Oracle's Warning

# Oracle's Last Warning The compass in Oracle's pocket felt heavier than usual. He stood at the edge of the pine forest, where Starlight Talent Camp sprawled below like a collection of carefully arranged toys. Cabins painted in soft yellows and creams dotted the clearing. The main lodge, with its peaked roof and dark wooden beams, rose like a friendly giant watching over everything. It was the third week of summer, and the camp smelled like sunwarmed canvas and possibility. Oracle's gift usually made moments feel like stepping into rooms before the door opened. He could sense the shape of things before they arrived. A girl named Maya would trip on the cabin steps—he'd catch her elbow at the exact right second. Lightning would split the sky during the evening campfire—he'd already moved to safer ground. His friends called it magic. The counsellors called it luck, then observation, then something else entirely that made their eyes narrow in ways that felt less like wonder and more like measuring. But this feeling was different. It had started three hours ago, creeping up his spine like frost spreading across glass. Not the gentle nudge of ordinary premonitions. This was something vast and terrible, a shadow pressing against the edges of everything. Today. It would happen today. Something that would scatter the campers like frightened birds, something that would change Starlight Camp forever. He pulled out the compass he'd brought from home—a thing his grandmother had given him, its brass face worn smooth from decades of hands. The needle spun lazily, pointing not north but northwest, toward the lodge. Toward the heart of camp. Oracle walked down the pine-needled path, his sneakers soundless on the soft ground. The morning mist hadn't burned away yet, and it curled around the tree trunks like something alive, something thinking. He found his friends at breakfast. Kai sat at the long wooden table, methodically constructing a tower from bread rolls. Her ability was telekinesis—she could move objects with her mind, though sometimes they wobbled unpredictably, which made the counsellors take notes and exchange glances. Beside her, Marcus was teaching his hands to glow faintly, concentrating so hard his tongue poked out. And there was Zara, who could sense emotions the way Oracle sensed time, reading the currents of feeling that moved between people like invisible rivers. "We have to leave camp," Oracle said, sliding onto the bench beside them. "Today. Right now." Kai's bread tower collapsed. "What?" "Something's going to happen. Something bad." The words came out rushed, tumbling over each other. "I can feel it. We need to warn everyone and get out before—" "Before what?" Marcus asked, his hands dimming. "What exactly did you sense?" Oracle hesitated. That was the problem, wasn't it? He could feel the shape of danger the way you could feel rain coming—the shift in air pressure, the particular quality of light—but he couldn't always name it. Not yet. "I don't know exactly. But it's big. It's coming from—" "Oracle." Zara's voice was gentle, but something had changed in her expression. "You've been wrong before." The words landed like stones. Two weeks ago, he'd warned that the archery equipment was going to fail. Nothing happened. A week before that, he'd insisted they needed to evacuate the dining hall because he sensed structural danger. The building had stood perfectly fine. The counsellors had watched him with their careful eyes and written things in their leather-bound notebooks. Mr. Whitmore, the head counsellor, had started asking him questions in private. Gentle questions that felt like tests. "I know," Oracle said quietly. "But this is different. This feels—" "We can't just leave." Kai shook her head, and a bread roll trembled on the table. She caught it with her mind before it fell, tucking it back into place. "We'd have to convince our parents, convince the counsellors. And they already think you're..." She trailed off, but they all knew what she meant. They already think you're unreliable. The compass in Oracle's pocket spun again, pressing urgently against his ribs. "Then we investigate," Zara said suddenly. All three of them looked at her. "If something's wrong, we find out what it is. We get proof. Then people will have to believe you." It was the kind of logic that made sense in the bright morning light, in the ordinary world of breakfast and birdsong. Oracle wanted to argue, wanted to tell them that some things couldn't wait for proof, that the feeling in his chest was screaming urgently. But he saw the doubt in their eyes, and he understood. They wanted to believe him. They just needed reasons. "The lodge," Oracle said. The compass had been pointing there. "Whatever it is, it's connected to the lodge." --- They split up to avoid drawing attention. Marcus claimed he needed to practise his glowing in the equipment shed. Kai said she was helping in the kitchen. Zara volunteered to work in the office, filing papers for the camp secretary. And Oracle, because his gift made him good at knowing where people would be, slipped into the lodge through the back entrance. The building smelled like old wood and something else—something chemical and sharp that made his nose wrinkle. The main room was empty, the morning sun slanting through the high windows in thick golden bars. Dust motes floated through them like tiny constellations. Oracle moved through the lodge carefully, his senses extended, feeling for the shape of wrongness. The counsellors' offices were on the second floor. He climbed the narrow stairs, the compass growing heavier with each step. The first office belonged to Ms. Chen. It was neat, organized, full of books about talent development and human potential. Nothing wrong there, just the usual architecture of a counsellor's work. The second office made