Fridays usually carried a lighter mood in Moonstone Academy. The week's pressure thinned by then, replaced with laughter spilling across the courtyards and students sneaking glances at the clock. But not today. The air felt heavier, sharpened by the weight of midterm season.
It was the second day of exams, and the schedule belonged to the clubs.
Everywhere on campus, classrooms and practice spaces hummed with activity. From the east wing to the sports grounds, students scrambled to prove their worth in the very activities that defined their reputations. It was a day when strengths, or weaknesses, would be put on display.
Aiva Brown tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she stepped onto the east wing balcony. The autumn sun slanted low, bathing the garden in a soft amber glow. The balcony wasn't much larger than a tennis court, but the rows of flowerbeds, trellises, and potted shrubs gave it the air of a secret world, a refuge suspended above the bustle of the campus below.
She slid her gloves on, already recognizing the smell of damp soil and crushed leaves. This was her second exam of the day. The first, singing club, had left her throat sore and her nerves buzzing. But here? Here she could breathe.
The invigilator, Mr. Harrow, leaned against the railing, a clipboard balanced casually under his arm. He had seen Aiva enough times to know how she worked. She didn't need to be told twice what to do.
"Revive it, and show me you can keep it alive," he said, nodding toward a jasmine vine whose stems drooped across its trellis.
Aiva crouched, inspecting the brittle leaves. The task wasn't difficult for her, it was familiar, almost meditative. She clipped away the dead ends with care, loosened the compact soil, and pressed fresh cuttings into place. A small spray bottle misted the vine with cool droplets, and she worked patiently, fingers steady, the tension from her earlier exam bleeding away.
Around her, other students rushed, overwatered, or argued in hushed voices about the "right" method. Aiva didn't rush. She had always believed plants grew best under calm hands.
By the time she stepped back, the vine stood a little straighter, its color no longer so lifeless. Mr. Harrow marked his clipboard, his expression unreadable.
"Consistent as ever, Brown," he said. "Full marks."
She peeled her gloves off and allowed herself a faint smile. Gardening wasn't glamorous, but it was hers.
On the other side of the academy, the debate club had just wrapped up its exam in a classroom stripped of desks, the walls lined with folding chairs. A podium stood at the front, makeshift but functional.
Bryce Farren sat at his table, shoulders square, his notes stacked in precise order. The format was rigid, World Scholars debate. Opening statements, rebuttals, closing arguments. He knew the rhythm like second nature, and he delivered his points with sharp precision. His team had walked through the match, countering every argument until the opposing side had nothing left but faltering words.
When the final bell rang, the room exhaled in unison. The supervising teacher, Mr. Lowell, glanced down at his clipboard and scribbled a score without looking up.
"That concludes the exam," he said. "You're dismissed."
Chairs scraped against the floor. Students stretched, whispering congratulations. Bryce stayed seated, lips pressed into a thin line. He stared at his notes as though they had betrayed him.
"You're sulking," a girl from his team remarked, dropping her bag onto the table beside him. Her grin was playful, the kind that asked to be noticed. "You dominated. Why the long face?"
Bryce didn't look up. "I don't like speaking on stage."
She raised a brow. "Seriously? You were untouchable out there."
"I don't like the spotlight," he said flatly. "I just do it because I'm good at it. And because my father won't let me switch clubs."
The girl chuckled, nudging him with her elbow. "That's rich, coming from the president of the entire school."
The remark was meant as a joke, but Bryce's gaze finally lifted, cold and distant. "Then I guess you don't know me well enough."
The girl's smile faltered. She stepped back, suddenly unsure. Bryce stacked his papers neatly, slipping them into his folder with an almost mechanical precision. The room emptied around him, laughter and chatter fading into the hall. He stayed quiet, his face unreadable.
Moonstone Academy hummed with its own rhythm as the day stretched on. Students darted across the courtyards between exams, the cafeteria filled with bursts of chatter, the sports grounds echoing with shouts.
To outsiders, it might have looked like any other school. But for Aiva, crouched among her plants, and Bryce, slipping wordlessly into the hallway, it was something more personal, a place where their talents defined them, and their burdens weighed quietly in the shadows.
