Seraphina's P.O.V
Name: Seraphina (Sera) Dorne
Age: 22
Gender: Female
Complexion: white Skinned
Height: 5"7 (173 cm)
Major: Criminal Psychology
Bio: mostly referred to as Sera. A rude witty, red haired girl, with a red tattoo on her right upper arm. Rebellious and stubborn. She's Not afraid to speak up but quiet at the same time. Poor in academics, but psychologically smart. She's An Ambivert who Smokes secretly. Very Messy. Friends with bullies although not a bully herself. Both her parents are divorced which is one factor that forces her into depression. She's Bisexual and secretly has the feels for Elara.
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The bitter taste of nicotine coated my tongue as I sat slumped against the weather-stained wall behind the school's incinerator, a cigarette pinched lazily between my fingers. The smoke curled upward into the dimming sky, dissolving into the bruised hues of twilight. Here, at the furthest edge of Velmora's grounds, where the well-kept lawns gave way to untamed thickets and endless trees, I found my quiet — or at least, the illusion of it.
The world beyond the incinerator was wild and forgotten, much like I preferred to be.
Everyone else was cloistered safely inside their dorms, preparing for the evening prep sessions, adhering to the rigid structure this suffocating institution imposed. Not me. I had long since learned the art of slipping away unnoticed, finding pockets of solitude when the chaos in my mind grew too loud.
My roommates, Shanya and Cecil, weren't so close. We talked but never deeply. We existed as distant satellites, orbiting one another without ever colliding. It was better that way. I wasn't built for messy emotional entanglements. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.
The cigarette burned down to its halfway mark, the ember flaring angrily with each drag. Smoking wasn't just a vice for me—it was survival. Each breath of tar and ash dulled the gnawing ache inside my chest, the silent war between self-loathing and desperate yearning for something more.
Mr. Frankfurt, the Dean of Student Affairs, had me marked. He kept a keen eye on me, always ready to pounce with his smug little citations and thinly veiled threats. An odd man with a crooked smile that seemed plastered on like a mask. I could never tell whether he hated me or pitied me. Either way, he had become a constant irritation in my otherwise carefully maintained rebellion.
I tilted my head back against the rough concrete and closed my eyes, letting the fading warmth of the day settle over me. For a moment, there was peace. A cold, hollow peace that I had come to crave more than anything else.
Until the air shifted.
It was subtle at first—a prickling at the nape of my neck, a strange chill that slithered beneath my skin. My eyes snapped open. The backyard remained still, bathed in muted golds and blues. Nothing moved among the trees. No footsteps, no whispering leaves.
But I wasn't alone.
I sat up straighter, the cigarette dangling forgotten from my lips. The air grew heavier, almost viscous, clinging to my skin like a second layer. I could feel it pressing against me.
I exhaled slowly, willing my heartbeat to slow. Probably just my mind playing tricks on me again. Wouldn't be the first time.
And then—movement.
From the corner of my eye, I caught a flicker of motion near the incinerator. My gaze shifted, and I froze.
A staircase.
A staircase that hadn't been there a second ago.
It led downward, into a dark maw at the base of the incinerator, where there should have been only walls and filth. Figures cloaked in heavy, dark robes glided silently down the steps, disappearing into the shadows beyond.
I counted five.
Heart hammering, instincts screaming at me to run, I instead found myself rising slowly to my feet. Curiosity was a noose, and I was its willing victim.
I crept toward the staircase, every step feeling both deliberate and impossible. The banister was cold beneath my fingers, etched with ancient symbols I didn't recognize. The metal seemed to hum faintly under my touch.
Peering into the opening, I saw them—those five figures forming a perfect circle on the incinerator's lower floor. They began chanting, their voices low and rhythmic, weaving together an eerie symphony of words not meant for human tongues.
A design unfurled on the floor beneath them—an intricate circle of symbols and patterns, glowing faintly at first, then intensifying into an almost blinding light. I squinted against it, awe and terror warring in my gut.
What in hell was this?
Witchcraft?
Dark magic?
A cult born from the shadows of Velmora?
One by one, the robed figures stepped into the center of the circle. They moved with mechanical precision, performing strange gestures with their hands and bodies, as if unlocking unseen forces around them. Each time they returned to their place, the circle pulsed brighter, breathing like a living thing.
