Chapter 1 - The Strike and the Summoning
The classroom air smelled of dry chalk and stale floor wax. Eight-year-old Dylan sat frozen at his battered wooden desk, his messy light brown hair falling across his forehead as he stared down at the blank space on his desk. He clutched an old faded photograph in his pale hand, his big hopeful hazel eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
"Why are you the only one without a signed camp form?" Mrs. Gable asked, her voice sharp and unforgiving as she towered over him. Her posture was rigid, her expression locked in bureaucratic annoyance.
"My dad was hurt," Dylan whispered, his small voice trembling. "I have to stay home with him."
"Excuses will not secure your grade, young man. Hold out your hand," Mrs. Gable ordered, raising a heavy wooden ruler high into the air.
Dylan clasped his hands together defensively, tears finally spilling over his eyelashes. "Please, ma'am, my hand hurts from carrying the wood—"
"Silence!" the teacher snapped.
Before the boy could pull away, the wooden ruler descended with a sickening crack against his knuckles. Dylan gasped in sharp pain, clutching his chest as he slumped sideways against the desk, fighting for breath.
Miles away in heavy traffic, Jax sat behind the wheel of his beaten-down sedan, his long dark hair tied back and his heavy leather vest resting against the driver's seat. His phone buzzed harshly on the dashboard mount. He glanced down, seeing a notification flashing brightly: "Dylan's Father - Mark."
Jax slammed his foot on the brake, nearly causing a rear-end collision. His eyes went wide with pure panic as he stared at the screen.
"Dylan!" Jax shouted aloud, his tough exterior shattering instantly.
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He wrenched the steering wheel hard to the right, tires screeching against the asphalt as he abandoned his original route. He had to get to that school before it was too late. But as he sped through the congested streets, his phone rang again with an unknown number.
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