’ll know how to handle something like this.”

Riddle gave a sharp nod. “Agreed. If anyone can quickly extract the truth from it, it’s Ortho.”

Trey slipped the drive carefully into his pocket, and the two of them strode out of the room, Cater’s absence pressing down heavier with each step.

Crowley wasted no time in putting the school into search-and-rescue mode, his voice booming over the PA system with urgent instructions—much to the irritation of students who had already settled into bed.

Crowley’s voice echoed through the halls, rattling windows and nerves alike: “Attention, students! We are officially in search-and-rescue mode. All hands on deck—this is not a drill!”

The school erupted in groans.

In Heartslabyul, boys tumbled out of bunks mid-yawn, grumbling as they buttoned coats and muttered about how the Queen’s Rules never mentioned midnight scavenger hunts.

Over in Savanaclaw, several were already halfway back to sleep before Jack kicked them awake, shouting that the faculty would have their hides if they slacked off.

Octavinelle’s lounge filled with sighs as Azul, pinching the bridge of his nose, promised ‘discount vouchers for the Mostro Lounge’ to anyone who brought back useful intel.

In Pomefiore, Vil’s sharp command of “Skin care routines can wait—get moving!” had half the dorm shuffling out in perfectly pressed pajamas and slippers.

Ignihyde was the least enthusiastic, Idia’s muffled protests spilling from behind his locked door as he readied his drone until Ortho simply declared, “I’ll handle it,” and zipped away.

And in Diasomnia, Lilia cheerfully rallied the troops while Silver struggled to rub the sleep from his eyes, Sebek bellowed about protecting Malleus even though Malleus himself was already striding out into the night without hesitation.

One way or another, Night Raven College was awake, and the search had begun.

Before Ortho could even leave Ignihyde, the front door slid open with a soft hiss, and Ortho blinked up at the two older boys standing in the hall. Riddle’s expression was tight, Trey’s weary but determined.

“Riddle Rosehearts? Trey Clover?” Ortho tilted his head. “Shouldn’t you be with the search teams?”

Riddle wasted no time. “We will rejoin them shortly. But first—” he held up the small flash drive, tape labels still stuck to its sides, “—we need your expertise.”

Ortho’s eyes flickered with faint blue light as he scanned the object. “Data storage… encrypted?”

“Cater hid it,” Trey added quietly. “It says ‘Cay-Cay’s Diary.’ And ‘PRIVATE—DO NOT OPEN.’”

Ortho frowned, little gears whirring in his shoulders. “You want me to open it anyway.”

“Yes,” Riddle said firmly. His tone was measured, but beneath it urgency simmered. “We have reason to believe Cater is in serious danger. This may hold the answers we need.”

Trey shifted, uncomfortable but resolute. “We wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Just… handle it carefully. Please.”

Ortho looked between them, then gave a crisp nod. “Understood. Come inside.”

The door slid wider, the pale glow of monitors spilling into the hallway.

Inside Ignihyde, the air thrummed with the low hum of servers. Riddle and Trey stood behind Ortho as the boy slotted the flash drive into a port on one of the glowing terminals and connected himself to it.

Lines of code cascaded across his holographic interface, fingers moving with mechanical precision as he peeled back layers of simple encryption. “Nothing complicated,” Ortho murmured. “Cater must’ve wanted this hidden… not sealed forever.”

The screen blinked. Folders spilled open.

Riddle leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the neat column of timestamped text documents. “Month after month… years of them.”

“There’s about six years’ worth of entries here,” Ortho confirmed, streams of data flowing into his matrix. “Looks like he started this right before middle school. Give me a minute to process.”

The room filled with the soft, steady hum of machines. Then Ortho’s interface chimed.

“Data processing complete,” he intoned. His optics shifted, glowing faintly. “Narrating relevant entries now.”

And then Cater’s voice filled the lab—his tone so familiar, so casual, yet stripped of all the laughter, all the brightness. Just his raw thoughts, laid bare.

Chapter Text

Aug. 27, 2015: Yo. Name’s Cater Diamond. I’m starting middle school in two weeks, and I already know it’s gonna be rough. My sisters are two years older, so we’ll be in the same school again. Pretty sure they’ve already trashed my name to everyone, and Mom probably told the teachers I’m some kinda ‘problem child’.

So… yeah. This is my new diary. I don’t have friends, so I guess I’ll just talk to this thing instead.

Sept. 12, 2015: First week of middle school: done and dusted. Whoever invented middle school seriously wasn’t thinking. You got scrawny kids like me stuck in the same classes as giants who already gotta shave twice a day. And then they wonder why bullying’s a thing.

Also, called it—Mom and the girls definitely said stuff about me. The kids avoid me, and the teachers won’t stop staring like they’re waiting for me to screw up.

Sept. 13, 2025: Guess I should explain the family situation.

First, there’s Mom. She’s a socialite from some old-as-hell rich line. Started her own fashion company at nineteen, and now it’s the biggest brand in the world after Luxe. But honestly? The only people she cares about are herself and my sisters. I think the only reason she even married Dad was because he had a fat bank account, and she needed some quick cash to pull her business outta the red.

Dad’s an actuary. Apparently one of the best, ‘cause his clients never leave him alone. We’re always moving for his work, which is why I don’t have friends—people never stay in touch after the next move.

My sisters are twins. Mom’s been grooming them since birth to take over the company. They’re as snobby as they are pretty, and their favorite hobby is making me look bad whenever guests are around. If only Dad could see them for the #IceColdWitches they really are.

And then there’s me.

Normally, when kids reach a certain age, they forget everything from when they were babies. But there’s a rare few of us who weren’t lucky enough to forget.

Yeah, that’s right.

I still have…

…memories from inside the womb.

My first memory is just floating around in the dark, hearing a lullaby. Later I found out it wasn’t even for me—nobody knew I was in there until the day I was born.

I found out about my sisters the hard way. I kept getting crushed between their butts and Mom’s thighs whenever she sat down. It got worse when they started bouncing on her lap. And don’t get me started on when Mom went to parties. Whenever she danced, I felt like I was stuck on the teacup ride, max speed. Pretty sure I puked in there a few times.

After months of that, I just had to get out before my head got caved in. That’s why I was born a month premature.

Now I really wish I’d just stayed put.

See, my timing was the absolute worst. The day I was born, a bunch of fashion people—including Mom—were auditioning for a spot with the Queendom of Roses’ royal family. Because she was stuck in the hospital with me, she lost the contract to her biggest rival. Lord Carnelian, I think his name was.

And ever since then, Mom and my sisters have blamed me for ruining her once-in-a-lifetime chance. So now they torment me every chance they get. And since Dad’s basically never home… that’s all the time.

Nov. 27, 2015: Ran an errand today, and guess what? Met some guys at the bakery who actually treat me like a person instead of just a Magicam star.

Trey Clover’s the baker’s kid—he’s got a whole mess of younger siblings and totally gives off that #ReliableBigBro vibe.

Riddle Rosehearts is younger than the rest of us by a year, only child, two doctor parents. Poor little dude’s got the worst case of #HelicopterMom I’ve ever seen.

And then there’s Chenya Pinker. Orphan kid, but his filthy rich grandpa takes care of him, so he’s super chill. #SuperCammable, too—makes a perfect partner for my Magicam shots.

Probably won’t see ‘em much, though. Mom and the girls keep me running nonstop.

Jan. 1, 2016: Moved. Again. Riddle’s already gone quiet, but Trey and Chenya still keep in touch. Not holding my breath, though. Sooner or later, none of ‘em will bother anymore. That’s just how it always goes.

May 12, 2016: Okay, wow. It’s been almost half a year, and Trey and Chenya are STILL talking to me. Guess that makes us pen pals now. Honestly, I just wish we could stop moving. Never enough time to settle before we’re yanked off again. I don’t even bother unpacking anymore.

July 15, 2016: Dude! DUDE!! DUDE!!! You’re NOT gonna believe this—I’m a MAGE!! And not just me! Trey and Chenya too! We all manifested within weeks of each other!

Chenya’s already a legendary prankster, and Trey uses his magic to multitask like crazy around the bakery.

Mine… I gotta keep mine quiet. If Mom or the girls ever find out, they’ll find a way to twist it against me.

Oct. 20, 2016: Trey called tonight. Turns out Chenya pranked the wrong guy and ended up in the hospital. Mostly scrapes and bruises, so he’ll be fine, but still… guess even Chenya has limits.

June 28, 2017: Got good news and bad news.

Good news: I got into this arcane academy called Night Raven College—super exclusive, boarding school, for gifted mages only. Come fall, CAY-CAY IS #OUTTAHERE, BABY!!

Bad news: I didn’t get to break the news myself. Mom waved the acceptance letter in my face before I even knew it had come in. One of my sisters must’ve snagged the mail first. So now the whole house knows I can use magic. Just like I thought—they’re crazy jealous, and they’re already using it as an excuse to dump extra chores on me.