Meanwhile, the courts still smelled faintly of rubber and sweat when Adam walked away, the staccato thud of basketballs and shouted drills shrinking behind him.
The practical had been a draft-combine simulation: sprints, shuttle runs, free-throw sequences under pressure, a measured vertical leap that would tell scouts whether a player's body was worth the next level. The gym had been loud and exacting; every stopwatch click felt like a small verdict.
Adam had watched most of it from the sideline, his ankle braced and numb with cold and frustration. He'd wrapped it the night before and iced it in the infirmary until his skin tingled, but that didn't change the way his ankle folded under him at the first pivot. He'd tried a few steps, tried to push through, then made the sensible decision for once and sat down.
Coach Barlow had been the kind of man who wore patience like an old coat and used it sparingly. He'd come over, looked at Adam's ankle, checked the brace, and sighed the way men sigh when they carry more worry than they want to admit.
"You really can't risk it today," the coach said, the words blunt but not unkind. "This is not the hill to die on."
Adam had argued, just enough to hold his pride, and then fell silent when the coach's eyes softened. "You're not getting a pass, kid. You're getting credit for what you already are. You know how you play. I'll vouch. C-minus. You've got to live to fight tomorrow, yeah?"
C-minus. The grade was an awkward little thing to swallow, too low to be flattering, too generous to be earned. But it was enough to keep Adam on the map. Enough that the scholarship people wouldn't cross his name off without another look. He'd muttered thanks and slung his duffel over his shoulder, the weight of disappointment and relief both curiously heavy.
He'd been about to head home, to the quiet of his dorm, when Coach Barlow had given him the second thing he hadn't asked for: a look that said, Get your head right. Adam took it like a commanded pass and turned toward the edge of the academy.
The archery ground sat where the manicured lawns gave up to the edge of Moonstone Forest. It was a small clearing carved out of pines and dead grasses, a place where the school's neat geometry softened into something rougher.
The targets were set along a line that sloped toward the trees; behind them the forest swallowed sound. There was a smell there, pine sap, crushed earth, the faint metallic tang of arrows left in the dirt. In a way it felt like home.
He pushed through the small gate and found the students already gathered, murmuring in a loose knot. Faces turned as he walked up; some looked curious, others bored, a few annoyed. The archery instructor, thin, late thirties, hair in a clipped bun. Cleared his throat and raised his clipboard.
"Listen up," he said, voice flat with practice. "Two parts today. First: the dizzy shots. You stand on the disc, it spins you, then you take three bow shots. One has to be on target or you fail that portion. Second: upside-down rifle. You'll be tied at the ankle, hoisted, given three shots at a stationary target while you swing. A smaller target will zip by once, hit it and earn a ten percent discount on next semester's fees per hit."
Laughter rippled through the group, nervous, incredulous. Adam felt his stomach flip. The spin test had been designed to mess with vestibular balance, to separate the rigid from the adaptable. The upside-down rifle was a spectacle, ridiculous on paper, terrifying in practice.
He remembered the rumor, some students called the second challenge archaic, others called it tradition. Either way it was a headache for someone who'd already had his ankle ruined by a bad pivot.
They called names. Numbers, really. Adam's number came somewhere in the back third. He watched the first students step up onto the disc and sway as it spun them, arrow nocked, breathing ragged and shallow until two or three arrows fell some near the bull, some yawing off the circle. Each hit, each miss, folded into the same small drama of the clearing.
Then Priya Nair stepped up.
She was all business: ponytail tight, forearms lean and freckled from sun; there was a quiet ferocity in the way she measured the distance. Priya was already a fixture at the club, president of the archery club, the kind of student whose practice hours swallowed whole evenings and whose trophies had children's names engraved in tiny, precise script.
The announcement around campus was that she was on a track for international competition; sponsors nodded when her name came up. People whispered Olympic prospects, and she moved through that attention like a swimmer gliding through water, efficient, focused.
Priya's approach to the disc was methodical. She set her foot, breathed slow and long, closed her eyes for a heartbeat and let the instructor spin her. Light stripes blurred, or the world blurred, she didn't flinch. Her hand stayed steady as she nocked the first arrow.
