A few dramatics later…
—FCA Boardroom
"This year's freshers are quite something, aren't they, Master Roshi?" purred a tall woman with a feline grace that felt less like a compliment and more like a threat.
She sat poised in the dim, low-lit room like a dream gone slightly wrong in all the best ways.
Her long, sleek blonde hair shimmered under the sparse lighting, black highlights slashing through it like claw marks.
Set above the curtain of hair, a pair of lynx-like ears tilted with every shift in the room. When she smiled, the tips of her sharp canines flashed, a polite reminder that her predator tag was not a metaphor.
A single eye peeked from behind her bangs, liquid gold, swirling with a dangerous promise.
Fun fact: those amateurs who made the mistake of locking eyes with Lady Felicia Wilder often reported an overwhelming desire to hand over their wallets, souls, or in one infamous case, the deed to their family estate.
Was it hypnosis? Um hello? Clearly. Did her "victims" have any complaints? #Lol.
In theory, casualties of such spontaneous brain hacking should have been alarmed. But this was Lady Felicia. She could have stolen your consciousness and you would thank her for the privilege on your way out.
Speaking of which, her tail, long, sultry, and oh-so-misbehaved, swayed lazily to a rhythm only she could hear.
A faint shimmer clung to it when it moved, the kind that made you wonder whether her allure was charm, biology, or a weapon cleverly registered as school property.
It seemed to have developed a side hustle as an attention magnet, because every time it moved, someone stared.
Hard.
One of those stares abruptly broke away, guilt flickering across the face of a man who looked like he had just remembered he had a wife and five children waiting for him at home.
That would be Professor Uriel Spiral, former top-rated nightmare artist and current Head of Curriculum Integration on Fearcraft's Board of Education.
His job? Making sure young nightmare crafters did not blow holes in the metaphysical fabric of reality during term projects.
Optional side quest: teaching DIS 303, Environmental Reality Breaking, to the third years. (Irony at its finest.)
"I would say," Uriel rumbled, though no one had asked him, "we have drawn in the strongest batch of candidates this year."
He leaned forward, void black eyes flicking up to the massive monitor mounted on the wall across from them. It loomed like a judgmental deity, its surface divided into quadrants. Each one was labeled with thick digital letters: 1A, 1B, 1C, and 1F.
The live feed displayed each class in eerie clarity, every angle recorded and replayed in real time. Think CCTV, but with a little more existential dread.
Clusters of students appeared on-screen, chatting, fidgeting, or trying to look cooler than they felt.
"We received applications from every corner of Dreamsdale," Uriel continued. "Some from bloodlines whose nightmare legacies reach back to the Cataclysm itself."
The room hushed at the word.
The Great Cataclysm.
A glitch in existence as all knew it. When human memories bled into matter and dreamscapes became physical terrains. When guilds became lineages and survival itself rewrote biology.
Dreamsdale had almost ended before it began. Even centuries later, speaking of it still felt like shaking hands with a spectre.
Uriel lowered his voice. "Only five percent made it in. Five." He held up five fingers for emphasis. "The rest didn't exactly fail since there was no examination to begin with. Their family legacies just weren't impressive enough. Their potential failed to stand out."
He glanced around the room.
"But that five percent? That's who you're looking at now. The future of Dreamsdale."
The unspoken part lingered like smoke: every intake was weighed against extinction.
"A sound point, Professor Spiral," a voice chimed in.
It was gentle, almost musical, with a faint lisp. The speaker was a petite woman fluttering her translucent wings as she leaned forward.
This was Professor Velloria "Vel" Lumes, Head of Practical Dreamkeeping for the third-years.
Her hair was like a pastel squid. Soft pink, coiled in tapering tendrils. A pair of antennae swayed gently above her hair. Her skirt shimmered between shades of dawn and dusk whenever she shifted.
"While I do agree," she continued, lips pursed, "I would advise tempering your optimism. The shinier their background, the more brittle they tend to be. Some of them act like noble bloodlines can Imprint for them."
Lady Felicia's smirk sharpened. "Spoken like a woman who has broken a few."
"Oh, several," Vel replied sweetly.
A few board members chuckled, and someone at the far end coughed into their tea.
"The academy is not deeply interested in pedigree," she went on, folding her delicate hands. "Yes, legacy may have opened the door—but once inside, it means nothing. What matters is what they do here. No banner, no bloodline, will stop a nightmare from devouring a fool."