Sept. 5, 2018: Yo! Trey got into NRC too! And even better—we both got sorted into Heartslabyul! AND Chenya landed over at Royal Sword Academy right across the island! The three of us got to hang like old times. If only Riddle was here…

Speaking of—Trey and Chenya told me Riddle didn’t ghost me on purpose. His mom caught him hanging around the bakery literally two days after I moved. They haven’t heard from him since either. Man… I hope he’s okay.

Sept. 11, 2018: DUDE. The school dragged us into this mandatory icebreaker in the cafeteria, and turns out our classmates are stacked like a premium gacha pull. SSR-tier, no joke.

First up: Leona Kingscholar, second prince of the Sunset Savannah. #HardcoreDelinquentVibes. Dude looked like he was deciding whether to eat me. Pretty sure he’s only here ‘cause his folks got tired of his crap.

Then THE actor-slash-supermodel Vil Schoenheit showed up just long enough to roast me alive like a marshmallow. Thanks for making me look like a #BLister, bro.

Idia Shroud—the tech genius himself—sprinted for the Loser Corner and stayed there the whole time. Makes sense. Guy’s got a phobia of crowds. His little bro Ortho though? Total opposite. Super chatty, #QTPie energy all the way.

And if that wasn’t enough, we’ve ALSO got Malleus Draconia. As in crown prince of Briar Valley. As in one of the strongest mages alive. Kinda unfair though—fairy perks. No way he doesn’t already know the entire NRC curriculum. Bet he’s only here to practice talking to non-fairies. That and ‘cause he’s a #TotalGrandpa with modern tech, LOL.

Dec. 3, 2018: Whoo, private-school profs are savage. Professor Trein grades like he’s on an FDA panel, Professor Crewel piles on work like there’s no tomorrow, and Coach Vargas forgot we’re not in basic training. Still—100% would choose NRC over home. Shame we leave for winter break in two days.

Sept. 10, 2019: DUDE, RIDDLE’S HERE!! AND HE GOT SORTED INTO HEARTSLABYUL WITH US!!

He’s… different, though. Basically a mini, male version of his mom.

Also: kicked Housewarden Ellery out of office on Day Four. Heartslabyul’s basically a military base now. Riddle loses his shit over the tiniest things. Still better than my house, though.

Nov. 1, 2019: Got my first D. Riddle must have Flunk Radar—he was on me in two minutes flat. Made me sign up for extra study time and everything.

Nov. 28, 2019: WHAT THE ACTUAL FRICKIN’ HELL. Barely made it downstairs this morning before Vil busts in ranting about seeing a faceless me in the cafeteria bathroom last night—after I went to bed. Guy musta lost his marbles for a hot sec. Luckily Trey’s room is right next to mine, so I had a solid alibi and cooled him off. For now, anyway.

Jan. 9, 2020: Back from winter break and Heartslabyul’s gone off the rails—Riddle learned his signature spell over break. He calls it “Off With Your Head.” It conjures a collar that clamps onto your neck and BLOCKS YOUR MAGIC until he releases it. He’s chucking those things like ninja stars. Sure, powerful guys like Leona or Malleus could probably break loose, but still—yikes.

Mar. 8, 2020: Got careless and pulled out my phone during tea one too many times. Next thing I know—CLANG—first collar for me. If this keeps up, Riddle’s gonna have a full-on riot on his hands.

Mar. 11, 2020: AGAIN?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

Jamil says some messed-up mimic of me chased him outta the gym yesterday — while I was in town with Trey and Chenya. Then at lunch today, Vil basically tore me a new one.

Everybody’s eyeballing me again… just like middle school.

June 17, 2020: Man, this stinks. School’s almost over and I’m the only sophomore without a signature spell. I’m getting grief from everyone—Savanaclaw, Octavinelle, Pomefiore, even my own dormmates.

Trey and Chenya insisted we go out for one last night on the town. Believe it or not, Riddle actually came along. Nothing important ever happens during the last week of school, so I guess he ran out of excuses to fling collars around. Whatever—time to make the most of it.

June 17, 2020 (LATE—BREAKING NEWS!!): I DID IT!! I FINALLY HAVE MY SIGNATURE SPELL!!

Play-by-play: the four of us were walking past the jiujitsu dojo when ten guys from there stepped out and picked a fight. They weren’t mages, so we thought it’d be easy, but they were FAST. Trey, Riddle, and Chenya all got knocked down, and the dojo guys were about to swarm me—then suddenly there were like fifteen me’s all over them. The dojo guys bolted like scared puppies.

Back at dinner I showed off my brand-new spell: SPLIT CARD!! I popped a few clones and everyone lost their minds. The whole school congratulated me and we partied all night. I am literally on cloud nine.

June 20, 2020: He’s gone.

He’s gone. He’s gone.

Came home today and Mom and the girls unloaded on me. Dad died two weeks ago in a landslide along with some coworkers. They held the funeral without me. They moved me to the basement and turned my room into a guest room. They threw out most of my stuff while I was at school, so all I have left is my phone and the one suitcase I always bring back and forth.

July 19, 2020: My sisters caught me using Split Card to speed through the dishes and snitched. Now the chores are a million times worse.

I’m so hungry.

They barely feed me, so most nights I wait until everyone’s asleep and sneak leftovers from the kitchen. Can’t wait to get back to the cafeteria at school.

Sept. 27, 2020: So much for relaxing. Heartslabyul finally pushed back against Riddle today—didn’t go at all how we planned. He went full-on Evil Berserker Mode on us. Most of the guys in Heartslabyul are still learning control, so Trey and I basically carried the fight. Riddle survived, though. Looks like he’ll be okay.

Nov. 19, 2020: Guess Leona was sick of Malleus stomping him every year, so he tried to bench Diasomnia with some sabotage stunt. Backfired spectacularly, and then he Overblotted. He survived, though, which is sus as hell since Overblot survivors are supposed to be SSR-level rare.

Dec. 2, 2020: And now Azul survived an Overblot too, after Yuon and Grim blew up his and the Leech twins’ blackmailing scheme. Wish I’d been there to see it—word is he straight-up threw a toddler tantrum after all his contracts got shredded.

Also, happy birthday to Rook. Dude’s a total creeper, but I guess he still deserves cake.

Jan. 1, 2021: It’s so cold.

The basement’s basically a meat locker in winter, and the cold chores aren’t helping. Most days I feel like a human popsicle.

Jan. 6, 2021: Ow, ow, ow…

Faceplanted during tea duty—tripped on the rug with the tray and soaked one of my sisters. They went nuclear about the ruined dress, and yeah… I got the crap kicked outta me.

Pretty sure I nailed the fire poker on the way down, ‘cause now I’ve got this nasty gash on my side. Should probably get stitches, but no way they’re paying for a doctor. Or explaining the bruises. So I stuffed it with gauze and prayed the bleeding stops. Everything hurts like hell.

Jan. 13, 2021: Sorry I went dark. The gash got infected—knocked me flat with a fever. The guys saw the bruises while the Infirmary Ghost was patching me up. I told them it was a skateboarding wipeout, but I don’t think they bought it.

Also, Yuon and Grim told me about their break. Jamil finally snapped from dealing with Kalim’s nonsense and Overblotted. Since Yuon can’t use magic, they had to team up with Octavinelle for backup. (The sea ice keeps those guys stuck on campus anyway.)

Feb. 4, 2021: Total scam. Tried out for the Song & Dance Competition—#GotTheHook. Half the tryouts sounded like strangled cats, but nope, I’m the one who gets cut. #VilThePrissyPerfectionist really burns me up. (UPDATE — Okay, maybe not the worst thing. Just saw rehearsal. Vil’s gone full drill sergeant. Kinda glad I’m not in that meat grinder.)

Feb. 25, 2021: Guess Vil #CrackedUnderPressure. Dude Overblotted and blew up the whole stadium. Thought the show was toast, but then Malleus just… snapped his fingers and stitched the place back together like nothing happened. #FairyOP.

Also, WHAT. THE. FRICK. We lost to RSA by ONE LOUSY VOTE. And you know WHOSE vote it was? Rook’s.

Guy literally picked VOTING TIME to come out as a #LeBlancheHyperfan. Whole school’s steamed at him right now. #WorstTimingEver, dude.

March 9, 2021: Well, karma came quick. Rook had a fight with Vil about his girlfriend, Astrid, and they weren’t talking. Then Astrid turned out to be A FRICKIN’ SPIDER-DEMON and tried to eat him. (Can’t lie, we were all like “meh,” but Vil was all “NOPE” and dragged us into a rescue anyway.)

March 16, 2021: Oh, man. Poor Rook. Astrid’s dead, and he’s been spiraling ever since. He finally snapped and Overblotted a few hours ago—literally tried to kill Yuon, Epel, and Jack. He’s out cold in the infirmary right now. Jack, Silver, and Leona are in there too, banged up bad.

April 10, 2021: So much for Vil’s birthday party. Yesterday, these armored dudes just materialized outta nowhere and snatched seven guys off campus.