The first release sang clean; the arrow thudded into the center with a soft, cruel accuracy. The second followed the same pattern; two bulls in a row. The third shot skimmed past the gold by a whisper, close enough to draw a low, audible intake from the watching students. Murmurs broke into small applause. Priya stepped down without emotion, as if she'd walked through warm water and back.
"Two bulls and a near miss," the instructor said, flipping a page on his clipboard. "Now for the upside-down."
She moved through the rig with the same calm. The straps bit into the ankle as she was hoisted. Hanging inverted, breath seeks the other way; the mind has to relearn which way is which.
Priya's shots were clean, one hit on the main target, and then, when the smaller target zipped by like a silver flash, she gathered herself and fired twice in quick succession. Both struck home. The clearing erupted in a sound that was half cheer, half disbelief.
Adam felt something shift inside him. Less envy than the small, familiar knot of wanting. He had always loved the way the string thrummed, the small rightness of a shot where the world and your body agreed. The memory of his grandfather came then, a small hard shape of light.
When Adam was younger they'd gone turkey hunting in Vancouver every Christmas, bundled in four layers, breath fogging in the cold. His grandfather had a laugh like gravel and hands that smelled of gun oil and cedar.
He'd taught Adam how to stand so the wind didn't give away your position, how to count your breaths like a metronome, how to let your hands be still and trust the body to do the rest.
"Let the world be loud," Granddad would say, "and then find the dot." Those mornings had been a kind of lesson in patience, long hours of waiting, then a single, clean motion and the quiet afterwards.
The line called his number. Adam climbed onto the disc with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. The world spun like a bad dream, slow at first then jagged and fast. He clenched his jaw, forced his cheekbones to stop rattling. Everything blurred into a green smear and the clocks in his head went wrong.
First shot: the bow lurched in his grip. The arrow swooped left and buried itself in the scuffed edge of the target, nowhere near the bull. The group around him winced. He tasted the metallic tang of failure.
He steadied, breathing shallow but trying to remember Trudeau's old mantra, his grandfather's voice braided into it, count three, release on four. Second arrow: the string hummed and the arrow stuck closer, mid-ring. A small victory, a small life raft. Third arrow gave him the saving grace: it thudded solid into the outer gold. The instructor marked him down, barely passed that part.
The upside-down test was worse. The ankle harness snapped into place, and for a moment, dangling with the world turned over, he felt ridiculous and terrified. With the rifle pointed toward the target, his vision was off. Gravity worked against him, organs crowding his diaphragm, breath shallow and panicky. The first shot spat wide, the recoil making the world tilt.
He remembered his grandfather again, how the old man had taught him to squeeze, not jerk, how to make the motion a promise. He let his thumb find the spot, blocked out the rest, and when the small target streaked by like a gull, he squeezed and the shot sang true. Steel bit into flesh: a clean, honest hit.
He swung back and took the final two shots with a raw, survivor's focus. One found the main target; one missed the smaller. It was enough. He had passed.
When he stepped off the rig, his knees wobbled and the instructor clapped once, the motion efficient and indifferent. "Pass," the man said. The word sounded small in the pine-scented air. Priya gave him a quick, neutral nod, no sugar, no condescension. She already had what she wanted: a line on her path toward whatever came next.
Adam exhaled, the rush of blood in his ears like applause. Passing carried the taste of victory, but it was an honest, half-bitter thing. He thought of the C-minus waiting for him from the basketball coach and the draft prospects that had blurred alongside his ankle. He'd earned a slice of merit here, but the larger dream still sat across his chest like a weight.
Coach Mallory would keep talking about form, about recovery, about what counted on tape and what didn't. Adam let the memories of Vancouver and his grandfather settle like coals in his chest, warm, stubborn, steady. He missed those simple mornings and the man who'd taught him how to steady his breath; he loved that those lessons lived inside him when the world spun.
On the walk back to the academy, the forest closed around him in a hush. Students around him shouted and joked, falling into the Friday rhythm. Adam walked slower than the others, archway shading his shoulders.
The practicals had sifted some of the metal from the dross, today revealed where he could on his feet and where he could not, but it also reminded him why he kept trying. Because when the moment came, he wanted to be steady enough to find the dot.
