The undecaying star loomed over the school, its pallid light seeping through the classroom windows like a stain. Tatsu rolled his sleeves down, hiding the blackened veins that crept up his arms like ink spilled under his skin. The throbbing beneath his flesh was a constant murmur now, a reminder of the throne's hunger. But today, Principal Halara's new decree left no room for fissures or frozen forests. Today was about survival in the ordinary world, classes, drills, and the suffocating pretense of normalcy.
The domed classroom hummed with tension. Star-forged mirrors lined the walls, warping reflections into grotesque parodies of the students. Instructor Veyra, a star-born veteran with a prosthetic arm coiled like starlight barbed wire, paced the perimeter. Her voice cut through the silence.
"Temporal anchoring isn't power. It's precision," she said, levitating a flickering star fragment above her palm. "Burn too bright, and you destabilize reality. Too dim, and you'll join the frozen ones. Balance is survival."
Tatsu's gaze drifted to Lira, seated beside him. Her silver hair glinted unnaturally under the classroom's sterile lights, her starless eyes fixed on the shard. When Instructor Veyra paired them, Lira's hand passed through the fragment like smoke.
"Focus," she whispered, her voice low and taut. "The throne wants chaos. You need to out-stubborn it."
Tatsu's star-mark flared as he reached for the shard. The room blurred for a heartbeat, the mirrors reflected not his face, but the throne's jagged castle, its walls oozing black sludge. The fragment aged rapidly in his grip, crumbling to dust. Behind him, a mirror cracked with a sound like bone snapping.
Instructor Veyra's prosthetic whirred as she seized his wrist. "Control," she hissed, "or you'll crack more than glass."
Kio cornered him in the library's restricted section, her cobalt hair hidden under a hood. "Halara's 'studies' are a trap," she said, hacking into a holographic archive. The projection flickered to life: a star-born soldier, his palm branded like Tatsu's, standing atop a fissure.
"Eryx. First recorded Anchor," Kio muttered. "He stabilized a fissure during the Splinter Wars. Then he vaporized a city."
Tatsu's veins pulsed. "How?"
"The throne ate him." She pointed to his blackened arms. "It's eating you too. You need to learn control. Fast."
A shadow crossed the archive door, Lira lingered there, her form flickering like a glitch. "You're both wrong," she said, her voice hollow. "The throne doesn't eat. It collects. And it's always hungry."
After classes, Lira dragged him to the abandoned greenhouse. Bioluminescent star-vines choked the walls, their petals glowing faintly as dusk bled through the cracked glass ceiling.
"Again," she ordered, thrusting a dying star fragment into his hands.
Tatsu gritted his teeth. The throne's whispers clawed at his mind, urging him to burn, break, devour. Instead, he channeled the heat into the roots beneath his feet. The vines shuddered, then bloomed into crystalline flowers, their light piercing the gloom.
Lira's approval was a ghost of a smile. "Better. But it's not enough." Her hand phased through his wrist a flicker of static, here then gone. "The throne's hunger grows. So should yours."
Principal Halara's office reeked of preserved starlight and ambition. She slid a photograph across her desk, a Blackwood cleanup crew, frozen victims piled like grotesque sculptures.
"Your mother requested you join the mission," she said, her galaxy-swirled eyes unblinking. "A bonding exercise."
Tatsu's jaw tightened. The Blackwood's edge was a graveyard now. Diamond shells encased the victims, their faces twisted in silent screams. Among the debris, he found a star fragment etched with S.K. his mother's initials, dated from the Splinter Wars.
Lira appeared beside him, her voice a whisper. "She's lying. This isn't about bonding. It's a test."
The ethics classroom buzzed with tension. Ren slammed his prosthetic fist on his desk. "Anchors are weapons. They should be locked up!"
A star-born girl levitated her textbook, scowling. "Without them, we'll all be frozen statues!"
Tatsu stayed silent, sketching the throne's table in his notebook. Twelve chairs, each labeled with faint initials. Eryx. Halara. S.K.
The professor's words hung in the air: "Anchors are bridges. But bridges can be burned or crossed."
That night, the throne invaded his dreams. The classroom mirrors warped into castle walls, the desks replaced by the endless obsidian table. Frozen victims hunched over star-ash essays, their diamond fingers screeching against parchment.
Throne's Voice: "First bell rings at dawn, little anchor. Let's see if you've studied."
A question glowed on the chalkboard:
WHO DIES FIRST? YOUR MOTHER, YOUR FRIEND, OR THE THRONE?
Tatsu woke drenched in sweat, his veins searing. Scrawled across his notebook, in jagged star-ash script, was the throne's reply:
FIRST BELL RINGS AT DAWN.