Then, with a collective motion, they extended their hands over the glyphs. Tiny knives appeared in their grasps, and each drew a sharp line across a small mark etched into the backs of their palms. Blood dripped onto the sigils, absorbed hungrily by the floor following the patterns.
The light exploded in response, morphing into a deep crimson that outlined every curve, every symbol.
It was too much.
I stumbled backward, shielding my eyes just as a blast of blinding light engulfed the space. A strangled scream ripped from my throat as my vision was obliterated, and I staggered away from the inferno, heart battering my ribcage.
Even with my eyes tightly shut, the brilliance seared through my lids, painting the inside of my skull with blinding white agony. For what felt like an eternity, I stood frozen, helpless.
Then, silence.
Darkness.
Tentatively, I cracked open my eyes. The world had returned to normal—almost.
The figures were gone.
The circle was gone.
The staircase... gone.
It was as if nothing had ever been there.
Except for one thing.
A sensation—cold and electric—ghosted across the back of my left hand. I gasped and whirled around.
No one.
Still, I could feel it: an invisible touch lingering on my skin. I cradled my left hand close to my chest, trembling as I scrambled back to retrieve my abandoned bag.
When I glanced toward the incinerator again, the wall was solid, unbroken. No door, no stairway. No evidence of anything.
But I knew.
I knew what I had seen.
This was no hallucination.
I pressed my left palm against the wall, desperate for some validation, something tangible to anchor me back to reality. As I lowered my hand, something caught my eye—a faint, dark mark etched into my skin where that chilling touch had brushed against me.
The exact same design from the glowing circle.
Smaller. Fainter.
But unmistakable.
Panic clawed at my throat.
I scrubbed at the mark furiously, hoping it was just dirt or ash. It didn't budge. It remained stubbornly, frighteningly permanent.
Shoving down the rising tide of hysteria, I forced myself to breathe, to think. My legs moved before my brain caught up, carrying me back across the grounds toward House Lunaris.
The familiar scent of smoke hung heavy in the air. I looked back once, just once, at the incinerator, now belching black smoke into the darkening sky.
No one could have survived inside.
So how had they gotten in?
And what in the hell had I just witnessed?
I was spiraling by the time I reached my dorm. Pushing open the door, I found Cecil and Shanya perched together on Cecil's bed. Shanya was carefully weaving Cecil's hair into two thick ponytails.
"You're back early," Shanya noted casually, glancing up.
"Tell me about it," I muttered, kicking the door shut behind me.
I shrugged off my jacket and dropped my bag onto the hook by the door, moving with a stiffness that belied the screaming inside my head.
"Woah, everything okay?" Cecil asked, her voice tinged with concern.
I hesitated, biting my lip. "I don't even know anymore," I admitted, my voice strained.
Cecil and Shanya exchanged a wary glance.
"Maybe you just need to decompress," Cecil suggested gently. "Drink some water, shower. It usually helps when I'm feeling wired."
"Wanna talk about it?" Shanya asked, setting the comb aside.
I sank onto my bed, head in my hands for a moment before I found the courage to speak. "I saw something tonight. Something...crazy. Insane."
Their eyes widened slightly.
"At the back of the incinerator. There was...this hidden staircase. And these people, in cloaks, were doing some kind of ritual—chanting, drawing blood, glowing lights—the whole thing."
I swallowed thickly and thrust out my hand.
"And then this happened," I said, showing them the mark. "This showed up after one of them...touched me. I swear, it's real."
The room fell into an uncomfortable silence.
Cecil and Shanya stared at my outstretched hand for a long moment before Shanya shook her head slowly. "Sera...there's nothing there."
"What?" I whispered, my heart sinking.
Cecil leaned closer, squinting. "Yeah...I don't see anything either."
A hollow laugh escaped me. "You think I'm high or something?"
"You're probably just stressed," Shanya said gently. "Or maybe the cigarette was laced. You never know."
I snapped my hand back, glaring at them both. "Forget it. You don't believe me, Fine. I'm not begging to be understood anyways."
I stormed into the tiny bathroom and locked the door behind me, heart pounding.
Later, curled up under my blankets, I took a picture of my hand, desperate for proof.
But when I checked the photo...
Nothing.
The mark didn't show up.
It was invisible to everyone.
Including the camera.
Tears burned the backs of my eyes as I stared at the empty photograph.
Maybe I really was going crazy.
Or maybe...something had already begun.
Something I could no longer escape.