ShadowBound: The Need For Power

Liam entered with the flow and ended up seated near Asher again, seemingly because fate had decided Asher’s irritation was something Liam had to endure during academy gatherings. A few rows ahead, Sheila sat with Ariana and Charlotte, the three girls close enough to speak quietly among themselves.

Edith was not far from them, seated along the same row with two other students who had begun orbiting Sheila’s developing command structure.

Dylan and Maxwell were two rows ahead of Liam and Asher, directly aligned with them, which meant Liam unfortunately had a clear view of whatever nonsense Dylan decided to perform.

Dylan looked far too cheerful for someone awaiting theory scores.

Maxwell did not.

"I cannot wait to see the scores," Dylan said, leaning back with his arms stretched along the top of the seats beside him like a man prepared to enjoy a show. "I especially want to see how badly Max did."

Maxwell turned slowly. "Why are you starting with me?"

"Because you are close enough to hear me suffer your downfall."

"My downfall?"

"Yes."

"You know we are both getting evaluated, right?"

Dylan waved a hand. "Yes, but my score will be interesting. Yours will be educational."

Maxwell’s eyes narrowed. "You say that like you are guaranteed to beat me."

Dylan smiled.

It was the kind of smile that made Maxwell’s expression stiffen before a word was even spoken.

"Maxie," Dylan said gently, almost kindly, which made it worse. "Have you forgotten what happened during our first-year major theory paper?"

Maxwell went quiet.

The memory arrived visibly.

It had been one of those academy moments that should have been impossible and yet had happened with paperwork to prove it. Back in first year, Maxwell and Asher had made the foolish decision to bet that Dylan would score below them on the major theory paper. It had seemed logical at the time. Dylan was Dylan. He joked too much, flirted too openly, complained too loudly, and treated serious situations like stages built for his personal amusement. No one had expected him to do anything impressive on a major written test.

Then the results came out.

Dylan Wellington, academy clown, shameless nuisance, and professional destroyer of serious moods, had ranked eighth highest on the theory paper.

Maxwell and Asher had ranked somewhere in the fifties.

Possibly lower.

The details became hazy because embarrassment often blurred memory as an act of mercy.

Dylan began laughing.

Not quietly.

Several students turned to look at him, some annoyed, some curious, and a few already smiling because Dylan’s laughter had a way of making people expect either a joke or a disaster. He did not seem bothered by the attention. If anything, he looked nourished by it.

Maxwell faced forward again, jaw tight. "That was one time."

"One glorious time," Dylan said.

"You got lucky."

"That is what cowards say when brilliance wears a handsome face."

From beside Liam, Asher heard enough to remember.

His expression darkened instantly.

"He cheated," Asher muttered under his breath.

Liam glanced at him.

Asher’s eyes stayed fixed ahead, irritation tightening his mouth. "He cheated. I do not know how, but he cheated."

"He ranked eighth."

"That is why I know he cheated."

"That is not evidence."

"It is emotional evidence."

"That is worse."

Asher scoffed and folded his arms.

Liam looked past him toward Dylan, who was still teasing Maxwell with cheerful cruelty. Unintentionally, his mind returned to that first-year result. He remembered it too. At the time, most students had dismissed it as luck, a strange accident of question selection, maybe the one rare day Dylan’s scattered mind collided perfectly with the paper’s content. Liam had not cared enough then to think deeply about it.

Now he did.

Dylan had not looked lost during the Core Myst paper. Annoying, yes. Dramatic, certainly. But once the exam began, he had written with confidence. Not the false confidence of someone filling pages with nonsense to avoid the shame of blank parchment. Real confidence. The kind that came from understanding what he was doing, even if no one wanted to admit it because admitting Dylan was academically capable made the world feel less orderly.

And it was not only the exams.

Dylan had always shown signs of thinking deeper than he appeared to. He caught things quickly when he cared to. He understood mechanisms, Myst structures, and social shifts faster than his jokes suggested. Sometimes he grasped things on the fly with a speed that even Liam noticed, and Liam noticed mostly because it irritated him when people hid competence behind nonsense too effectively.

Dylan was not just a clown.

He was a clown with a working head.

Possibly a dangerous combination.

Liam stared for another moment, then sighed faintly and pushed the thought aside.

He had enough unsettling realizations in his life without adding Dylan Wellington’s hidden academic competence to the pile.

Before his mind could drift somewhere else, the doors near the elevated stage opened.

The hall quieted almost instantly.

One after another, familiar authoritative figures entered from the side passage reserved for the academy board and senior instructors. Headmaster Thion came first, calm and dignified as ever, his presence settling over the hall with the quiet authority of someone who did not need to raise his voice to be obeyed. Assistant Headmistress Lucia Greydon walked beside him with her magic clipboard in hand, her expression composed and efficient.

Behind them came Mystica Moonstone, her purple eyes already carrying that familiar glint of amusement, as though a hall full of anxious students was exactly the kind of morning entertainment she appreciated. Sir Regulus followed with his heavy, disciplined presence, then Sir Kaelen, Professor Vale, and several other instructors and professors the students knew well from their classes.

The second-years went completely silent.

Whatever jokes, complaints, or nervous predictions had filled the hall moments earlier died at once. Students straightened in their seats. Even Dylan stopped laughing, though the faint smile on his face suggested he was still emotionally committed to Maxwell’s suffering.

The authority figures moved to their places with practiced ease, some taking seats along the stage while others remained standing near the sides. Headmaster Thion approached the central pulpit, and Lucia took position slightly beside him.

The silence grew heavier.

Every student in the hall seemed to understand the same thing at once.

It was time for the academy to crush their souls with relentless evaluation scores.

And judging by the calm faces of the people on stage, the academy intended to do so with absolute professionalism.

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