Murmurs of agreement hummed around the table, though a few side eyes were exchanged, particularly from those who had once taught petulant children of infamous lineages and lived to tell the tale.
Elder Maekel of Archives nodded solemnly, his long beard coiled around his neck like a scarf. "Talent without trial is just decoration."
Professor Winslow of Cryptid Ethics stroked the tiny gargoyle perched on his shoulder. "And decoration won't stop a determined contender from ripping you a new one."
A bit vulgar, but it was a valid statement. Agreement rippled through the board. Then silence fell.
The kind that thickened the air when everyone remembered who was present in the room.
In sync, all heads turned toward the far end of the committee desk, where a ridiculously small chair had been propped atop a series of stacked books like some kind of regal insect throne.
Then… cricket sounds. Yes. Literal, rhythmic cricket chirps filled the room.
Because Master Roshi, principal of Fearcraft Academy and Chairman of the Board, was a cricket.
A very dignified, very ancient cricket.
He rubbed his snow white beard, over ten times longer than his entire body, and leaned into the megaphone mounted in front of him.
The chirps intensified as the megaphone hiccupped, let out static, then garbled half translations like an embarrassing voicemail:
"...stellar intake this—chirrrrp—year... gifted prodig—zzt—metrics... chirp chirp."
Some board members politely pretended to understand the gibberish. Others visibly died inside.
Lady Felicia, seated loyally at his right, let her smile linger seven seconds before reaching over. She picked up the megaphone like a misbehaving toddler.
Without breaking eye contact with the room, she slapped it. Once. Twice. Then a third time for good measure.
"Okay, okay! I'm sorry! I'm SORRY!" the megaphone yelped, its voice module finally kicking in.
Felicia gave it a final, loving pat and repositioned it in front of Master Roshi.
He tilted his tiny head to look up at her. It was clearly a herculean effort, considering Felicia was roughly a hundred times his size.
"Ah, thank—chirp—you, Lady Felicia," came his translated voice at last, croaky and crackling but decipherable.
Felicia bowed with feline poise. "It is always a pleasure, Master."
The rest of the room braced as the cricket cleared his throat.
"I acknowledge the concerns—chirp—but lowering our expectations would be—chirp—foolish. This intake is remarkable, not only for quantity, but because for the first time in years, we have multiple candidates from—chirp chirp—major lineages enrolled together."
A ripple of excitement spread around the board.
Felicia took that as her cue and lifted the sleek black tablet from the table in front of her.
"As overseer of this year's admissions," she began, "allow me to highlight a few standouts."
The screen shifted as she tapped the interface. Class 1A's feed expanded to full screen.
"Beginning with Class 1A," she said, scrolling with a swipe of one elegant finger.
The feed for Class 1A flickered, then panned across rows of nervous first-years until it lingered on a blue-haired girl with ram-like horns curling from her head.
Felicia's smile sharpened. "Lady Elowen DeVyre. Heiress of the Relicbound line that pioneered the Identity Collapse spectrum. Her family's nightmares once drove King Mebuchadnezzar to madness. You remember the monarch who grazed like cattle until his court starved?"
A cluster of uneasy murmurs followed.
Professor Winslow let out a thin chuckle. "A tragedy, yes… but what a masterpiece that was."
"Exhibition, more like," someone muttered, drawing a few knowing nods.
Felicia swiped again, and a raven-haired girl appeared, lounging in her seat with silver earbuds glowing faintly.
"Selene Vox," Felicia purred. "First daughter of the Vox dynasty. Auditory Hauntings are their empire. Entire generations still flinch at lullabies because of their work."
Another swipe revealed two identical redheaded boys, fiery hair gleaming, golden eyes etched with concentric ridges. They were hunched over their notebooks, giggling as they scribbled obscene doodles.
Felicia smirked. "Kaan and Kaen Delavan. Chrominent twins. Specialists in Recursive Terrors and Looped Nightmares. Dual spectrum mastery, only when they bother to behave."
Elder Maekel groaned. "Every academy year, one set of pranksters."
"Two this time," Winslow added dryly. "God help their instructors."
Felicia let their doodling speak for itself and swiped once more.
The camera landed on a boy with brown hair and gemlike aquamarine eyes. His posture was quiet, but there was something coiled in it, like a spring that hadn't decided when to snap.