They came back a few hours ago and filled us in: turns out the armored guys work for Idia and Ortho’s parents, and the Shroud bros had to cover for them. All the guys they took were Overblotters—Riddle, Leona, Azul, Jamil, and Vil—so their company could run tests or whatever. Guess they didn’t catch wind of Rook since his thing happened in the woods.

Also, Idia Overblotted so hard he almost ended the world. And torched his parents’ workplace to ash. #YikesOnBikes.

April 15, 2021: Crowley made the Shroud bros give a lecture about blot buildup and Overblot types. Not gonna lie—it was a #BoneChiller.

May 3, 2021: …No. No, no, no. NO.

THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING.

Chenya just dropped a bombshell on me in the middle of Port Fest and totally nuked my vibe.

Apparently seniors don’t get #CampusLife—they all get sent off on internships, either home or abroad.

WHY. DID. NOBODY. TELL. ME. THIS?!!!!!!!!!!!

No, no, no, no…

I can’t go back. I won’t go back. I…

I’d rather die.

Chapter Text

The last words—I’d rather die—hung in the cold blue glow of Ignihyde’s servers like smoke after a fire. For a long moment no one moved, the whir of cooling fans filling the silence where Cater’s voice had been.

Ortho’s holographic display dimmed. “That’s… the last entry,” he said quietly, looking between Riddle and Trey. His normal cheerful tone was gone. “May 3rd. That was… today.”

Trey’s hands were clenched on the back of a chair, knuckles pale. His jaw worked, but no words came out. His whole life, he thought. He was carrying this for his whole life and we never—

Riddle’s posture, normally so rigid, faltered. He stared at the screen as if trying to will it to rewind. His lips pressed into a thin line. “All this time,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone. “He was…” He swallowed hard. “He didn’t tell us.”

“He couldn’t,” Ortho said softly. “He was hiding it from everyone.”

The silence stretched again. Trey felt a hot prickle behind his eyes. “He’s out there somewhere right now,” he said, voice low but shaking. “Running. Hurt. And after reading this…” He swallowed. “I don’t even know what state he’s in.”

Riddle finally looked up, his gray eyes steely but glimmering at the corners. “We know what state he’s in,” he said quietly. “We’ve read it. We’ve heard it. And now we’re responsible.”

He snapped his fingers and straightened, the head of Heartslabyul returning for a moment. “We need to inform the Headmage. Now. And we need to find him before…” He trailed off, but they all knew the unspoken words.

Trey nodded, forcing his hands to steady. “Right.”

Ortho disconnected from the terminal, his little fingers curling tight. “I’ll keep scanning for his magic signature,” he said, voice firm but tiny. “We’ll find him.”

And together, the three of them turned from the glowing screen, the weight of Cater’s hidden life heavy on their shoulders as they moved out into the corridor.

By the time the trio reached the Headmage’s office, Crowley was already buried in a mess of papers and search reports. He looked up at the trio, irritation flickering behind his mask. “What now? I am coordinating a campus-wide search—unless you’ve brought me Cater himself, this had better be important.”

Riddle stepped forward, voice clipped but heavy with restrained urgency. “It is. We found Cater’s private diary. Ortho has already processed it.”

Crowley blinked, feathers puffing in surprise. “His diary?” He reached out, only for Riddle to pull the flash drive just out of reach.

“No,” Riddle said sharply. “You don’t need to read it. What you need to know is that Cater’s home life is not as it appears. He’s been… abused.” The word stuck in his throat, but he forced it out. “For his entire life.”

Crowley’s mask seemed to stiffen, his usual pomp slipping for once. “Abused…?”

Trey finally spoke, his voice low and steady despite the storm inside him. “Sir, it’s worse than we thought. He doesn’t want to go back. Ever. If he disappears for too long, if he thinks no one cares…” He trailed off, glancing at Riddle, then Ortho.

Ortho’s small voice cut in, direct and unwavering: “The last entry in his diary said he’d rather die than go back home.”

The weight of those words settled over the office like a shroud.

Crowley’s feathers lowered. His hands, usually gesturing theatrically, folded tight atop his desk. For once, there was no bluster in his tone. “Then we have no time to lose.”

He stood abruptly, sweeping his coat around him. “I’ll expand the search perimeter to the woods and summon the staff. If Cater is in danger of… of harming himself, then every second is vital.”

Riddle gave a curt nod. Trey exhaled shakily, relief and dread mixing in his chest. Ortho’s mechanical eyes sharpened as he tapped into the security grid.

And with Crowley’s rare moment of seriousness leading the charge, the school shifted from searching for a missing student to saving a friend’s life.

The campus was alive with lanterns, flashlights, and fire spells, their beams darting across stone courtyards and shadowed hedgerows. Students spilled out in groups, fanning across the grounds with faculty leading each search party.

“Remember,” Vargas bellowed from the front steps, “he couldn’t have left! The drawbridge was up before curfew. He’s still somewhere on these grounds!”

Teams broke off in every direction. Ace and Deuce clutched borrowed lanterns as they jogged around the rose maze. Ruggie stalked through the subtropical biome of the botanical garden with Leona dragging along behind, muttering about lost sleep. Vil swept through the halls of the Pomefiore dorm with Epel and a pair of upperclassmen, sharp eyes scanning every shadow.

On the path near Ramshackle, the night air hung heavy with mist. Silver and Sebek lit the path while Lilia floated along above them, his crimson eyes gleaming faintly in the dark.

“He’s here somewhere,” Silver murmured, listening intently to the hush of the trees. “The forest feels… unsettled.”

Back near the pond, Kalim’s voice carried across the water. “Cater! You out here, buddy?!” Jamil followed, face tight, flashlight beam cutting through reeds as though he expected something to lunge out at them.

Even Idia had been pulled in, Ortho hovering like a drone over his brother’s shoulder as they monitored the network of security feeds. “Ughhh, this is like every horror game I’ve ever ragequit,” Idia muttered, but his trembling fingers never stopped moving over his keyboard.

No matter where they looked, the refrain was the same: Cater wasn’t answering.

Yet the longer the search dragged, the heavier the air grew. As though the shadows themselves were watching, waiting.

~—~—~

Periclase’s carriage rattled up the cliffside road, wheels grinding through thick mud left behind by the evening’s sea fog. By the time the gothic silhouette of Night Raven College loomed above, the drawbridge was already raised for the night, its chains taut and dripping with mist.

Two armored guards stood sentinel outside the gate, halberds crossed to bar the way.

Periclase jumped from the carriage before it had fully stopped, mud splattering against his boots.

“I must speak with Headmage Crowley immediately,” he demanded, voice steady but burning with urgency.

The guards exchanged wary glances. One lifted his radio. “Sir, there’s a man here—claims urgent business with the Headmage. Says his name is Periclase.”

Static buzzed, followed by Crowley’s unmistakable voice. “Let him through.”

The guards uncrossed their halberds. Gears groaned as the great chains rattled, lowering the drawbridge inch by inch until it slammed against the stone with a deep, resonant thud.

Periclase wasted no time. He strode across the creaking wood, the fog curling at his heels, his heart hammering with a dread he couldn’t yet name.

The moment Periclase stepped into the school’s cavernous entry hall, one of the guards fell in beside him. “This way, sir. The Headmage is waiting.”

Their footsteps echoed sharply against the checkered floor as they wound through torchlit corridors. The faint rumble of distant voices—students calling a name into the night—reached Periclase’s ears, though the guard said nothing.

At last, the office doors loomed ahead. The guard pushed them open and ushered him inside.

Crowley was on his feet before the man had even crossed the threshold, mask glinting in the firelight. “Mr. Periclase.” His tone was solemn, stripped of its usual flamboyance. “I don’t normally entertain visitors at this hour.”

Periclase didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “Where is my son?”

Crowley tilted his head. “Your son?”

“Cater Diamond.”

For a fleeting instant, Periclase was certain he saw the Headmage’s masked face pale. “Cater?” Crowley murmured. “Oh… oh, dear…”

Periclase’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What do you mean, ‘oh, dear’?”

Crowley cleared his throat, stepping out from behind the desk. “Er—well, you see, your timing is… most pressing.”

Periclase’s expression hardened, every line of his face etched with dread. “Do you mean to tell me something has happened to Cater?”

The silence that followed was heavy, uncharacteristic. Finally, Crowley admitted, voice low: “It seems Cater Diamond has gone missing. No one has seen him since curfew. But rest assured, Mr. Periclase, we are doing everything in our power to locate him—eep!”

Crowley’s words cut off in a squeak as Periclase’s hand shot out, seizing him by the necktie and dragging him close.

“If anything happens to my only son,” Periclase growled, his voice a razor of barely leashed fury, “so help me.”

Chapter Text

The search parties fanned deeper into the mist-soaked grounds. What had begun as a routine sweep for a missing student was turning into something far more dangerous.

“Over here!” Ace shouted, lantern beam cutting across the underbrush. A shape stumbled out from between the trees—copper hair, familiar uniform, the tilt of a grin that didn’t quite reach the eyes.

“Cater?!” Deuce called, rushing forward.

The figure’s head snapped toward him—too fast, too sharp—and the grin stretched unnaturally wide. Then it lunged.

