Black Ice Academy

You're going away

Chapter one

“You’re going away”

Emotions are like a light switch. You can flip them on and off at will.

That’s what my papa, Anatol, taught me when I was five. I have never forgotten that lesson, and I absolutely never will.

“Never forget, Nova. You always have to be in charge, otherwise bad things will happen,” he told me.

So as my parents tell me they’re sending me to Black Ice Academy, I keep my emotions off.

“It’s where your mama and I met,” my father admits, smiling at my mother.

They really are an adorable couple. Both born in Russia, both moved to the States at seventeen with their families, and both ended up at Black Ice Academy—a school for discipline and training for gifted individuals.

The discipline at this school, however, isn’t what most people imagine. Black Ice was designed for those whose abilities destabilize them. Their solution is the Anchor/Source program: every Source—students who carry volatile power—is paired with an Anchor, someone trained to stabilize, absorb, and redirect that energy when it spikes.

And the gifted part? Individuals with magical inclinations.

That’s right. They pair you with someone who can ground you, even when you could level a room without touching it.

I’m eighteen. I already know what this means. I’ve heard the late-night conversations between my parents, I’ve seen the curt, serious looks when they talk about training, and I understand why they think this is necessary.

“I’m assuming I’m going to be an Anchor?” I ask. They both look at me like I sprouted horns.

I don’t see myself as either. If pushed, I’d rather be the one holding the line than the one who needs holding. But apparently that’s not the plan.

“No, dear. You’ll be a Source,” my mama, Irina, says softly.

That’s a funny joke. I’m a medium—untrained, raw, dangerous. I don’t see spirits the way other people do. I feel them. I feel whether a presence is light or dark; I sense currents in a room like other people sense a draft. Those currents answer me. I can steer them, make things happen, make people feel things that don’t have an explanation. I can pull in energy, focus it, and let it loose.

And when I lose control, I can be terrifying. That’s why Dad taught me the light-switch trick. When the switch flips, I’ve been known to summon things I shouldn’t, or release waves of negative energy that leave people screaming with no clear reason. The worst part? When I’m that angry, watching chaos unfold doesn’t bother me. It satisfies something ugly.

So I can’t flip the switch. Not now. If I do, I’ll wreck this house.

“You think it’s wise to pair someone as strong as me with an Anchor? Won’t I just burn through them?” I ask.

“We’ve thought about that,” my father says. “That’s why we asked Viktor. He’s trained in containment and energy regulation. He can absorb and redirect in ways most can’t.”

I curl a dark smile. “Nobody can negate me when I lose control.”

“Trust me, he can,” my mom says.

Well, f*** that. I don’t want someone who can shut me off like a machine. I’ve never been completely helpless, and I won’t start now.

I’m physically strong—hours in the gym, a four-pack people comment on—but without my energy, I’m still me. With it, I’m something else. That’s why people are afraid to be on my bad side. That’s why I’m being sent away: not because I’m bad, but because I’m unpredictable.

“And who the hell is he?” I ask, keeping my voice calm even as my feelings scrape at the edges of their cage.

“His name is Viktor Strauss,” my dad says. “He’s a graduate researcher in energy studies—older than you, well trained, and recommended by the academy. He’s prepared to be your Anchor.”

Someone wanting to be responsible for me? Creepy. I don’t do attachments. They’re messy. I don’t want someone watching my heartbeat every time I lose it.

God, why couldn’t I have been normal? Then I could worry about crushes and grades like everyone else.

Both my parents manipulate water—flow, viscosity, cold. That’s why Black Ice took them. They trained together, paired together, and made a life out of that shared discipline. They tell the story like it was inevitable. I don’t see the romance; I see the mechanics of two people who learned to keep each other steady.

Gifted as they are, they don’t have what I have. I bend energy itself. That gives me access to things others don’t understand. That’s why I scare people. That’s why they’re sending me to a place designed to teach me limits.

“If you’re wanting me to…submit to being controlled, say it plainly,” I say.

“Not submit,” my mom corrects. “Learn to balance. Anchors don’t dominate—Anchors steady. That’s what the program is for, Nova.”

