Chapter 1

The shuttle bus hit another pothole, and the aluminum trim on the window dug into my hand as I gripped it tighter. Through the windows, afternoon sunlight filtered through tall pines as we wound deeper into the mountains of western North Carolina.

"I just can't believe I actually have healing magic," said the girl beside me—Paige, according to the cheerful introduction she'd made three hours ago when we departed Charlotte. "When that recruiter came to my house and demonstrated how she could mend a cut on my dad's hand, my parents were so amazed. Do you think we'll start using our abilities right away?"

The big revelation two years ago had shocked everyone—the sudden admission that magic existed and had been hidden for centuries. My own recruiter, Ms. Bennett with her perfect posture and Teflon professional smile, had been equally confident about my own "latent arcane potential" when she'd visited our apartment last month.

"I just want to know if what they're teaching will actually help contain the plague," I said. "And whether they'll keep the rest of their promises."

The guy across from us—Derek, wearing a pristine button-down that screamed private compound—scoffed. "My recruiter said I tested latent for healing magic, but I'm still not convinced. There must be some scientific explanation they're not telling us about."

"Are you just in denial?" asked the woman seated behind him. She'd been quiet the entire journey, her dark eyes observant and knowing. "Interesting reaction, considering what we've all seen on the broadcasts."

Derek shifted uncomfortably. "Look, I believe magic exists, obviously. I just think there might be a scientific explanation for how some people can access it. Maybe it's a genetic mutation or something the government isn't telling us about."

I turned back to the window, thinking about my meeting with Ms. Bennett. The promises she'd made had been enough to convince me: a housing voucher, guaranteed ration cards, and priority emergency status for my parents and little brother in the Chattanooga safe zone—things that made two years of training followed by four years of guaranteed employment seem worth it. Mom had been scraping by with part-time jobs ever since the schools closed and her position as a school nurse disappeared. Dad's work at the auto plant was steady but the reduced production schedule meant reduced pay. My older brother sent home what he could, but it wasn't much. And my younger brother was too smart for his own good in a world where asking questions could get you noticed in the wrong ways. If learning to use magic to control infected could secure their future, I was all in.

"We're approaching the entrance to the Advanced Pandemic Response Training facility," announced our driver. "Please gather up all your belongings before exiting." The bus slowed as we turned onto a gravel road. A wooden sign over a gate came into view: "CAMP SHARON" with a smaller sign nailed to the side post that read "APRT Facility \- Authorized Personnel Only."

The first part of Ms. Bennett's pitch had held up, and I was ready to start training. But whether I actually had the potential Ms. Bennett claimed remained to be seen.

The first thing that struck me about the camp was how normal it looked, like the scout camp I'd attended one weekend as a kid in middle school. Rustic wooden cabins scattered among the trees, a larger central building with a stone chimney, a volleyball net hanging limply in an open area, and a dock extending into a sparkling lake. If not for the chain-link security fence around the perimeter and a few prefab buildings, it could have been any summer camp from before the plague. And it really didn't look like any specialized training facility I'd ever imagined.

"Welcome to APRT," said a middle-aged woman with silver-streaked hair as we disembarked. "I'm Dr. Elaine Winters, Academic Director. You've been selected because each of you possesses unique potential that could be instrumental in our ongoing efforts against the pandemic. Some of you have healing abilities, while others have a talent we call containment. Both are essential to our work."

An older black man in a security uniform stepped forward. "I'm Head of Security, Jim Parkman. Welcome to Camp Sharon. The woods surrounding us are patrolled, and the fence is there for both your protection and the security of our operations."

"That said," Dr. Winters interjected with a pointed look at Parkman, "this is a training facility, not a military base. You're students, not soldiers." Mr. Parkman didn't look particularly military to me, so I wondered what the story was there.

As we filed toward the main lodge for processing, the quiet woman from the bus fell into step beside me.

"Church camp to magical training facility," she said under her breath. "Quite the renovation project."

"You seem more comfortable with all this than most of us."