“Back!” Leona snarled, blasting a wind spell that sent the thing tumbling into the brush. But even as it vanished, another Cater dropped down from a branch overhead, limbs twisted at wrong angles, blot oozing from the corners of its mouth.

The group scattered. Magic flared against the night as the doppelgänger screeched, clawing forward with inhuman speed.

“Not Cater!” Silver barked, sword flashing as he intercepted it. “This is something else!”

More shouts rang out across campus. From outside the Mystery Shop, from the alchemy workshop, from Ramshackle. Students were beginning to encounter more of them—Cater-shaped, smeared and wrong, each one dripping blot, each one attacking without hesitation.

“They’re all over the place!” Epel gasped as he blasted one back with a spell.

Trey’s voice cut through the chaos. “Think, everyone! What does this remind you of?”

Riddle’s face went pale as his mind snapped to the only answer. “His signature spell. Split Card.”

“But these—these are all warped,” Jamil hissed, throwing up a shield as another Cater hurled itself against it. “They must be—”

“—mutant clones,” Trey finished grimly. “Twisted copies of the real thing.”

The realization sank like a stone: all the negative emotion Cater had been bottling up, it had grown teeth and chewed its way out. And now those teeth were aimed at all of them.

“Behind you!” Jack shouted, slamming into one of the twisted Caters with a shoulder tackle. The thing screeched, blot spraying from its mouth, before Malleus’ vines snapped up from the ground and bound it in place. Riddle raised his pen, magic slicing through the writhing clone with a clean strike. It dissolved into blot, evaporating into the night air.

Two more lunged from the brush. Epel’s blast sent one sprawling, while Vil, grim-faced and immaculate even in chaos, cut the other down with a razor-edged spell. Each one vanished with a hiss of blot, leaving only the acrid sting in the air.

But for every one they destroyed, more emerged. The campus echoed with battle cries and distorted Cater voices shrieking like broken recordings.

“Enough of this!” Leona growled, conjured light-claws slashing another to ribbons.

And then—

A column of light streaked down from the sky, washing the clearing in a pale blue glow. Ortho hovered into view, systems whirring as he extended a lattice of scanning beams across the woods. His tone was steady, precise, despite the chaos all around.

“Everyone, listen! I’m detecting a lot of magical signatures.” His scanners pulsed, each beam fanning outward. “The clones’ energy is dispersed across the grounds, but—” The projection shifted, clustering into a single erratic flare deep in the woods. “—they’re all tethered to a much larger source here. It’s unstable, fluctuating. I can’t confirm if it’s Cater… but it’s the origin point.”

“Then that’s where we’re going,” Trey said at once, his voice iron.

Groups began converging, word spreading fast through the chaos. Magic streaked through the night as students and faculty alike abandoned scattered skirmishes, funneling into the trees. Lanterns bobbed like will-o’-wisps in the distance as the search narrowed, every path leading toward the woods behind campus.

No one spoke the fear aloud, but it hung in every breath: if that signature was Cater… just what state was he in that could create such twisted creatures?

The forest thickened as the search parties drew together, branches clawing at their sleeves, fog curling low against the ground. The stench of blot grew heavier, seeping into their lungs with each inhalation.

And then the trees broke into a clearing.

At its center stood Cater Diamond—or what remained of him. A harlequin’s outfit hung in faded tatters, his body wrapped in shiny black chains of blot, some dangling loose, rattling with every movement. His freckles and easy smile were gone, replaced by thin black lines curving upward from the corners of his mouth in a grotesque imitation of a grin plastered over a blank, tired expression. Thick ribbons of blot streamed from his eyes like corrupted tears, while their glow burned with a hollow, melancholic light. Shadowy clones flickered in and out around him, splitting and warping like cracks spreading through broken glass. Looming behind him towered his phantom—resembling the ones that haunted the Dwarfs’ Mine, but draped in a washed-out jester’s cap and top.

The students froze, horror creeping across every face.

Ortho’s scanners shrieked warnings, his holographic display glitching under the pressure. “Confirmed—subject Cater Diamond has entered a state of Overblot!” His voice hardened into mechanical precision. “Classification: Type V!”

Every stomach dropped at once. The words SURVIVAL RATE: 0% pulsed in the back of every mind.

“Welp,” Leona drawled, stretching as though the scene bored him. “Guess that’s it. I’m going back to bed.”

“No, you are NOT!” Riddle and Vil barked in unison, their magic seizing his ears and yanking him back.

Leona yowled in pain, jerking against their grip—

And Cater’s head snapped toward the commotion.

A dozen blot-clones erupted around him, shrieking in distorted chorus. His voice rippled through the clearing, warped and layered, almost unrecognizable.

“GO AWAY.”

The ground split open as blot geysered upward, his clones surging forward in a tide of nightmare.

The clearing exploded into chaos.

Students staggered under the sudden onslaught, some scrambling to defend themselves, others frozen by the horror of Cater’s twisted visage.

Then voices rang out above the panic—sharp, commanding.

“Heartslabyul, with me!” Riddle barked, pen raised high. “Form up, control your spacing, and target in unison! Don’t let them scatter you!” His collar spell flashed, locking down a lunging clone long enough for Ace and Deuce to blast it into smoke.

Leona growled low, eyes narrowing as the pack instinct kicked in. “Savanaclaw—close ranks! Hit hard, hit fast, don’t give ‘em time to multiply!” Ruggie, Jack, and the beastmen fell into step, striking with raw muscle and speed, claw and spell cutting through shadowy doppelgängers.

Vil’s voice cut through the din, cool and merciless as a director on set. “Pomefiore, focus your fire! Precision, not panic. Aim for the weak points—make it clean!” Spells gleamed like sharp spotlights, slicing through blot-born illusions with practiced grace.

From the trees came the steady voice of Kalim, ever bright even in disaster: “Scarabia, shields up! Keep everyone covered while Jamil coordinates attacks!” Light flashed from his hands while Jamil barked crisp orders, weaving the Scarabia group into a defensive bulwark.

“Diasomnia—spread wide!” Silver’s sword rang out as Sebek bellowed, “PROTECT LORD MALLEUS AT ALL COSTS!!!!” Malleus himself merely lifted his hand, green lightning arcing in controlled bursts that sent blot-creatures scattering like leaves in a storm.

Through it all, the clones shrieked and warped, Cater’s phantom looming above them with its grotesque jester’s grin. The Housewardens’ rally cries held the students together—but the tide of blot kept pressing closer, thickening with every breath.

The clearing boiled with chaos—shadows shrieking, blot geysering up in oily fountains—but beneath it all came another sound.

A voice.

Thin, distorted, layered in static like a broken recording. It bled from Cater’s lips, from his clones, from the phantom towering above him.

“…DON’T WANNA GO BACK… DON’T MAKE ME…”

“…MASK’S GONE… THEY’LL SEE ME… EVERYBODY’LL SEE…”

“…ALWAYS MOVING… NEVER STOPPING… I CAN’T… I CAN’T… I CAN’T…”

The words twisted into sobs that tore jagged through the din.

“Cater!” Riddle’s voice was sharp as glass, even as he flung another collar around a charging clone. “Listen to me—you’re not alone! We will bring you back!”

Vil’s pen slashed downward, violet light cleaving through blot. “You’re stronger than this, Diamond! This—this pitiful collapse is not the end of your story!”

From the other side, Kalim’s plea rose bright and desperate: “Cater! Please! Come back—we’re your friends!”

The distorted voice cracked, rattling through the clones like a glitching chorus.

“…FRIENDS? …NO FRIENDS… THEY ALL LEAVE… EVERYBODY LEAVES…”

“…DON’T WANNA DIE ALONE…”

“Warning!” Ortho’s voice cut across the battlefield, crisp, mechanical, undeniable. His holographic readouts flickered with dangerous spikes. “Current magic reserves: forty-two percent. At zero, Cater Diamond will be lost to his phantom. No recovery possible.”

Students stiffened, panic nipping at the edges of their focus.

Every strike mattered now, every heartbeat pulling them closer to the precipice. The clones swarmed in greater numbers, each fragment of Cater’s despair fueling them.

“…CAN’T BREATHE… TOO HEAVY… SHOULDA STAYED IN THE DARK…”

The clones lunged in synchronized frenzy, forcing the front line to double back. Sweat and blot mist stung their eyes, the air thick with despair.

“Thirty percent!” Ortho’s call rang again, hollow in its precision.

Ruggie hissed between breaths, “He’s burning out fast…”

“Then we’ll just have to burn brighter,” Trey snapped, jaw clenched, throwing up a shield before the next wave crashed in.

Cater’s warped voice echoed one last time, ragged and raw:

“…PLEASE… JUST… LET ME GO…”

The air cracked like breaking glass. Cater’s phantom let out a warped, metallic laugh—half static, half sob—its jar-head rolling as chains of blot whipped outward. The clones convulsed, their forms bending unnaturally, limbs stretching too long, faces splitting with jagged, painted grins.

