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What’s more, Hector feared himself when he was this angry. Most of all, he feared that he might accidentally hurt someone innocent.

So he suppressed the fury, smothered it in his mind until it was only a vague heat, a passenger to his thoughts instead of the driver. And he focused. All that meditation had not just been for imaginary power. At the very least, he knew how to clear his mind.

Hector knew Geoffrey’s power had grown. That was simple enough to deduce. And without Garovel, Hector had no access to regeneration or enhanced strength. But he still had his iron. And he sure as fuck wasn’t about to run away. Iron alone would have to do.

He arrived at the school, taking the side entrance into the building. His helm drew strange looks as he rushed through the halls. There were not as many students as usual, but searching was still a chore. He tried to be both quick and thorough, eyeing people carefully, searching for the vacant expression of a puppet.

Then he heard a series of shrieks and ran toward them. A group of students were fleeing from a long streak of blood that snaked into the boy’s bathroom.

He walked in on a scene of three people crouching over another. Crimson stains were everywhere. Hector recognized the dead body on the floor. Micah Chamberlain. The three people on top of him looked up in unison. All obviously puppets. Bloodied, ripped flesh hung from their lips.

“There you are,” one of them said for Geoffrey, spitting out a red gob. “I’m in the teacher’s lounge. Come meet me, and then we can--”

And they were completely encased in iron, all three at once, thick enough to render them entirely immobilized.

Hector left them there to suffocate.