Darkness

The second phase had begun.

The silhouette of the forest shattered, plunging the world into a suffocating darkness. The air was thick, clinging to my skin, and the silence was deafening. I took a hesitant step forward, unsure of what lay ahead, but the ground beneath me shifted, unstable and foreign.

My heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing louder in the oppressive void.

“You think you can win?”

The voice was cold, mocking. And it was mine.

I froze, every muscle in my body tensing as the darkness around me 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 sheltered princess of the Evergreen family. Just Klea Reynold—a sports teacher who had fought battles no one saw and bore scars no one acknowledged.

***

I could feel it all—that day. The phone call. The tension building in my chest.

I was sitting at my desk in my small office, trying to focus on the piles of paperwork that had piled up from weeks of exhausting practices and parent meetings. My fingers hovered over the keys, but my mind was somewhere else—distracted by the gnawing sense of unease that had plagued me all day.

Then, my phone buzzed.

I glanced down to see a message notification, an unknown number flashing on the screen. With a frown, I opened the message.

It was a screenshot.

The image was a conversation from a student group chat. The words on the screen made my stomach turn, the bile rising in my throat as I read through the messages:

"Who does Klea think she is? Just because she has some judo skills doesn’t mean she can act like she’s above everyone."

The messages were filled with insults and mockery, aimed directly at me, Klea Reynold—the teacher who had worked tirelessly to make her students the best, who had pushed them to be strong, disciplined, and capable. Yet, in return, they had called me a show-off, a failure, a fraud.

There was one message, more vicious than the rest, that sent a chill down my spine:

“Stupid teacher! Just wait for her to mess up and we can get rid of her. It’ll be the best day.”

I stared at the screen in shock, the words blurring as I read them over and over. How long had this been going on? How many students had been talking behind my back like this?

***

I was back in the guidance office, my body rigid with tension as I sat across from Ryan. The office felt cramped, suffocating in its own way. It had a quiet stillness that made the air feel thick and uncomfortable. Ryan, the quiet student who had always kept to himself, sat there, looking anywhere but at me.

His posture was stiff, his hands clenched tightly in his lap as he avoided my gaze. I stared at him, my frustration mounting. He was one of my students I consider smart, but now… now I saw him differently.

The screenshots, the mocking group chat messages—it all led to this moment.

"Ryan," I began, my voice tight with restraint. "I’ve seen the messages. The ones you sent about me."

He flinched, his eyes finally flicking up to meet mine, but they quickly darted back down. "I didn’t mean for it to get to you," he mumbled, voice barely audible.

"You didn’t mean for it to get to me?" I repeated, my voice rising in disbelief. "You think that makes it okay? You think I don’t care about what my students say? About how I’m treated?"

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, his voice breaking a little. "I was just... I was just going along with everyone else. It’s not like I wanted to hurt you."

Ryan winced as my words hit their mark, but I couldn’t stop myself. I had to let it out. The frustration, the feeling of being belittled, of being an easy target.

"You’ve seen how hard I’ve worked. All I’ve ever wanted was to teach you, to give you something worth learning. But instead, you’re spreading insults about me. You’re laughing behind my back."

Ryan opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came out. His throat bobbed nervously, but he remained silent. There was an awkward pause between us, thick with the weight of his guilt.

"Ryan, I spent my entire career trying to prove myself to others," I continued, my voice softer now. "I’ve worked hard to get to where I am. But... but when I’m treated like this, like I’m just some joke—what was it all for?"

Ryan looked up at me now, his eyes full of something I hadn’t expected—regret.

“Words matter, Ryan,” I said quietly, leaning forward slightly. “They can cut deeper than any punch. They stick with you longer. You can never take them back once they’re out there.”

“I know,” he muttered, finally looking me in the eye. "I’m sorry. I messed up. I’m really sorry."

“I just want you to remember this, Ryan,” I said softly. “You’re not the only one who has to deal with the consequences of your actions. Every time you laugh or joke about someone, it’s not just the person you’re making fun of who feels it—it’s everyone around them.”

Ryan nodded slowly, his face pale. “I won’t forget, Coach. I promise.”

The room was quiet again. But this time, it wasn’t the suffocating silence of tension or unresolved anger. It was something else. A sense of closure, of an awkward but necessary conversation, finally out in the open.

***

The memory faded, replaced by another.

The office was small and suffocating, the walls lined with awards and certificates that didn’t include my name. The principal sat behind her desk, her posture stiff, her expression icy.

“Klea,” she began, her voice calm but brimming with disapproval, “we need to talk about your methods.”

I sat across from her, my hands clenched in my lap. “My methods?” I asked, already knowing where this was headed.

“Yes,” she said, folding her hands neatly on the desk. “The parents have been complaining again. They think you’re too hard on the students.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Too hard? I push them because I know they can achieve more. That’s my job as a coach—to challenge them, to make them stronger.”

She sighed, her gaze hardening. “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 by your standards.”

“I’m not breaking them,” I said, my voice rising despite my best efforts. “I’m helping them grow. Judo isn’t just a sport—it’s discipline, resilience, respect. If they can’t handle a little pressure now, how will they face the real world?”

Her eyes narrowed, her calm veneer cracking. “And who decides what they can handle? You?”

The memory blurred, the weight of the exchange pressing down on me. But the darkness wasn’t finished.

“You think you’re untouchable because your team wins,” she continued, her voice sharp and biting. “But let me remind you—you’re not the one in charge here. I am. And if you can’t align yourself with the values of this school, maybe you don’t belong here.”

Her words hit like a well-executed throw, knocking the air from my lungs. “I belong here,” I said weakly, but the conviction in my voice was fading.

“Do you?” she pressed, leaning forward. “Because what I see is someone who refuses to adapt. Someone who thinks they’re above everyone else. You’re a liability, Klea. And I’m done protecting you.”

“Protecting me?” I shot back, anger flaring despite the tight knot in my chest. “I’ve done nothing but fight for these kids, and you call that a liability?”

Her lips curled into a cold smile. “Fighting? Is that what you call it? Because to me, it looks like you’re just trying to prove something. Maybe to yourself. Maybe to the world. Either way, it’s not about the students, is it? It’s about you.”

The accusation stung worse than I expected, cutting through my defenses.

“I…” My voice faltered. I wanted to fight back, to throw her words aside like an opponent on the mat, but the truth in her tone made my resolve waver.

“Face it, Klea,” she said, her voice softer now, almost pitying. “You’ve been chasing something you’ll never reach. Maybe it’s time you stopped.”

The silence that followed was deafening. I sat there, frozen, unable to muster a response.

***

The present came rushing back as the ground beneath me shifted again. The darkness was alive, twisting and writhing around me.

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

“No,” I whispered, but my voice wavered.

The shadows thickened, forming shapes—mocking reflections of my past.

The student who had insulted me, his face bursting with laughter.
The principal, shaking her head in disappointment.
My colleagues, their voices hushed with jealousy and contempt.

And then there was me.

Not Valkyrie, the witch.
Klea Reynold, sitting alone in an empty gym, her head in her hands.

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

***

I sank to my knees, the weight of the darkness pressing down on me. The voice was relentless, its accusations tearing through the walls I had built around my heart.

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