“…TOO LOUD… TOO BRIGHT… TOO MANY…” Cater’s voice keened through them all, layered until it was impossible to tell which mouth spoke.

The feral clones lunged—not in clumsy swings, but with animal precision, snapping at students with fanged maws, blot dripping like tar from their teeth. One slammed Deuce against a tree, another dragged Ace into the dirt before Jack bowled it away with a roar.

“Shit—they’re adapting!” Jack barked, shaking free of a grasping hand.

The phantom’s hands slammed down into the earth, blot rippling out like shockwaves, sending half the front line sprawling. The once-loose chains dangling from Cater’s body had come alive, writhing like serpents, lashing at anyone who drew near.

“Nineteen percent remaining!” Ortho shouted, his holograms spiking in warning red.

Vil snarled, covering his face from a spray of blot. “We’ll lose him before we even reach him if this keeps up!”

“Then cut ‘em down!” Leona snapped, claws sparking marigold. “Every last one—before they multiply again!”

The clones howled in unison, their shrieks rising until the trees rattled, blot spilling from their mouths like blackened bile.

And above it all, Cater’s fractured plea ripped through the chaos:

“…DON’T LOOK AT ME… DON’T SEE ME… JUST DISAPPEAR… DISAPPEAR…”

The phantom’s jester’s cap tilted back as it let loose a roar that drowned the forest. The ground quaked beneath its weight as it began to drag itself forward, blot boiling off its body in suffocating waves.

Suddenly, through the chaos, Malleus felt it—an unfamiliar presence in the Headmage’s office, steeped in the same worry that gripped the battlefield.

“I SHALL RETURN MOMENTARILY!!” he thundered, vanishing in a crackle of chartreuse sparks before anyone could stop him.

~—~—~

In Crowley’s office, Periclase was pacing in tight, restless strides when Malleus appeared, chartreuse lightning scattering across the floor.

“Draconia!” Crowley sprang to his feet, mask gleaming in the firelight. “Status report! What the devil is happening out there?!”

“I bring tidings both grim and hopeful,” Malleus said solemnly. “The good: Diamond has been found. The bad…” His eyes narrowed. “…He has Overblotted. He stands on the very edge of death.”

Color drained from both Crowley and Periclase’s faces.

“TAKE ME TO HIM!!! NOW!!!” Periclase roared, voice cracking with fear.

Malleus placed a hand firmly on his shoulder. “It is done.”

And in the next heartbeat, the two vanished from the office, swallowed by green fire, bound for the battlefield.

~—~—~

The world twisted, snapped, and in the blink of an eye, Periclase was no longer in Crowley’s office.

He was in hell.

A blot storm howled through the clearing, chains thrashing like whips as Cater’s phantom bellowed, sending shadows scattering in every direction. Students screamed, spells cracked the air, and the ground itself seemed to pulse with corruption.

Periclase stumbled as chartreuse sparks faded off his coat, heart hammering. His eyes locked onto the figure at the center—his son, half-consumed by darkness, face streaked with blot-tears and warped into a grotesque parody of a smile.

Ortho’s voice cut through the chaos, shrill and merciless. “MAGIC RESERVES AT FIVE PERCENT!!”

Periclase shoved past blot-clones, dodging their strikes as he forced himself deeper into the fray.

“FOUR…!! THREE…!!”

He squeezed between Jack and Leona, straight into the epicenter.

“TWO…!! ONE—!!”

“CATER!!!” Periclase’s voice tore across the battlefield.

The clones froze mid-lunge, hesitation rippling through their ranks.

Every eye turned toward Cater and the man who had called his name.

A flicker of disbelief crossed Cater’s blot-stained face.

His lips parted. A whisper, thin but audible, carried into the silence.

“…Dad?”

The silence shattered.

The phantom shrieked, blot chains lashing down like serpents as if trying to smother the word Cater had spoken. Students scattered, shields springing up as the clearing quaked. But the clones—those twisted reflections—remained frozen, flickering, staring at Periclase as if some part of Cater still held them in check.

“CATER!!” Periclase’s voice cut through the storm again, raw with desperation. “It’s me—your father!”

For the briefest heartbeat, Cater’s head twitched, like a marionette fighting its strings. “You… weren’t there,” his voice rasped, still layered and distorted, thick with venom and despair. “You… never saw… Never knew…”

Periclase stumbled forward, dodging another wild lash of chains, unflinching. “I know now, son. I should have seen sooner. I should have protected you—”

“LIES!!!!” The phantom roared through Cater’s body, blot erupting like oil blowouts, sweeping the ground in a black wave that knocked several students off their feet. Epel, Ruggie, and Silver scrambled to pull them back before the ooze consumed them.

Ortho’s voice crackled through the haze: “Residual magic stabilizing—but reserves still critical!”

“Then give him more time!” Riddle barked, forcing a shield into place, sweat dripping down his temples.

Periclase planted himself in the open, square in his son’s fractured gaze. His voice thundered—not with magic, but with truth. “Cater Diamond, listen to me! I failed you before. I will not fail you again. You are my son, and I will never abandon you!”

The blot froze midair, suspended like a storm held on a knife’s edge. Cater’s hands shook, fingers clawing at his own face as if tearing between two selves. His eyes glowed wildly, blot-tears streaking down in rivers.

“I… can’t…” his broken voice splintered. “It’s… too much…”

The phantom screamed, surging taller, its jester’s cap bending down like a guillotine blade. The chains tightened around Cater’s chest, dragging him toward the abyss.

“Dad…”

And Periclase lunged forward, wrapping his arms around his son as the phantom descended.

The chains screamed as they constricted, blot burning cold against Periclase’s arms, but he didn’t let go. He held tighter, anchoring his son against the storm, voice fierce over the phantom’s roar.

“You’re stronger than this, Cater! You are not what they made you believe! You are mine!”

Cater’s body convulsed in his grasp, curling in on itself, shadows writhing like living tar. His expression warped, cracking into something jagged and pained.

“I… can’t…” he choked, words fractured by static. “They… always win… I’m just… nothing…”

Periclase’s grip shook, but his voice did not. “No. You are everything. You’ve endured torment that would have broken lesser men. And still you smiled. Still you stood. That was never nothing, Cater—it was everything I should have seen.”

The phantom bellowed in defiance, blot surging higher, clawing at the sky. Chains lashed, trying to drag Cater back into its maw.

“Don’t listen!” Periclase roared, his forehead pressed to his son’s. “That voice is not yours! It’s your pain, your scars, but they do not define you. You are my son—my only son—and I will never turn away from you again. Come back to me, Cater. Please.”

For the first time since the Overblot began, Cater’s eyes flickered—not blot-light, but a flicker of his real diamond-green, raw and wet with tears. His clones shuddered, glitching, as if uncertain.

“Dad…” His voice wavered, thin, fragile—but it was his.

“Yes,” Periclase whispered fiercely, the storm collapsing in around them. “I’m here. I’ve always wanted to be here. Forgive me. Let me make this right.”

The phantom shrieked, chains thrashing one last time in a violent frenzy, blot exploding in a desperate wave. But Cater’s hands—shaking, blistered with corruption—instead of splitting into more false selves, gripped his father’s coat tighter.

“I don’t… want to disappear…”

“Then don’t,” Periclase said, pulling him close. “Stay with me. Stay with us.”

The blot shattered like glass. The phantom wailed, splitting into ribbons of black smoke that the wind shredded into nothing. Chains snapped one by one with the crack of gunfire, and the mutant clones melted into bubbling puddles of blot.

Everyone surged toward Periclase.

There, huddled in his arms, lay Cater—shivering, limp, unconscious…

…but alive.

Only the faint rasp of his weak, shuddering breaths broke the stunned silence.

Deuce found his voice first. “Did… did we just witness the world’s first Type V survivor?”

“Cater’s not out of the woods yet,” Ortho answered, scanner data still flickering across his interface. “He cut it so close, it’s a miracle he’s breathing at all. Don’t be surprised if he’s in a coma.”

Jamil, blot-smeared from head to toe, let out a long, weary sigh. “Are we done here? I need a shower in the absolute worst way.”

Vil, no less drenched, tried in vain to shake the sludge from his sleeves. “As do I. Ugh… this cannot be good for my skin. Or my hair.”

Periclase didn’t hear Vil or Jamil. He only heard the faint rise and fall of Cater’s chest. His son felt frighteningly light in his arms, fragile as glass, his face still streaked with drying blot.

“Stay with me, son,” he murmured, brushing damp hair back from Cater’s forehead. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

“Move aside,” Trey said quickly, regaining his composure. He crouched beside them, eyes scanning Cater’s wounds with a sharp, steady focus. “We need to get him to the infirmary—now. He won’t last if we wait.”

Riddle, pale but firm, nodded. “Agreed. All Heartslabyul students, clear the way!” His voice cracked like a whip, and students immediately stepped aside, forming a path through the wreckage.

Ortho floated closer, his scanners humming. “Warning: Cater’s vitals are unstable. His body is heavily compromised from prolonged blot exposure. Immediate medical care is critical.”

