CAS’S FIRST CLASS WAS THREAD THEORY 101, SO HE followed Dewey Cricket and company to where the Wayone class was located on the third floor. Unlike many of the classrooms they passed, which had extraordinary things like swirls of raging wind rattling the doors or crisp, autumnal leaves floating down from the ceiling, the Thread Theory 101 classroom was very dull. It simply had rows of desks and chairs, a smudged blackboard at the front, and Professor Vulcan, a Firetamer teacher who had evidently been roped into taking the class, droning on about the threads of power.

Without thinking, Dewey Cricket and Bracken Moonstrike nabbed a table and a pair of chairs together, but when Cas turned to their Earthshaper friend Ellie Green, and jerked his thumb towards another desk with a smile, she shot him a look like a rabbit in headlights and scampered off to sit next to Neerja’s Airscaper brother, Akash, instead.

Cas plonked himself down at an empty desk at the back of the classroom, alone.

Apparently, his confrontation with the Du Villaines at breakfast had put a black mark against his name. People whispered and turned around to stare at him in their seats, but otherwise they avoided him like the plague. In the space of an hour, Cas had gone from being the most popular boy in the school to an outcast nobody dared poke with a ten-foot barge pole.

Professor Vulcan cleared his throat and the class began.

“The threads of power are a great and mystical force. A magic as old as existence itself. They make up everything around us, as well as within us. As many of you know, at the dawn of time, the universe was woven from two coloured threads: white and purple. Life and death. Beginning and end. Yet over the years, these threads changed into different colours, giving rise to the earth, air, water and fire powers we see in most Others today. However, in some people, they grew so dull that they lost their powers altogether, like in the case of the Normies and the Normie world we are sworn to protect…”

Cas tried to listen as Professor Vulcan dug out metres of multicoloured yarn, attempting to demonstrate how the different invisible threads wove together to create different bits of the world. But not even Vulcan explaining how Abnormies – people like Warrior, Paws, Fenix and, Cas supposed, himself – were unique, because they were woven together from lots of differently coloured threads, piqued his interest. All he could think about was the emotional whiplash he felt from the breakfast encounter.

The Du Villaines’ words rang in his ears.

Broken. Freak. Fraud. Cas wasn’t ashamed of his funny leg – on the contrary, he knew it was just a part of him. But what if they were right about him being useless as the Foretold? What if the Oracle’s first assumption about him – a nothing boy – was true?

The Oracle could have still made a mistake.

“Threadologists have studied and speculated about the origins of the threads of power for millennia,” Vulcan droned on. “As of yet, no solid conclusion has been reached about where they come from. Exactly how or why Others like Abnormies came to be remains one of the threads’ greatest mysteries.”

By the time the bell rang for break, Cas had been stewing in his stupor for so long that he practically reeked of it. As all the students filed out of the classroom, the whispers and wide berths only grew louder and larger – something which persisted for the next few days.

Initially, Cas did his best to bear the brunt of it, but by the time their attitudes had eventually faded to bored indifference by the end of his first week, he was exhausted. There was only one place where he could escape his relentless thoughts: the library.

From the instant Mrs Crane saw him, it was like she knew.

“No Warrior, dear?” Mrs Crane had asked, when Cas sank into one of the armchairs promptly following Thread Theory 101.

He shook his head, hoping the seat would swallow him whole.

Ever since then, Mrs Crane had plied him with copious mugs of hot cocoa every visit – and whenever Warrior and the others showed up to find him, she swept over to distract them with various activities, sensing that Cas wanted to be alone.

“Is this seat taken?” a voice asked on the Friday, breaking a week’s spell of silent treatment.

It was morning break. Cas jumped as there was a tap against his chair leg, almost spilling hot cocoa in his lap. A boy with white dreadlocks and a purple beanie hat lingered over him, rapping his walking stick. He looked somewhat similar to Cas – he had the same slender build and grey eyes, with dark skin – but he was older and wasn’t wearing a cloak or blazer, making it impossible to tell which Order he was in.

Intrigued, Cas nodded. “It’s free.”

The boy sat down. “I’m Cecil Igwe,” he said quietly, careful not to break the peace of the library. Cas was grateful; Warrior knew something was off and had shown up to find him again. She was currently shooting him concerned looks from where Mrs Crane was trying to get the Abnormies to help her rearrange the bookshelves.

“I’m Casander Darkbloom.”

The crooked beam on the boy’s face fell. “Threads, I didn’t know it was you.” Hurriedly, Cecil started to grapple around for where he had dropped his walking stick and school bag on the ground. “I’ll move.”

“No, please,” said Cas quickly. Too quickly. “Stay.”