“Own good my f***ing ass,” I mutter under my breath.

“Will this hinder my studies?” I ask, practical as always.

“No,” my father says. “Black Ice functions like any college academically. They have speech and debate, theatre, core sciences. The academic schedule remains. The Anchor/Source work happens in scheduled training sessions and supervised living arrangements. Viktor will be responsible for your containment training, but the school enforces protocols and oversight.”

“I’ll try to escape,” I tell them flatly.

My dad smiles the way parents do when they expect rebellion. “We’d expect nothing less. But know this: Viktor’s already prepared. He’s invested in your stabilization.”

That sounds like code for “he’s attached.” Gross.

“How long will I be at this school?”

“You’ll start at Black Ice this fall for college,” my mother says. “You’ll complete your undergraduate there if you choose; they offer graduate tracks as well.”

“And Viktor? How does he fit in exactly?”

“He’ll be your Anchor. When you spike, he’ll work to absorb and redirect. You’ll live in an approved campus residence together as part of the program so the pair can train and learn boundaries under supervision.”

I snort. “And if I refuse?”

“Refusing means risking uncontrolled spikes that could harm you or others,” my father says quietly. “You know that.”

I slam my fists on the dining table, making the cutlery jump. “Who the f*** is he to decide he can control me?” I demand.

“He’s Viktor Strauss,” my dad replies evenly. “He’s a graduate researcher specializing in containment. He’s older, has experience, and the academy trusts him.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” I say.

“You don’t have a choice,” my mother says, voice thin. “This is about your safety. About giving you tools to be safe.”

“I will never forgive you for this,” I say.

“Yes, you will,” my mother answers with an unshakeable certainty that makes my skin itch.

There’s more they don’t say. There’s the way they talk about discipline like it’s purely clinical, like banners and schedules can fix a person. There’s also the baggage—things I found when I was younger: toys, whispered apologies, the way my father sometimes sounded when he thought no one could hear. I learned early that adults dress history up as story.

“Did you both…want this? When you were there?” I ask, surprising myself with the tremor in my voice.

My father takes a breath. “Your mother and I were young, and the training was different in some places. Our first years were rough, but everything we did after was mutual. We found each other. We chose each other over time.”

I want to press but I don’t. There’s no point digging up whatever ghosts live in their version of the past. I have my own problems.

“When do I leave?” I ask.

“Tomorrow,” my mom says. “Everything’s packed. We’ll give you your phone and a modest stipend for college expenses. You’ve saved a fair amount yourself—don’t think we haven’t noticed. You’ll be staying in one of the better campus homes with Viktor. You’ll have privacy, but you’ll also have scheduled oversight. All of your privileges will be subject to academy rules.”

I stand, palms flat on the table, the abrupt motion loud in the room. Them promising to look out for me while they hand control to a stranger feels like a joke I don’t want to laugh at.

“Who the hell is he to regulate me?” I shout.

“He’s not regulating you,” my father replies. “He’s there to keep you safe. To teach you containment. To help you build a life without losing yourself.”

“You said he’s a graduate researcher,” I say. “How old is he, actually?”

“Late twenties,” my mother says. “Seasoned. Trained. He’s completed several containment rotations at the academy.”

Late twenties. Older.

“It still feels like being handed over,” I say.

“It’s a partnership,” my dad insists. “You’ll have agency. There are safewords and emergency protocols. The academy cannot legally coerce you into anything. Consent procedures are mandatory.”

Hearing them say it helps and doesn’t. I don’t trust systems that call themselves safety nets; I’ve seen how nets turn into traps depending on who holds them.

“Fine,” I say finally. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Yes,” my mother says. “We know this is hard. We think it’s the best way for you to learn to live with what you can do.”

I slide my chair back and breathe out, feeling the switch click into place. I tuck my feelings away where they can’t be used against me. I won’t give them the satisfaction of watching me break. I’ll go, I’ll learn, and I’ll test every limit they set. If they expect me to be tamed, they’ll find out what I do to people who try to tame me.

Tomorrow I leave for Black Ice. And if they think a program can make me small, they haven’t met the real thing yet.