Periclase didn’t wait for permission. He adjusted Cater in his arms, rising with a grim strength that brooked no argument. “Then point me to this infirmary of yours. Every second counts.”

Leona rubbed his temple with a groan. “Tch. And here I thought tonight was going to end with a nap.”

“Stow it and walk,” Riddle snapped, already leading the way through the ruined clearing.

The crowd began to move, lights bobbing in the darkness as the procession wound back toward campus. Cater’s blot still stained the earth behind them, silent testimony to just how close they’d come to losing him.

Periclase tightened his hold on his son. For years, he had been absent—working, traveling, blind to what had been happening under his own roof. But now, staring at Cater’s pale, battered face, one truth had crystallized in his chest.

He would never let go again.

Chapter Text

The infirmary was hushed but tense, lit only by the warm glow of enchanted lanterns and the steady hum of monitors. Cater lay motionless on the cot, his skin almost translucent beneath clean white bandages, a faint sheen of sweat clinging to his forehead. Tubes pulsed softly with fluids and restorative magic, feeding his body the strength it no longer had the power to summon.

For the first few days, he stirred only in fever-dream fragments. His lips moved, whispering broken words no one could quite make out—sometimes “Dad,” sometimes “don’t,” sometimes only pained syllables that dissolved into silence. Each time, Trey would steady the damp cloth on his forehead, Riddle would adjust his blankets with brisk efficiency, and Periclase would hover close, his hand gripping the bedrail tight enough to blanch his knuckles.

The days blurred together in an anxious vigil. Ortho checked Cater’s vitals hourly, reassuring the others when his readings showed stability returning. “He’s not slipping away,” he would say firmly, “just… resting. Healing.”

On the seventh night, the spell finally broke.

Cater’s eyes fluttered, lashes trembling as if weighed down by lead. For a long moment, he stared unfocused at the ceiling, his breath shallow and uneven. Then, slowly, he turned his head, blinking blearily at the faces clustered at his bedside.

“…What…” His voice cracked like dry paper. “…what…happened?”

Periclase was at his side in an instant, leaning over him. “You lived. That’s all that matters. You’re safe, Cater. You’re safe.”

Trey exhaled sharply, almost a laugh, though it carried more relief than humor. “About time, Cater. You had us scared out of our minds.”

Riddle, uncharacteristically quiet, stepped forward to adjust the blanket one more time, his hand trembling just slightly. “…You… you really are impossible.”

Cater tried for a grin, but it faltered, turning into a weak, watery smile. His eyes drifted to his father again, glassy and full of disbelief.

“…Dad…?”

Periclase’s throat tightened. He clasped his son’s hand gently, like he was afraid to break it. “Yes, son. I’m here.”

And for the first time in years, Cater let his eyes close again—not to flee, not to collapse, but simply to rest, knowing he wasn’t alone anymore.

Periclase barely moved from Cater’s bedside, even as the hours dragged on. He spoke softly when Cater stirred, telling him little things—memories from when Cater was small, the time they’d tried baking bread together and turned the whole kitchen into a flour storm, how Cater used to giggle when the stars came out on long carriage rides. At first, he wasn’t sure if his son could even hear him. But every now and then, a flicker of recognition would cross Cater’s face, a tiny squeeze of his hand, proof that the words were finding their way through the haze.

Trey and Riddle took shifts, watching over Cater when Periclase dozed off in the chair. Trey kept things steady, quietly humming while he set out fresh cloths or reheated broth in case Cater woke hungry. Riddle, on the other hand, busied himself with tasks—straightening linens, checking the charts the Infirmary Ghost left, barking at anyone who came too close with too much noise. It wasn’t until he thought no one was looking that his mask slipped, his gaze softening as he brushed a stray lock of hair from Cater’s forehead.

By the end of the week, Cater could stay awake for longer stretches, though speaking still wore him out quickly. His voice was hoarse, his throat raw, but he managed to answer when Trey gently pressed him with questions, or when Riddle sternly demanded he drink more water. Mostly, though, Cater saved what little strength he had for Periclase. His eyes followed his father like he was still afraid he’d vanish if he blinked too long.

One night, when the others had stepped out, Cater whispered, “I thought you were gone.”

Periclase squeezed his hand tighter, grief and guilt etched deep into his face. “I was. For too long. But I’m here now, Cater. And I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

For the first time, Cater’s tears were quiet—not broken sobs of despair, but a fragile release. His father’s hand never left his.

Word of Cater’s Overblot spread like wildfire through the campus. The fact that he had survived a Type V—the “unsurvivable” type—rocked every student and faculty member to their core. Some whispered that it was a miracle. Others muttered that it was a fluke, something unnatural. But all of them agreed on one thing: Night Raven College would never be the same.

The Headmage, for once, abandoned theatrics in favor of grim speeches about vigilance and prevention. Professors instituted stricter monitoring of blot levels, pulling students aside for check-ins whether they wanted them or not.

Among the students, reactions fractured. Some rallied around Cater with fierce loyalty, proud that he’d pulled through. Others kept their distance, unsettled by the thought that one of their own had come so close to becoming a phantom.

But the tight circle closest to Cater—Trey, Riddle, Chenya, Epel, and even Idia with Ortho’s nudging—stood fast. They carried the weight of what they’d seen in that clearing, unwilling to let Cater shoulder it alone. And with Periclase now firmly at his side, the balance of Cater’s world had shifted in a way no one could ignore.

For the first time in his life, Cater wasn’t facing the darkness by himself.

Chapter Text

The storm hit Diamant Manor like a gavel.

Periclase didn’t waste time. Within days of Cater’s awakening, he marched through the double doors of the estate with lawyers at his side. Madame Diamant and the twins had been lounging in the parlor, their usual smugness vanishing the moment they saw the army of lawmen standing in the doorway.

“I’m filing for divorce,” Periclase announced flatly, his voice carrying the weight of an irrevocable judgment. “Effective immediately. My attorneys will handle the paperwork. You will find my will has been updated accordingly—neither you nor your daughters will inherit a single Sorcent.”

Vanica sputtered. Vira paled. Madame Diamant forced a brittle smile, but it cracked under Periclase’s unwavering gaze.

“You hid my son’s suffering from me. You starved him. Beat him. Worked him to the bone. While I was chasing contracts to keep food on this table, you turned this house into his prison.” His tone was calm, even, but sharp as a blade. “No more.”

When Madame Diamant tried to interject—some mixture of excuses and venom—Periclase raised a hand. “Save it. The courts will have no trouble deciding custody. Cater is coming with me. And you three can rot in this house of mirrors you’ve built for yourselves.”

The silence afterward was thick as concrete. For once, Madame Diamant and her daughters had no retort.

The Diamant women never spoke another word in Periclase’s presence. When the courts convened weeks later, Madame Diamant showed up draped in black lace and jewels, her daughters flanking her like bodyguards—but no theatrics, no speeches, no last-minute manipulations could stop the inevitable.

The documents were signed, the custody papers sealed, and her husband’s fortune moved out of reach. From that moment on, Diamant Manor became less a house and more a gilded cage, its grand halls echoing with silence. The woman who once commanded the fashion world’s attention with a flick of her wrist found herself forgotten, her empire shrinking without Periclase’s wealth to prop it up.

Her downfall came not in fire and fury but in whispers—boardrooms emptying, invitations drying up, the socialite queen reduced to a bitter shadow in her own parlor.

Chapter Text

Meanwhile, at NRC, Cater was rediscovering what freedom meant.

There were still awkward stares, still nightmares, still those quiet moments when the blot-tears in the mirror felt too real—but day by day, he stitched himself back together. Trey made sure he ate, Riddle kept him on task without smothering, Chenya dragged him into laughter, and Ortho monitored his health like an overzealous little brother.

Even Split Card, once a source of ridicule, became his tool for healing—summoning doubles to help him with small tasks until he could handle them on his own. And this time, no one scolded him for using it.

Slowly, life wove itself back into something livable. And for the first time in a long time, Cater began to believe that maybe—just maybe—the mask wasn’t the only way to survive.

It was a quiet afternoon outside the Mystery Shop when Cater’s peace was broken by the sound of deliberate footsteps on gravel. He looked up from where he was lounging with his phone—mostly scrolling aimlessly—to find Vil and Rook approaching.

Vil, as pristine as ever despite the faint blot-stains that still lingered in the edges of his nails, folded his arms. Rook, for once, wasn’t smiling his usual predator’s grin.

“Cater,” Vil said, voice crisp but not unkind. “You’ve been avoiding us.”

Cater plastered on a wobbly smile. “Me? Avoiding? Pfft, no way. I’ve just been… you know, #BusyBusy.”

Vil’s sharp gaze cut through the act in seconds, but he didn’t press. Instead, Rook stepped forward. His smile softened—not mocking this time, but tinged with something almost sorrowful.

“Monsieur Magicam… you and I share more than the others suspect.”

Cater blinked, caught off guard. “Huh? What’re you—?”

Rook leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Your mask. My mask. Different colors, different shapes… but both born from the same wound.”

