Page 54 of Hexmate

Professor Blackwood strode in, her long robes sweeping behind her as she dropped a stack of books onto her desk. “Enough whispering,” she said sharply, silencing the room with a single glare. “If you’re here, you’re here to learn—not gossip.”

I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed as the lecture began. It was supposed to be on complex spell matrices, but my mind kept drifting, my senses on edge. My instincts told me someone was watching me—something dark and lingering just beneath the surface of the mundane classroom setting.

And then I felt it. A pulse of magic, subtle but unmistakable. Not an attack—no, this was something more insidious.

It was my father.

The blood in my veins turned to ice. The pulse of magic wasn’t aggressive, not a demand or a strike, but it was unmistakably his. A whisper against my skin, curling at the edges of my senses like smoke from a dying fire.

I swallowed hard and forced my hands to stay steady on the desk. He wasn’t here—not physically. But he wanted me to know he was watching. His magic had a signature I could never mistake, a deep and ancient force that coiled around me like invisible chains.

I barely heard Professor Blackwood’s voice as she continued her lecture. My mind was elsewhere, racing through the possibilities. Why now? Why send this warning here, in the middle of class? Was this just a reminder of his presence, or was it something more? A threat? A test?

A chair creaked behind me, snapping me out of my thoughts for just a moment. I turned my head slightly, catching Rowan Hargrove’s one good eye fixed on me from across the room. He smirked when our gazes locked—slow, deliberate.

Had he felt it too? Or did he just enjoy watching me squirm?

I bit down on the inside of my cheek and faced forward again, willing myself not to react despite the wildfire spreading in my veins. Rowan’s smirk burned in the back of my head, a silent taunt that threatened to unravel the fragile control I had over myself. I gripped the edge of my desk so tightly that my knuckles turned white, forcing myself to focus on Professor Blackwood’s voice, even though her words were little more than a dull hum in my ears.

“Mr. Cromwell,” she said sharply, her voice cutting through the haze in my mind like a blade.

I blinked and looked up, realizing too late that the entire class was staring at me. Professor Blackwood’s dark eyes narrowed, her gaze pinning me like an insect under glass.

“While I’m sure whatever daydream you’re having is fascinating,” she continued, her tone dripping with sarcasm, “perhaps you’d like to share your thoughts on the application of dual-core spell matrices?”

A ripple of laughter moved through the room, but it felt distant—muted. My throat was dry when I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could come up with an answer, another pulse of magic slithered over my skin like ice water. It was smaller this time, but sharper, more focused. A warning.

“I—” My voice came out hoarse, and I cleared my throat quickly. “I don’t have an answer for that,” I finished, my voice barely audible. The class’s laughter faded into a tense silence, and Professor Blackwood’s eyes narrowed further. A flicker of something passed across her face—concern, maybe—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“Focus, Mr. Cromwell.” Her tone was firm but not unkind, though I could feel the weight of her gaze lingering on me for a moment too long before she turned back to the board. She began sketching out intricate designs with quick, precise movements, but my attention had already shifted back to the invisible tendrils of magic curling through the room.

My father wasn’t done. The second pulse had been sharper for a reason—it wasn’t just a warning; it was a command. My stomach churned at the realization. He wanted something from me. Something now.

A bead of sweat trickled down the back of my neck as I tried to think, tried to piece together what he could possibly want in this moment. Whatever it was, defying him wasn’t an option—not without consequences that I wasn’t ready to face yet. Not here, surrounded by people who wouldn’t understand what kind of power my father wielded.

The air in the room grew colder, almost imperceptibly so, but enough for me to notice the goosebumps rising along my arms. My fingers tightened around the edge of my desk as I forced myself to breathe evenly. If no one else felt it, I had to pretend I didn’t either.

The last thing I needed was to give Rowan more ammunition or make Professor Blackwood pry. But my father’s magic pressed against me again—this time, pushing. Urging. There was no mistaking it now. He wanted me to leave.

I inhaled sharply through my nose, my mind scrambling for an excuse. Standing up and walking out of class without cause would only raise suspicion. But if I ignored him… My stomach twisted at the possible repercussions of that choice.

Rowan was still watching me, his smirk widening like he knew exactly what was happening, like he could see the invisible leash tightening around my throat. Maybe he could—maybe he had more connections to my father than I even realized.

I swallowed the fear clawing its way up my throat and slowly raised my hand. “Professor Blackwood,” I said, keeping my voice steady even though every nerve in my body screamed to run, “I don’t feel well.”

Her sharp eyes flicked over me, assessing, calculating. She studied me for a beat too long before nodding once toward the door. “Go to the infirmary then, Mr. Cromwell,” she said coolly, her voice devoid of sympathy but not harsh. It was a dismissal, nothing more, but one I was desperate for.

I forced myself to stand slowly, trying not to look rushed, though my legs felt shaky beneath me. The second I stepped into the aisle, I could feel every pair of eyes in the room boring into my back. Rowan’s gaze was the heaviest. It burned against my skin with a smugness that made my stomach twist further.

I didn’t dare glance at him as I made my way out of the lecture hall, but I could feel his satisfaction like an aura wrapping around me—thick and suffocating. He knew something. Maybe not what exactly, but enough to recognize my discomfort for what it was: weakness. And Rowan Hargrove lived to exploit weakness.

The moment the heavy wooden door closed behind me, I exhaled shakily, letting myself pause in the empty hallway for just a moment. My father’s magic still lingered faintly in the surrounding air, a constant reminder that I wasn’t truly alone. He wanted me somewhere specific; I could almost feel the pull, subtle yet undeniable. But how much time did I have? What would happen if I resisted?

The sharpness returned once more and this time, I really did feel like I was going to be sick. Clapping my hand over my mouth, I ran down the hall toward the bathroom. The moment I was inside the nausea faded. Only to be replaced by fear as the door slammed shut, bolting itself into place. The light flickered as I backed up against the wall, my breath coming in shallow gasps.

Darkness seemed to press in from the corners, filling the room with a smoke-like haze. It coalesced in front of me, shifting and swirling until I saw traces of an arm, a leg, a torso… A moment later, a specter stood in front of me wearing my father’s face, the blue eyes glowing like embers in the darkness.

“Hello, Caden,” he whispered, his voice echoing in an unsettling way. “It took you long enough to answer.”

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