"And lastly from 1A," Felicia said, voice dropping to a note of savor, "Reed McHorror. Eclipsian heritage. His family has always lived in the shadow of you-know-who. Yet their contributions to Nightmarecraft are… formidable. Perhaps this year will prove whether shadows can outshine."
The room stirred.
"Interesting…" one professor whispered, brows lifting.
"That's a rather bold claim, Lady Felicia," another muttered, half scandalized, half intrigued.
Lady Felicia only smiled, her ears twitching once, like she'd dropped a particularly juicy piece of gossip onto the center of the table.
The tablet feed shifted again, pulling up Class 1B.
A boy lounged in his seat, ash-grey skin pale under the lights. His blond hair was streaked through, with piercings glittering on his nose, lips, and brow. His nails were black, drumming idly against the desk.
Felicia tilted her head. "That's Hiero of the Graveborn Ossafex line. Their family are master-crafters of bodily horrors and Forced Action nightmares. Entire battalions have lost control of their limbs thanks to their work."
Professor Winslow's little gargoyle perked up, letting out a high-pitched yawn.
"Efficiently revolting," Velloria muttered, wrinkling her pastel tendrils.
Felicia only snickered, swiping again.
A girl came into focus. Pin-straight black hair tied in a severe ponytail, metal hairpins jutting like miniature weapons. Her bangs were cropped blunt, her narrow eyes pure black, lacking any whites. She sat stiffly, her stare fixed on nothing.
"Yula Grell," Felicia announced. "Rumored descendant of the founder of the Temporal Dissonance spectrum. Even now, some say her family can make a dreamer live the same imagined death several times in a row."
That drew a low whistle from Uriel Spiral. "My favorite kind of horrifying."
"She looks half gone already," Velloria said softly, peering at the girl's blank stare. "Is she even aware she's here?"
"Some of the best Temporal artists never look fully awake," Maekel replied, stroking his beard. "That's how you know they're dangerous."
A hum of agreement circled the table before Felicia let the feed collapse back into the grid.
She grinned, lifting a finger. "Ordinarily, we would move next to 1C. But…" Her golden eye glinted with mischief. "I think I'll save the best for last. So let's peek at 1F first."
Her finger danced across the tablet. "Now… from this class," she began.
The screen shifted, panning over a tall boy with long dark blue hair and tufts of white.
"Mark Abyss," she announced, "A Nereanth, heir to a family that deals in natural disasters. Hurricanes, floods, tsunamis. Their nightmares have sunk more minds than any navy."
Someone sighed. "The Abyss family again? Last time one of theirs joined us, half the class developed hydrophobia."
Elder Maekel harrumphed. "At least this one looks sturdier than his relative."
"Sturdier," Felicia agreed, tapping again. The view slid to a broad-shouldered figure, bald head gleaming under the light, a black nose mask covering half his face.
"Bodhi Purge. Miasmorian. If you've ever seen dreams of plagues, odds are you can thank his family. Pandemic horrors, zombie contagions, doomsday viruses, you name it. They've practically trademarked apocalypse chic."
Velloria fluttered her wings nervously. "Mm. Their work unsettles even me. I can't eat soup for weeks after reviewing their files."
Felicia winked. "That, my dear, is the point."
She swiped again. The camera caught a dainty figure with long, fluffy pink hair that spilled over a girls' uniform.
Pale skin, pink eyes with pupils shaped like broken hearts. He looked more like a porcelain doll than a freshman nightmare crafter.
"And finally from Class 1F, Erik Lovette," Felicia said, letting the name linger. "Relicbound. His family… ah, their specialty is 'Romantic Horrors'. Stalker obsessions. Kidnapping fantasies. Being adored until it literally kills you. The Otherkin always come back for more."
The board reacted instantly.
A professor near the end of the table blinked, adjusting his spectacles. "Wait… that's a boy?"
"Mm," Felicia hummed, unbothered. "His looks and uniform suggest otherwise, I admit."
Several muffled laughs scattered around the room. One woman fanned herself dramatically. "Romantic horrors, indeed. Those Lovettes have always known how to market sin as sugar."
"Addicting nightmares," Winslow said dryly. "Half my Ethics lectures are spent warning students not to binge them."
"Pfft. As if that'll stop them." Felicia's tail flicked once, golden eye flashing as she closed the reel.
"And that, esteemed colleagues, brings us to the grand finale…"
The screen dimmed, then brightened on a new feed.
"Class 1C," Felicia said softly, with just enough weight to make every head lean forward. "The one to watch."