He didn’t know why he said it, why he was begging a stranger not to leave, but suddenly the last thing he wanted was to be alone. Perhaps it was because he could still spy Warrior watching him, and he wanted to reassure her that everything was fine. Or perhaps it was just because Cas wanted to feel like someone, anyone, who wasn’t Warrior, Paws or Fenix still wanted to be seen with him.

Cecil hesitated, then let his things drop back to the floor with a thunk. “Are you sure? You’re the Foretold. Surely you don’t want to be seen sitting with me.”

Cas chuckled. “No, it’s me you don’t want to be seen with. The Du Villaines have marked me for lonerdom.”

“The Du Villaines?” asked Cecil, his face blank. “Sorry, I don’t know them. I tend to keep to myself.”

This was a refreshing surprise. “Probably best,” said Cas.

“I doubt they’d like me anyway.” Cecil sighed, pulling a book with braille on the front cover out of his bag. “I’m an Abnormie.”

Cas’s face lit up.

“No way,” he said hopefully. That explained the lack of coloured cloak. “Me too.”

Cecil exhaled. “They think I might be the next Oracle,” he told Cas in a rush, as if he had never had a chance to tell anyone this before. “I’m partially sighted; I can’t see out of my left eye and I’ve been losing sight in my right one ever since I was born. But I get these funny visions sometimes. Like swirly pictures in my head. I’m here at Wayward School until the Grand Council takes me on for training.”

“That’s awesome.”

Cecil didn’t give Cas the same on-edge vibe as the current Oracle.

But Cecil’s voice unexpectedly shifted. “Not really,” he said dejectedly. “The Grand Council won’t take me on until they’re sure of my powers. The current Oracle has to sense that one of my predictions is true first, so I’m stuck at Wayward until that happens. I don’t know how she’ll be able to tell, but the Council say she’ll feel it. Trouble is, she hasn’t confirmed anything I’ve seen yet.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. That’s why people steer clear of me. They’re either terrified I’ll predict something horrible about them or they think I’m useless.”

A brilliant idea hit Cas then. Maybe there was a way they could help each other out. A way Cas could feel a little surer about being the Foretold and give Cecil what he needed.

“You can try and make a prediction about me, if you like,” Cas offered.

Checking no one in the library was watching, Cas set down his mug and held out his hand in the same way he had done during the Order Trials. “I don’t know, maybe being the Foretold will make it easier or something.”

At the suggestion, Cecil’s doom-ridden face brightened. “Seriously?”

“Of course!”

Gleefully, Cecil reached out and latched his fingers around Cas’s arm. “OK. Just to warn you, though, I don’t know what I’ll sense. I get visions about lots of different things, good and bad, and they’re not always one hundred per cent true. Like yesterday, I predicted my homework would get eaten by my dog – it was actually the hamster who ate it. And today, I thought I sensed Cook Fiddlepot would be serving shepherd’s pie for lunch, but it’s Fritter Friday.”

Cas snorted. Cecil squeezed his eyes shut and poked out his tongue in concentration. His face grew hopeful for a second, then dimmed. “Drat. Sorry, I thought I saw something … right there … but I’m not getting anything now.”

Cas’s heart sank. “Nothing?”

Still concentrating, Cecil shook his head. “Not really… Well, there is maybe something … you…”

Cas’s heart began to soar once more. “Yes…”

“And a girl, with black, no, red … purple … blue … colour-changing hair…”

“That’s Warrior. She’s the one who found me.”

“And…”

Cecil grew quiet, his expression turning grim.

“And what?” Cas pressed, as the Oracle-in-training’s visage grew taut in stony dismay. He released Cas’s arm as if he had been burned, eyes flying open.

“Hollowness. Cold. And him, the Master of All, skulking around with the echo of a handful of words.” Cecil sucked in a huge breath. “You’re going to fail as the Foretold.”

Cas’s heart turned to lead.

“What?”

Cecil’s face was the perfect picture of horror: unseeing eyes watering, lips aquiver and brow deeply furrowed. “That’s all I see.”

“That can’t be…” Cas choked out. “That’s what the words are? You’re going to fail as the Foretold?”

“No,” hissed Cecil quickly, gripping on to Cas’s arm to silence him. “Keep your voice down. If anyone hears you say that, there’ll be a riot. They’ll think I’m dismissing the real Oracle’s prophecy.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

Cas’s eyes immediately flew to Warrior and the others. Thankfully nobody else was near by. Paws and Fenix were laughing jovially with Mrs Crane, but Warrior was still sneaking him furtive glances like a hawk.

“No,” repeated Cecil in a hushed tone. The only saving grace about his prediction was that he had been sensible enough to mutter it too quietly for anyone to hear. “It’s just… I’ve … I’ve only ever felt something like this hollow, cold feeling once before, shortly prior to my Great-Nanna Pat’s passing. It means death. Or rather, the absence of being. Something terrible is coming, it has to be. Otherwise…”

“What?” prodded Cas. “What else could it mean?”