He pushed the memory of the warm Vancouver mornings into the corner of his mind and let the loud, insistent present take shape again: classes, council meetings, practices, the small, daily wars that would build a life.
He had passed the archery test, no fireworks, no sponsorships, no scouts leaning in with sharpened pens, but it was a passing that meant something. It was something solid, the kind of small victory that might one day be worth more than applause.
***
The room was unusually quiet for a Friday night. Adam lay on his bed, one leg stretched out, the other bent up with his phone balanced on his stomach. Bryce was slouched in his chair by the desk, scrolling idly but not really reading anything. Both of them had their eyes glued to the clock in the corner of their screens, refreshing every few seconds. The results portal wasn't live yet, and the anticipation was making the silence unbearable.
Through the walls of the dormitory, muffled voices carried in waves, laughter, nervous chatter, the occasional groan from students just as restless as they were. Every so often, someone would shout, "It's not up yet!" and the tension in the building would thrum like a heartbeat.
Adam finally broke the silence.
"Feels like waiting for the NBA draft," he muttered, his voice dry.
Bryce huffed a laugh but didn't look up. "More like the Hunger Games. You either pass or you're toast."
Adam smirked, but his stomach knotted all the same. He kept refreshing, refreshing, refreshing until...
The page flickered. Then it loaded.
For a moment, Adam just stared at the screen as his heart kicked into overdrive. The results were in neat rows: names, clubs, grades. His eyes darted immediately to his own.
Basketball: C-
Archery: B
Bryce let out a sharp exhale beside him. "Oh, thank God," he muttered, leaning back in his chair with a grin. "Debate, A+. Business Club, A. I'm safe."
Adam tried to muster up the same relief, but his chest felt heavy. He passed, that was good. He should be happy. But his gaze lingered on the C- like a bruise he couldn't stop pressing.
It didn't feel earned. The drills, the vertical test, the sprints—he hadn't even been able to do them. His ankle made sure of that. The only reason he didn't fail completely was because Coach had vouched for him. That thought sat sour in his mouth.
"C-," Adam murmured, almost to himself.
Bryce spun around in his chair, still grinning. "Man, you passed. That's all that matters."
Adam gave him a thin smile but didn't answer. The sound of other students celebrating bled through the door, doors slamming, shouts of "Yes!" and "Let's go!" echoing down the halls. Someone even started blasting music, tinny and muffled through a speaker. The whole dorm felt alive with relief.
But Adam's focus was elsewhere. His thumb scrolled down the page, scanning names. Abby. Anissa. Amber. Where were they? He scrolled again, double-checked the spelling, then switched clubs just to be sure. Nothing.
His brows knit. "That's weird."
Bryce was still riding his high. "What's weird?"
"Abby, Anissa, Amber. They're not here."
Bryce frowned, spinning back to his own screen. "Maybe you missed them."
"I didn't," Adam said firmly. "They're not on the list at all."
He tried calling Abby. The dial tone dragged on, then cut to voicemail. He tried Anissa next, same thing. Then Amber. No answer.
His chest tightened. Something was off.
He stared at his screen for a long moment, thumb hovering over the contacts list. Then he tapped Aiva's number.
The call rang once, twice. On the third, her voice came through, light and casual.
"Adam? What's up?"
"Aiva, hey." He tried to keep his tone even, but there was a trace of urgency. "Do you know what's going on with Abby and the others? I don't see their names anywhere. I tried calling but…"
On the other end, there was a pause. He could hear the faint buzz of noise in the background, maybe the dorm, maybe the hallway.
"They… haven't been to school since Wednesday evening," Aiva said finally, her voice quieter than before.
Adam sat up straighter. "Wait, what?"
"Yeah. Nobody's seen them." Aiva hesitated. "I thought you knew."
The air in the room seemed to thicken. Bryce glanced over, catching Adam's change in expression.
"No," Adam said slowly, his throat tight. "I didn't know."
For a second, all he could hear was the echo of voices in the hall, the laughter, the celebrations of students who weren't missing anyone. He looked down at his phone screen again, but the names still weren't there.
Not Abby. Not Anissa. Not Amber.
And that absence was louder than any celebration outside.