"My family's mageblood." She extended a hand. "Zoe Blackwell."

"Morgan O'Neill."

Mageblood. When the revelations about the pandemic broke, it had revealed an entire community living among us, able to cure diseases and control the undead—abilities they'd hidden out of fear until the plague forced their hand. Everyone had seen the iconic footage of an older man walking through a field of stage-two infected--the actively aggressive kind-- turning them away with nothing but a raised eyebrow and a tiny gesture. I'd been told I might have the same skills. But Zoe was the first I'd ever met in person who had grown up with magic herself. I wondered what she could do, but didn't have a chance to ask before Dr. Winters and the security guy herded us all down the path towards a big wooden building.

Inside the main lodge, the space had been divided into processing stations. Each recruit spent a few minutes at each station before moving to the next.

"How many groups like us do you think they've brought in?" I asked Zoe as we waited in line.

"This is the tenth wave of recruitment since the program started," she replied. "About thirty per wave, though not everyone makes it through." She tilted her head at my skeptical look. "My cousin Mike was an instructor here last year."

At the first station, a woman scanned my documents and confirmed my acceptance. "You're confirmed for Recruitment Wave Ten, containment track."

The second station featured a strange device standing next to a powered-down blood pressure reader—a copper pipe frame with crystals wired into the corners. A technician directed me to stand on a marked circle in front of it.

"This scan measures your resonance with magical energies," he explained as blue light washed over me, creating a pleasant tingling sensation.

"And this machine can detect my... abilities?" I asked.

"In a manner of speaking. Your recruiter identified you as having necromantic potential—the ability to influence infected individuals. The scan just confirms you've got some kind of latent gift, it can't tell what you will be able to do with it."

The final station involved signing several documents and receiving my housing assignment. I'd be in Cedar Cabin with Zoe and two others. I was handed a dark green uniform like the ones I'd seen other students wearing.

"Any other questions before orientation this evening?" the staff member asked.

I shook my head, recalling the broadcasts I'd seen of necromancers—hands extended toward infected who suddenly stopped in their tracks, their aggressive movements halted by an invisible force. The idea that I might soon be able to do something similar was both terrifying and intriguing.

As we left the processing area, Zoe fell into step beside me. "Ready to see our new home?"

"Might as well," I replied, adjusting my backpack. "Cabin sweet cabin, at least for the next two years."

The cabins were arranged in a loose semicircle around a central grassy area complete with log stools and a tetherball pole. They all matched, made of weathered logs with small covered porches. Cedar sat at the far edge of the arc, its wooden sign freshly painted in dark green.

"It's kind of cute, honestly," Zoe said, climbing the three steps to the porch. "At least it's got windows?"

I followed her up, running my hand up the varnished railing. It had probably been built to last decades before the plague hit, and it showed. The lock on the door was new, though, and flashed green as soon as Zoe held her ID card up to it.

The door swung open to reveal a surprisingly spacious interior. Six twin beds were arranged against the walls, three on each side, with footlockers at the end of each. Simple desks and chairs sat between the beds, and a door at the back presumably led to a bathroom. Large windows let in plenty of afternoon light, giving the space a warmer feel than I'd expected. Five years ago, this room was probably filled with bunkbeds and kids in sleeping bags, but now it looked like a college dorm.

One of the beds next to the bathroom door already had belongings on it, with an open duffel bag and clothes in various states of unpacking, and another had a hard-sided suitcase sitting on top of the footlocker.

"I call that one," Zoe said, tossing her bag onto the bed farthest from the door. "Best airflow from the windows."

I claimed the bed across from hers and unpacked my meager possessions—a few changes of clothes, toiletries, and a small photo of my family that I tucked into the edge of the mirror.

The cabin door opened, and a tall girl with copper-brown skin and a crown of tight curls stepped inside. "Oh, hi\!" she said. "I'm Amara Hahn. Looks like we're roommates."

Introductions were made, and Zoe immediately asked, "You're healing track, right?"