He flicked on his phone and scrolled to an old post of Cater’s—the school networking event from two years ago. He tapped the image and zoomed in, not on Cater’s practiced smile, but on the blurred background.

There, huddled in the Loser Corner with Idia and the other outcasts, sat a scruffy blond kid in a dusty Savanaclaw uniform, freckles dotting his face. But those sharp, emerald-green eyes were unmistakable.

Cater’s jaw dropped. “No. Way. THAT was YOU?!”

“Oui,” Rook inclined his head gravely. “You and I… we are both children who survived sharp teeth at home.”

The words lodged in Cater’s chest like a blade. He’d never imagined Rook—loud, unnerving, obsessive Rook—could possibly understand the kind of pain he’d never dared to name.

“…So you’re saying I’m not the only faker in the room?” he muttered, voice tight.

“Honestly,” Vil cut in, smooth but edged with steel. “You should have seen the state I found him in that first November. Timid, fearful, always filthy from endless housekeeping in Savanaclaw. He couldn’t even fly a broom to save his life. Those musclebrained brutes had no idea the unpolished gem hidden among their ranks.”

For the first time Cater could remember, Rook’s perpetual smile faltered. “My mother died when I was only six. From then, I endured ten years of cruelty at the hands of my father and five brothers—until I ran away and came here.”

Vil’s eyes softened, just for a heartbeat. “We crossed paths by sheer chance after a Spelldrive practice match. And from that day on, I refused to let him be buried again.”

Rook gave a slight, reverent bow toward Vil. “Oui. Le Roi du Poison gave me the courage to step out of my shadows and into the world as myself.”

Cater stared at Rook, the words echoing in his head like bells that refused to stop ringing. Ten years. Ten years of cruelty. The image of Rook—smiling, flamboyant, always ready with some cryptic line—fractured, and in its place he saw the scruffy kid from the photo. Alone. Filthy. Afraid.

And suddenly, Cater’s throat burned.

He tried to laugh it off, the way he always did. Tried to force a joke to the surface. But nothing came. The smile that started on his lips faltered halfway and collapsed into something raw, shaky, unsteady.

“…Damn,” he breathed, voice cracking. He dragged a hand down his face, leaving it pressed against his eyes for a long moment. “I… I didn’t think anybody else knew what that was like. Wearing the mask until it’s… it’s the only face you’ve got left.”

The path was quiet.

Vil said nothing, simply watching him with those sharp violet eyes, seeing more than Cater wanted to admit. And Rook, instead of teasing or reaching for him, only gave the slightest nod, as if to say I see you. I know.

Cater exhaled shakily, rubbing at his cheek with the heel of his palm. “Guess… guess that makes me feel a little less like a total freak.” His gaze flicked to Rook, meeting emerald with diamond-green. “If you can crawl out of that pit and still smile… maybe I can, too.”

Rook’s smile returned then, softer this time. Genuine. “You already have, Monsieur Magicam. You survived. That alone is proof enough.”

Cater swallowed hard. The compliment shouldn’t have hit so deep—but it did. For once, the mask didn’t slide back into place right away. For once, he let himself just be, exhausted and vulnerable, but seen.

“Yeah, yeah, #RejectRebelBros all around,” Cater said at last, tone tipping back toward familiar banter as he turned to Vil. “Rook’s one thing, but I seriously doubt you’ve got anything to gripe about.” He leaned back, arms crossing behind his head. “Literally born on #EasyStreet, just you and your billionaire movie-star dad, #LivingItUp in Maquillaville. And the freakishly good looks’re just an added bonus.”

Vil arched one perfect brow. “Easy Street?” His tone was velvet-sharp, as though Cater had just insulted his entire bloodline. “I suppose ballooning up like a grotesque parade float at the slightest brush with seafood is your idea of luxury? Or perhaps you envy the strict regimen—every calorie counted, every carb eyed like poison—because if I so much as glance at a croissant, it goes straight to my waistline.”

Cater blinked, his grin faltering.

Vil pressed on, gaze like a scalpel. “You think it’s glamorous to step outside and have mobs clawing for a piece of you? To hide behind hats and sunglasses like a fugitive, just to buy soap at the apothecary? Or to live every waking moment scrutinized, with millions ready to pick apart your face, your body, your breathing—and declare you ruined if you falter even once?”

He leaned in, voice low but lethal. “Easy Street? Don’t ever insult me with such ignorance again.”

Cater’s smile twitched, faltered, then fell completely. The weight of Vil’s words clung to him like damp clothes. He’d thought he had a monopoly on misery—on hiding behind filters and a practiced grin. But looking at Vil now, perfection honed sharp enough to cut, Cater felt something twist in his chest.

“Well, at least you didn’t get cursed with this disgusting, freckle-faced mug or this fugly copper mop-top that I can’t do crap with—grk!”

His face stung as Vil suddenly seized him by the cheeks and yanked him forward until their noses nearly touched. Cater froze, wide-eyed, violet fire burning straight through him.

“Do not,” Vil hissed, voice low and lethal, “ever insult your own face in front of me again.”

Cater whimpered, blinking fast, but Vil wasn’t done.

“You think freckles are a curse? That your hair is some tragic accident? Nonsense. Beauty is not perfection—it is discipline. It is work. It is pride. You don’t get to sneer at yourself and call it truth just because it hurts less than admitting you’re afraid to own what you have.”

He gave Cater’s cheeks a sharp squeeze, not cruel, but enough to make his words sink deeper.

“I was born with violet eyes, a rarity most would kill for, and still I wake up swollen, blemished, and imperfect. Every day I fight tooth and nail for the standard you see before you. And you—” he gave Cater a little shake, “you waste your face behind filters, hiding freckles that others would envy, calling yourself ugly before anyone else gets the chance. It’s cowardice, Diamond. Pure. Pitiful. Cowardice.”

“‘Koy, ‘Koy, uh herr yuh,” Cater replied, trembling voice half-muffled through pinched lips. “Kin uh hiv moy cheegs bag noo?”

Vil released him at last, brushing invisible dust from his gloves as if dismissing the matter. “If you want to call yourself hideous, then by all means, continue your masquerade. But don’t pretend it is truth. The truth is that you are afraid of being seen without your mask.”

The path fell silent, Cater’s skin tingling where Vil’s hands had been.

Rook, for once, said nothing—only watched, his smile faint, almost sad.

Cater sat frozen, stunned into silence, the heat still burning on his cheeks where Vil’s fingers had pressed. His throat bobbed as he tried to swallow, but no words came out. For once, there was no grin, no quip, no mask to hide behind—just Cater, raw and rattled.

Vil studied him a moment longer, sharp eyes narrowing, before he finally exhaled through his nose. “Hmph. Pathetic as you are, at least you’re listening.”

He flicked his hair back with a practiced motion and turned away. “You’re coming to Pomefiore tomorrow. No excuses. Your hair is a disaster, and I refuse to let even you wallow in that copper mop any longer. With proper care, even straw can shine.”

Cater blinked, floored. “Wait—you serious?”

Vil glanced back, one brow arched. “Do I look like I waste my time joking?”

For the first time in this conversation, Cater almost laughed. Almost.

For a long moment, he just stared, too rattled to even fumble for a joke. The silence stretched—fragile, taut, almost unbearable. But underneath it was something he hadn’t expected: not malice, not ridicule, but… a kind of begrudging acceptance.

Rook broke it first, his voice quiet, warm. “Progress, hm? Even if it comes by claws instead of by wings.”

Cater’s lips twitched, but the grin never quite formed. He just nodded faintly, still shaken but—strangely—lighter. It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t friendship. But maybe, just maybe, it was a start.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Cater found himself standing in front of Pomefiore’s arched entryway, backpack slung over one shoulder like he’d been summoned for exile instead of a makeover.

The dorm gleamed in the early light, every window polished, every ivy-trimmed wall so pristine it made Heartslabyul look like a junkyard.

“Uh…” Cater muttered, eyeing the spotless stone. “#TotallyNotNervous…”

The heavy doors creaked open, and Vil’s voice carried from within, crisp and commanding. “Diamond. Don’t just stand there gawking—come in. We’ve much to do, and I refuse to waste daylight.”

Cater swallowed hard and stepped through.

The inside of Pomefiore was like stepping into another universe. The floors shone like mirrors, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and high-end shampoo. Cater’s sneakers squeaked against the marble as he trailed after Vil, backpack bumping awkwardly against his back.

Everywhere he looked, Pomefiore students glided past in pressed uniforms, posture perfect, eyes forward. A few glanced at him—his wrinkled jacket, messy hair, faint freckles peeking through the concealer he hadn’t reapplied yet—and wrinkled their noses as though he’d tracked mud onto the carpet.

“Uh…” Cater muttered, giving a little wave. “#HiNewBesties?”

No response. Just a synchronized pivot of shoulders and perfectly arched brows.

“Do ignore them,” Vil said smoothly, not bothering to look back. “They’re peacocks who’ve mistaken themselves for swans.”

Cater gave a nervous laugh, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Wow. I thought Heartslabyul was intense, but you guys are like, #BeautyMarines.”

