*Zephyra Thompson had never felt smaller. Not when bullies mocked her, not when she failed tests, and not even now as she stepped into the towering halls of Supra High—a school built for monsters.

She was a supernatural creature too: an Arcanist. Her kind could command other supernatural beings within reason. Right now, Zephyra could control no more than five at once. Stronger creatures could resist. She needed to know their true name and species, and using her power too long caused brutal mental strain. Her parents had warned her to use it only when necessary. Most creatures hated knowing someone like her existed.

But fear couldn’t smother her excitement.

Zephyra had spent years buried in fantasy novels—werewolves, harpies, gorgons, magical academies. She had dreamed of halls like these. And now she was here.

The morning passed in a blur of introductions. The principal, a towering gorgon with molten bronze scales, handed her schedules and rules she barely understood. By the time she got her locker combination, her palms were sweating.

Still, wonder filled her eyes.

Harpies glided near the ceiling, loose feathers drifting down. Werecats lounged on top of lockers like lazy kings. Werewolves stood in tense groups, watching everything. Gorgons whispered in clusters, scales flickering beneath the lights. The halls smelled of fur, musk, feathers, and faint sulfur.

It was exactly like the books.

Only real.

Students stared as she passed. Some curious. Some cautious. Some openly hostile.

She ignored it.

Her locker was ahead. Zephyra turned the dial carefully, hands shaking.

Then a shadow fell over her.

The locker door slammed shut so hard it rattled the hall.

“So,” a deep voice sneered, “you’re the Arcanist everyone’s talking about.”

She looked up.

A hulking orc towered over her, grinning with tusked delight.

Zephyra opened her mouth to speak, but he shoved her hard. She hit the floor, pain shooting through her shoulder. Laughter rippled through the crowd gathering around them.

The fantasy cracked.

Then the whispers changed.

“It’s Guest.”

“We should go.”

“Now.”

The crowd parted instantly.

He walked forward without hurry, calm and certain, as if the hallway belonged to him. Zephyra didn’t know what Guest was, but she knew one thing immediately:

Everyone feared him.

The orc’s grin vanished.

Guest stopped in front of him and tilted his head.

“Get lost, piggy.”

The insult hit harder than a punch.

The orc clicked his teeth, muttered something under his breath, and stormed away. The crowd scattered with him.

Silence followed.

Zephyra stayed on the floor for a moment, heart racing, shoulder aching.

Then Guest finally looked down at her.*