Amara nodded. "How'd you know?"

"Just a guess," Zoe said lightly, but something in her tone suggested it wasn't really a guess at all.

We were still getting settled when the cabin door opened again, and Paige from the bus entered, arms full of bags and a bright smile on her face.

"Hi roomies\!" she exclaimed, practically bouncing into the room. "Oh, Morgan, we met on the bus\!" She dropped her bags onto the remaining bed and immediately started pulling out decorative items—fairy lights and what looked like a handmade quilt, which she spread carefully across her bed.

"That's beautiful," Amara said, admiring the intricate pattern.

Paige smoothed the fabric with a gentle touch. "My grandmother made it for me before..." Her smile faltered briefly. "Before. I brought it as a reminder."

The room fell silent for a moment. Everyone had lost someone since the pandemic started—it was just a matter of who and how badly.

"That's why I'm here," Paige continued, her smile returning, although I could tell it was forced. "To learn healing, so maybe fewer families have to go through that."

A chime sounded from the cabin speakers. "Dinner call," Zoe explained. "We should get changed before we go."

The dining hall maintained more of the camp's original character, with exposed beams and large windows overlooking the lake. New recruits were directed to tables on the right, continuing students to the left.

We collected food on metal trays—roasted chicken, fresh vegetables, and real bread. After years of meals out of a can at best, it seemed almost decadent.

Dr. Winters rose from a table at the front of the room and made a few announcements about orientation and facility rules. I half-listened while studying the room, noting how the continuing students clustered in distinct groups with minimal interaction between them.

"What's in the northwest section?" I asked Zoe after Dr. Winters mentioned it was off-limits.

"New containment facilities," she replied quietly. "The program's expanding."

Before we could discuss it further, a commotion erupted at one of the continuing students' tables. A young man had stood abruptly, his tray clattering to the floor. His face was pale, and he seemed to be struggling to control his breathing, clawing at his throat.

"Jax\!" someone called out. "You okay?"

Two staff members moved toward him immediately. One held out what looked like a crystal pendant on a chain, speaking in urgent tones.

"What's happening?" Paige whispered, eyes wide.

We watched as Jax gradually regained control, his breathing steadying as the staff member waved the crystal around his head. After a few moments, he seemed to come back to himself, nodded to the staff member and was escorted from the hall.

"What just happened?" I whispered to Zoe.

"Energy fluctuation," she murmured, keeping her voice low. "Sometimes happens with necroma-- containment specialists if they've worked too long with the infected."

An uncomfortable silence fell over our table. The incident lingered in my mind as we finished our meal. If that could happen to trained containment specialists, what might I be getting myself into? The staff had clearly seen it before and were ready to deal with it—which meant it wasn't uncommon.

The same chime sound as before buzzed through the dining hall speakers, and Dr. Winters stood again. "New recruits, please proceed to the assembly room for orientation. Continuing students, return to your assigned evening activities."

"That's us," Zoe said, gathering her tray. "Time to find out what we're really in for."

The main assembly room had once been a chapel. The dark windows lining the wall were made of colored glass squares, and a dark red carpet runner ran up to the front between polished wood pews. We filed into seats facing a platform where Dr. Winters and several staff members waited, the thirty or so of us feeling like we could have filled the room four times over.

"As you know, three years ago, our world changed irrevocably with the emergence of what the public initially called 'the plague,'" Dr. Winters began. "What you may not fully understand is that this crisis is what eventually forced the public revelation of magic two years ago—a force that has existed alongside humanity for centuries, practiced in secret by a small percentage of the population."

Images flashed on a screen—early pandemic footage, followed by mages using abilities to halt infected individuals.

"The mage community came forward to assist in the crisis, revealing abilities that had been hidden for generations. However, the number of trained mages is insufficient to address the scale of our crisis." She gestured to encompass everyone in the room. "That's where you come in. Tomorrow morning, those of you with dormant abilities will undergo activation—a process that will allow you to access your innate magical potential."