“That – that you’re not the Foretold,” stammered Cecil, stumbling over the words. “But that’s even more ridiculous.”

Cas wasn’t sure which was worse: not being the Foretold or dying as the Chosen One.

“The Oracle confirmed that you are the Foretold, which means the only option left is…”

“The Master is going to kill me. I’m not going to defeat him like everyone thinks.”

Cecil didn’t need to reply. Out of nowhere, Cas felt unable to breathe. His heart was falling, tumbling out of his chest…

“Wait!” Cecil burst out in a whisper, hanging fast to Cas as if he was afraid he might leave. “Hang on, you and the girl…”

“Warrior.”

“You’re moving away from the Master. I can feel your warmth, your light, your hope … it’s rolling off you both in waves. That coldness and emptiness … it must’ve been from the Master of All… You are the Foretold and you are going to succeed. Although, hmm, that’s odd … those words are still echoing everywhere. The balance is not the equal. The balance is not the equal.” The Oracle-in-training retracted his grasp completely, letting Cas go. “Does that mean anything to you?”

Heart still thundering, Cas shook his head. He had no idea what those words meant. No idea what any of this meant, except maybe that being the Foretold wouldn’t be as plain sailing as the real Oracle’s prophecy made it seem.

“What did the Master look like?” queried Cas, wanting some concrete proof that he would be able to succeed in beating him. He desperately needed to know what he might be up against.

Cecil concentrated harder, a bead of sweat racing down his cheek. Maybe if the Master was on his knees, sobbing and begging for mercy, or stuffed in manacles, then Cas would feel better.

“I’m not sure,” said Cecil. “I mean, I assume it was him. I could only sense someone lurking on the edges of my vision… I couldn’t fully see him, but he gave me an awful feeling.”

“Have another go,” said Cas, pitching forward on his seat. “Describe him to me.” He shoved his arm closer to Cecil’s face, as if waving his limb around like a television aerial would somehow fine-tune the boy’s mental image.

“Well, he’s tall,” said Cecil, taking hold of his arm. “With a dark soul … he’s wearing a long purple cloak … and his face is covered, obscured by…”

“A hood? A mask?”

“Shadows. Like he’s keeping to them, hiding in them. Belongs to them. He doesn’t want to be found or seen. There’s that hollow emptiness … it feels like something there but not entirely there. I can’t explain it very well, but it must be coming from him. The waves of brightness and hope are definitely rolling off you and that girl…”

This was slightly more encouraging – however, it was still annoyingly woolly and vague.

He couldn’t lie: he’d hoped that allowing Cecil to read him would give him some clue about how to be the Foretold and fulfil his destiny.

Instead, it had done the opposite.

“Sorry,” Cecil mumbled, drawing his hands back and turning away. “I knew it wouldn’t work. I never get clear, straightforward visions. No wonder the Grand Council hasn’t taken me on yet. I wouldn’t be surprised if they never do.”

“Don’t be silly,” Cas fibbed. “Thanks for trying. You did great.”

Cas knew his attempt to cheer Cecil up was flimsier than a wet paper towel, but he was too preoccupied to try harder. Who was right about him and his future? His own doubts and the Du Villaines’? Or the original Oracle’s prophecy? Was there any truth – good or bad – in Cecil’s prediction? And if so, what part of it should Cas believe?

Before he could figure it out, the bell rang for classes. They both grabbed their things and Cas invited Cecil to join him and the Abnormies at lunch.

“You don’t know how much longer you’ll be stuck at Wayward,” Cas chuckled, only half joking. “It might be nice to have a few friends.”

Cecil mustered a feeble grin. “I’d love to.”

But Cecil Igwe never turned up to lunch.

As Cas and the Abnormies were leaving the dining hall – with Warrior belching out the alphabet after guzzling down five plates of fritters – Cas spotted Cecil being whisked away by a brigade of orange-clad wardsmen.

“Cecil!” Cas called out, wanting to know why the boy had never joined them. “Cecil, over here!”

Yet as Cas was swallowed by the streams of students shoving their way down the hall, Cecil was equally engulfed by the wardsmen’s carrot-coloured uniforms. In a tangerine-tinged tsunami, they swept Cecil out of the grand entrance.

Cas never found out which of Cecil’s predictions the Oracle must’ve sensed was true. Whether it was the shepherd’s pie, or the homework-eating hamster, or his confusing vision about Cas and the words the balance is not the equal, the mystery lingered over him like a dark cloud.

Part of Cas wondered if he would ever see the Oracle-in-training again.