Vil stopped before a tall gilded mirror and turned, one hand outstretched. “Sit.”

Cater blinked. “Uh—what, like—here?”

“Of course here. Where else would you sit, on the floor? Honestly…” Vil snapped his fingers, and in seconds, a chair was dragged into place behind Cater by two passing Pomefiore underclassmen.

Cater eased into it, feeling more like he was on trial than in a salon. His reflection stared back at him: copper hair frizzed from bed, freckles half-hidden under patchy liquid concealer, tired eyes still ringed with shadows.

Vil moved behind him, gloves off, fingers brushing lightly through Cater’s hair. “Tch. Split ends, buildup, no volume… when was the last time you used anything besides drugstore shampoo?”

Cater chuckled weakly. “Uh… define ‘used’…”

Vil removed his hair tie with a sharp tug, not enough to hurt, but enough to snap him quiet. “Be silent and let me work.”

Cater shut his mouth, heat crawling up the back of his neck.

Vil’s touch was brisk but practiced—detangling, smoothing, testing strands with a critical eye. For the first time in a long while, Cater felt himself relax. No mask, no banter, just sitting there while someone else—Vil, of all people—actually took care of him.

Rook leaned in from the doorway, smile soft. “A diamond in the rough indeed. But even the roughest diamond can shine, non?”

Cater swallowed, staring at his reflection. For the first time, he didn’t cringe.

He had expected Vil’s touch to feel cold, clinical, the way his words always did. And yeah, the guy wasn’t exactly gentle—Vil tugged at tangles without apology, clicked his tongue at split ends, muttered criticisms under his breath like a judge tallying sins.

But what Cater hadn’t expected was how steady it all felt.

Every brushstroke was exact, every motion deliberate, with a kind of care Cater hadn’t felt in years. Not the fake-smile ‘care’ of Madame Diamant showing off her picture-perfect daughters, not the chore-dumped ‘care’ of Vira and Vanica sneering that he was slacking. This was different. Vil wasn’t pretending he was fine, or ignoring him. He was looking straight at the mess of Cater Diamond—and doing something about it.

Cater stared into the mirror, at the copper strands slowly smoothing under Vil’s hands, and something in his chest wavered.

He was used to harsh words. They bounced off when he was braced behind his filters, his hashtags, his grin. But this—Vil’s sharpness mixed with actual follow-through, the unspoken you’re worth fixing—that cut straight through.

For the first time in forever, Cater didn’t feel like a faker dressing up something worthless. For the first time, he wondered if maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t beyond repair.

He blinked fast, forcing the mask back up before anyone noticed. “Uh, thanks, I guess. #GlowUpGoals, right?” His voice cracked a little, and he prayed no one caught it.

Vil didn’t answer. He simply met Cater’s gaze in the mirror, eyes cool but steady, then went back to work.

“If Rook started off as messy as you say he did,” Cater ventured after a moment, “I’m guessing you gave him the full spa package. Rose-petal bath, wardrobe overhaul, professional hair styling, makeup department, the works.”

Vil’s brows tightened in memory. “You think your hair is a mess? Rook’s hair was an unmitigated disaster. My stylist was so traumatized he took a full week off afterward.”

“Indeed,” Rook chimed, tone almost cheerful. “In fact, my hair is just like yours, Monsieur Magicam. Or worse—it is just like that of Le Roi des Lions.”

Cater just gawked at Rook, words failing him for once. “Whoa, back up—you’re telling me… not only do we have the same hair type, but yours used to be worse than mine?!”

Rook’s grin widened. “Oui, Monsieur Magicam. My hair was a battlefield of knots and frizz—a wild forest no brush dared to conquer.”

Vil huffed, comb gliding smoothly through Cater’s copper strands. “Worse is putting it lightly. I still have nightmares.”

Cater’s jaw dropped. He stared between the two of them, absolutely floored. “No frickin’ way… You mean all this time I’ve been whining about my mop-top, and Rook was out here rocking something even worse?!”

“Precisely,” Rook said warmly. “And yet here I stand, coiffed and proud, thanks to our Roi du Poison. Which means there is hope for you as well.”

Cater slumped back in the chair, brain short-circuiting. “Bruh… Mind. Blown.”

He blinked at Rook, then at his own reflection, then back again. “…Worse than this? You’re serious?”

“Très sérieux,” Rook said, uncharacteristically soft. “My hair was a disaster, untamed and hopeless. But even wild things can be tamed, with patience and care.”

Vil’s comb whispered through Cater’s copper strands, efficient and precise. “And persistence. Don’t forget persistence.”

Cater’s throat tightened. He swallowed, eyes flicking between the two of them. For years he’d thought his hair was just another mark of everything wrong with him, proof he could never measure up. Yet here was Rook—smiling, radiant—claiming he’d once been worse off than Cater himself.

“…Huh,” Cater managed, voice barely above a whisper. “Guess maybe I’m not… a total lost cause after all.”

Rook’s emerald eyes softened. “Far from it, Monsieur Magicam.”

In addition to the extensive hair treatment, Vil gave Cater’s face a deep scrubbing while muttering about excess oil, then dabbed eye cream under his eyes for the dark circles Cater hadn’t even realized had gotten that bad. A light dusting of powder foundation followed—one that made Cater sneeze mid-application, accidentally coating Vil in a cloud of the powder.

Cater broke into a coughing fit mid-sneeze, waving the powder cloud away with both hands. “S-sorry, sorry, #AccidentalAttack! I swear I wasn’t trying to sabotage your beauty regimen!”

Vil’s eyes narrowed as he plucked a makeup brush off the counter to dust himself off. “Honestly. Even your sneeze is sloppy.” But the reprimand came softer than expected, more weary than sharp.

“Uh-huh,” Cater mumbled, sheepish grin tugging at his lips. He rubbed the back of his neck, warmth creeping up despite the embarrassment. “Still… thanks. Like, seriously. Didn’t think anybody’d bother.”

Vil didn’t reply, but Cater caught his reflection in the mirror—calm, focused, no trace of mockery. For once, Cater didn’t see someone trying to tear him down, but someone who’d chosen to build him up.

By the time Vil finally deemed Cater presentable, the sun had dipped low and it was nearly time to report to the cafeteria for dinner.

The moment they stepped through the cafeteria doors, chatter rippled instantly through the students. Cater froze under the weight of dozens of eyes. His copper mop-top now gleamed like deep-orange silk, neat waves framing a face no longer dulled by exhaustion. The shadows under his eyes had vanished, his freckles bright against even skin. He looked… different. Polished.

Deuce blinked first. “Wait—Cater?!”

“Holy crap,” Ace muttered, mouth half-full of bread. “Who’s this guy and what’d he do with the real Cater?”

Even Trey nearly dropped his fork. “Wow, Cater…”

Cater laughed nervously, scratching his cheek. “W-what? Don’t look at me like that! It’s still me, promise. #SameGuyNewFilter.”

But behind the grin, his heart swelled with something new—not pride in the glow-up itself, but in the fact that for once… he didn’t feel like a fraud.

For a moment, the cafeteria just… stared. Forks hovered midair, soup went cold, and even the freshmen forgot to gossip.

Riddle blinked twice, clearly recalibrating. “Cater…? You look…” He fumbled for a word, uncharacteristically at a loss. “…different.”

Leona leaned back in his chair with a low whistle. “Heh. Didn’t know Vil was running a salon on the side. You take walk-ins, Queenie?”

“Absolutely not,” Vil sniffed, flipping his hair. “This was a charitable exception.”

“Yeah, charitable,” Floyd drawled from the Octavinelle table, grinning wide. “Sea Bream’s lookin’ tasty now. Think I’ll bite.”

“Don’t you dare,” Jade warned, though his smirk suggested he’d been thinking the same thing.

Cater gave a shaky laugh, palms raised. “Uh, thanks? I think? #NotOnTheMenu, guys.”

Next to the twins, Azul adjusted his glasses, already scribbling in a notebook. “Hm… The Vil Schoenheit Glow-Up Experience™… targeted branding… potential revenue streams…”

“Azul,” Jade interrupted smoothly, “finish your soup.”

“Yeah, Boss,” Floyd snickered. “Don’t drool in it.”

Meanwhile, Epel squinted hard, trying to place what had changed. “Wait. Wait, is this the same Cater who always looks like he just rolled outta bed? Vil, you’re a dang miracle worker.”

“Not a miracle,” Vil corrected, sipping his tea with poise. “Just proper care. Which Cater will now continue. Religiously.”

Cater chuckled, softer this time, running a hand through his newly tamed hair. “Yeah, yeah, got it, boss. #DailyMaintenance.” But behind the quip, he let himself sit a little taller, glow-up or not.

For the first time ever, the eyes on him didn’t feel like they were waiting for him to crack.

Cater didn’t feel like he was holding the mask up alone. And maybe—just maybe—he didn’t need it quite as much anymore.

The cafeteria’s noise swelled back to normal, but Cater lingered in the moment, holding on to the rare, fragile truth: that beneath all the filters, someone had finally seen him… and not turned away.