Darkness

The second phase had begun.

The forest around me vanished into shadows, swallowing everything. The air felt heavy, sticking to my skin. The silence pressed in, loud and suffocating. I stepped forward carefully, unsure of what waited ahead. The ground beneath me shifted oddly, unfamiliar and unstable.

My heart pounded. Each beat felt louder in the thick darkness.

“You think you can win?”

The voice was cold and mocking. And it sounded like mine.

I froze. Every muscle tensed. The darkness seemed to grow heavier.

“You don’t deserve this,” the voice sneered. “You failed then, and you’ll fail now.”

The words clawed at my mind, dragging me back to a life I thought I’d left behind.

Klea Reynold.

Not Valkyrie, not the princess of Evergreen. Just Klea Reynold—a judo coach who had fought battles no one saw and carried scars no one acknowledged.

I felt it all—the tension building in my chest, the weight of my past.

***

It was that day in my office. My small office, cluttered with paperwork from weeks of practices and parent meetings. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, but my mind was somewhere else. A gnawing unease filled me all day.

Then, my phone buzzed.

An unknown number. A message.

I opened it.

It was a screenshot from a student group chat. The messages made my stomach twist:

“Who does Klea think she is? Just because she knows judo doesn’t mean she can act better than everyone.”

They were insults, mocking me—Klea Reynold—the teacher who pushed her students to be strong, disciplined, capable.

And one message chilled me to the bone:

“Stupid teacher! Wait for her to mess up, and we can get rid of her. Best day ever.”

I stared at the screen, words blurring as I read them again and again. How long had this been happening? How many were laughing behind my back?

***

Back in the guidance office, I sat across from Ryan, my body stiff. The office was cramped and suffocating, the quiet pressing in. Ryan, always quiet, avoided my eyes, his hands clenched in his lap.

“Ryan,” I said, my voice tight, “I’ve seen the messages. The ones you sent about me.”

He flinched, looking up briefly, then down again. “I didn’t mean for it to get to you,” he muttered.

“You didn’t mean for it to get to me?” I repeated, disbelief rising. “You think that makes it okay? You think I don’t care about what my students say?”

“I… I was just going along with everyone else. I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said, voice shaking.

“You’ve seen how hard I’ve worked,” I continued, softer now. “All I ever wanted was to teach you something worth learning. But you… you spread insults. You laughed behind my back.”

Ryan tried to speak, but nothing came out. The room was silent except for the tension in the air.

“Words matter, Ryan,” I said quietly, leaning slightly forward. “They can hurt deeper than any punch. And once said, they can’t be taken back.”

“I know,” he muttered, finally meeting my eyes. “I’m sorry. I messed up. Really sorry.”

I nodded. “Remember this. Every time you joke at someone else’s expense, it affects more than just them. It leaves a mark.”

Ryan swallowed and nodded. “I won’t forget, Coach. I promise.”

The silence now was different. Heavy, yes, but not suffocating. It carried closure, the kind that comes after necessary words are finally spoken.

***

Another memory came.

The principal’s office. Small. Stifling. The walls lined with awards that didn’t have my name. The principal sat across from me, stiff, cold.

“Klea,” she said, calm but disapproving. “We need to talk about your methods.”

“My methods?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes,” she said, hands folded. “The parents think you’re too hard on the students.”

I blinked. “Too hard? I push them because I know they can do more. My job is to challenge them, to make them stronger.”

Her gaze hardened. “Your job is also to create a supportive environment. These are high school students, not professional athletes. They’re here to learn, not to be broken.”

“I’m not breaking them!” I said, my voice rising. “Judo teaches discipline, resilience, respect. If they can’t handle pressure now, how will they face the real world?”

“Who decides what they can handle?” she pressed. “You?”

Her words hit me like a throw I couldn’t counter. “I belong here,” I said, but my confidence wavered.

“Do you?” she leaned forward. “You refuse to adapt. You think you’re above everyone. You’re a liability, Klea. And I’m done protecting you.”

“Protecting me?” I snapped. “I fight for these kids!”

“Fighting? Or proving something for yourself?” she said coldly. “It’s not about the students. It’s about you.”

Her words cut deeper than I expected. I wanted to argue, but truth shook me.

“Face it, Klea,” she said, voice soft now. “You’ve been chasing something unreachable. Maybe it’s time to stop.”

The room fell silent. I sat frozen.

***

The present returned. The ground shifted beneath me again. Darkness moved like a living thing, wrapping around me.

“You see?” the voice whispered. “They were right. You cared too much. You pushed too hard. And for what? Nothing.”

“No,” I whispered, voice trembling.

The shadows thickened. Mocking shapes appeared:

The student laughing at me

The principal shaking her head

Colleagues whispering behind my back

And then… me.

Not Valkyrie. Not the witch.

Klea Reynold, alone in an empty gym, head in hands.

“You were too much,” the voice hissed. “Too stubborn. Too demanding. And now you’ll fail again.”

I sank to my knees. The darkness pressed down. The voice kept coming, relentless, clawing at my chest.

Maybe they were right. Maybe I had been too much.