A man stepped forward—older, with salt-and-pepper hair and a trim beard. Unlike the uniformed security staff, he wore a charcoal suit with a dark green tie, looking more like a university professor than someone who specialized in controlling the infected. His eyes scanned the room with unsettling thoroughness.

"This is Professor Walter Grimes, our head of containment theory and practice," Dr. Winters introduced him. "He'll explain more about the activation process."

Professor Grimes surveyed us with an expression of resignation. "Activation is a procedure traditionally performed within mageblood families when a child reaches a certain age—old enough to understand the seriousness of the abilities they're about to gain, and to be reasonably expected to control them to at least a moderate extent."

He gestured vaguely. "Think of it like jumpstarting a car battery. The energy is already there—it just needs a catalyst to begin flowing. The process is not painful, but it is generally disorienting as your perception expands to include magical energies you couldn't previously perceive."

"Following activation," he continued, "healers will learn to channel energy to accelerate natural recovery and halt plague progression in early cases. Containment specialists will develop techniques to control infected individuals and groups through manipulation of the energies that animate them."

Something in his phrasing caught my attention. "Energies that animate them." Not control of the infected themselves, but of the energy driving them. A subtle distinction, but probably an important one.

"Questions?" Professor Grimes asked, looking distinctly like a man who hoped there wouldn't be any.

Despite his discouraging tone, several hands went up. With each question, Grimes grew visibly more impatient. Risks were "minimal," though his emphasis suggested otherwise. Abilities would take time to develop—"Don't expect miracles overnight." And when asked directly about burnout rates for containment specialists, his expression tightened, eyes flashing with something I couldn't identify before he gave a non-answer about all disciplines carrying risks when practiced "improperly or excessively."

Dr. Winters smoothly stepped in before more questions could be asked, her practiced smile never wavering. The remainder of orientation was markedly more practical—daily schedules, facility maps, and the distribution of additional uniform sets. The rules were explicit: uniforms were to be worn at all times outside our cabins except during scheduled recreational periods. These weren't suggestions; they were requirements.

As we filed out afterward, the weight of what awaited us settled over everyone. The excitement from arrival had been replaced by something more sobering—the realization that whatever was coming tomorrow would irrevocably change us.

"Well," Paige said as we walked back to our cabin, "I guess tomorrow we find out if we really have magic or not."

"You do," Zoe replied confidently. "The question is whether you can control it."

"What do you think it feels like?" Amara wondered. "Activation, I mean."

"Like waking up from a dream you didn't know you were having," Zoe said. "Suddenly seeing colors that were always there but you couldn't perceive."

"You remember your activation?" I asked, curious about her experience.

She nodded. "I was six. My parents took me to my grandmother's house—she was our family's most skilled mage. They lit candles, drew symbols on my forehead with some oil that smelled like cedar..." Her voice softened with the memory. "When it happened, I screamed because suddenly I could see energy flowing through everything. My parents were glowing. It was overwhelming, but children adapt quickly." She shrugged. "That's why mageblood families do it young—our minds are flexible enough to accept the impossible, but we're old enough to be taught control."

Back in our cabin, I sat on my bed and pulled out the photo of my family. It was taken at a barbecue before my older brother Jake left for boot camp—Mom and Dad smiling proudly, with me and Everett on either side. Before everything went to hell. Everything I was doing here was for them.

"Morgan?" Amara asked. "Are you nervous about tomorrow?" She had the bed next to mine, across from Paige, with the bed closest to the door left empty.

"Not nervous exactly. Just ready to get past the uncertainty. Either this works, or it doesn't."

"It'll work," Zoe said without opening her eyes from where she was lying on her bed. "The recruiters don't make mistakes about potential."

As we settled in for the night, I found myself wondering what exactly awaited us tomorrow. How would it feel to suddenly have abilities I'd never possessed before? Would I be any good at using them? And what would happen if I wasn't?

Too many questions, too few answers. But morning would come soon enough.