him stop. It belonged to Mr. Whitmore, and the door was slightly ajar. Oracle pushed it open gently and stepped inside. The room was darker than the others, the curtains drawn against the morning. On the desk sat something that made Oracle's breath catch. A map of the camp. But not a normal map—it was marked with red lines and circles, with notations in tight, careful handwriting. And there, circled in red, was the electrical junction box beneath the dining hall. The words beside it read: "Primary target. Overload at 1400 hours." Oracle's hands felt cold. "Looking for something?" He spun around. Mr. Whitmore stood in the doorway, and his expression was not the gentle, measuring look Oracle had come to know. It was sharp. Calculating. And something else—something that made Oracle understand, in a sudden terrible flash, that Mr. Whitmore had never been testing whether the children's powers were real. He'd been testing whether they could stop him. "What are you doing?" Oracle whispered. "Ah, Oracle." Mr. Whitmore stepped into the room, and Oracle backed toward the window. "Your gift is remarkable. Truly. But it's also inconvenient. I was hoping you'd be wrong about this one. That you'd cry wolf one too many times and no one would listen when you finally sensed something real." "You're going to hurt people." "I'm going to prove something," Mr. Whitmore said. His voice was quiet, reasonable, which somehow made it worse. "I'm going to show that children with genuine powers can do remarkable things when properly motivated. And those without? Well. They'll learn what it means to be ordinary." Oracle understood then—not through premonition but through terrible clarity. Mr. Whitmore had been documenting every child's abilities, testing them, and now he was going to use a catastrophe to see who had real powers and who didn't. The explosion would be controlled. Just enough danger to trigger their gifts. Just enough chaos to see who could truly save the day. And if some children didn't have the power to save themselves? That was the cost of his experiment. "I have to warn them," Oracle said. Mr. Whitmore smiled, and it was the most frightening thing Oracle had seen. "Who will believe you? You've been wrong so many times. But go ahead. Try." Oracle ran. He burst from the office and thundered down the stairs, his heart hammering like a trapped bird. His friends—he had to find his friends. He had to warn the other campers. But Mr. Whitmore was right. He'd cried wolf before. Who would listen? He found Zara first, emerging from the office with a stack of papers. "It's Mr. Whitmore," Oracle gasped, pulling her aside. "He's planning to overload the electrical system at two o'clock. In the dining hall. During the talent show." Zara's face went pale. "Are you certain?" "Yes. I can feel it. And I saw the map. Zara, please believe me." She gripped his arm. "I do. But we need proof. Something more than a map that could be anything." Marcus appeared, his hands still glowing faintly. Kai joined them, and Oracle told them everything. "So we have two hours," Marcus said, checking his watch. "What do we do?" "We document it," Zara said. Her mind was already moving, Oracle could see it in the set of her shoulders. "We get the map. We find the electrical junction. We get evidence that can't be dismissed." "He'll see us coming," Kai said. "He knows we know." Oracle pulled out the compass. It was spinning now, frantic, pointing toward the electrical room. Not north. Never north. Always toward the thing that mattered most. "We don't have to be fast," Oracle said slowly. "We just have to be honest." --- The talent show stage had been set up in the main hall, chairs arranged in careful rows. Campers were gathered around, warming up, practising their acts. The counsellors stood at the back, watching with those measuring eyes. Oracle walked straight to Mr. Whitmore. "I know what you've planned," he said, loud enough that everyone turned to look. "I know you're going to overload the electrical system during the show. I know you're testing us. And I know you don't care if someone gets hurt." The silence that followed felt like holding your breath underwater. Mr. Whitmore's face darkened. "That's a serious accusation, Oracle. One you have no proof of." "We do," Zara said, stepping forward with the map she'd retrieved from his office. Kai held up her phone—she'd photographed the electrical plans and the notes. Marcus had used his glow to illuminate the junction box, proving it had been tampered with. And then, quietly, Oracle told them everything he'd sensed. Not with certainty—he acknowledged the times he'd been wrong. But he spoke about the shape of this danger, how it felt different, how it had weight and intention. He spoke with the voice of someone who had learned the difference between being right and being believed, and had chosen honesty anyway. The head of camp arrived within the hour. The police came after. Mr. Whitmore was arrested, and the electrical system was repaired by certified professionals. That night, sitting outside their cabin under a sky full of stars, Oracle and his friends were quiet. "You saved us," Marcus said finally. "All of us." Oracle held the compass in his palm. The needle spun lazily, then settled, pointing not toward danger but toward something else. Toward the future. Toward possibility. "I learned something today," Oracle said. "Being right doesn't matter if nobody listens. But being brave enough to speak the truth anyway—that matters. That changes things." Zara leaned against his shoulder. "Your gift isn't just about sensing what's coming. It's about having the courage to warn people, even when you're scared they won't believe you." The compass grew warm in Oracle's hand. For the first time in days, the terrible pressing weight lifted from his chest. The shadow that had darkened the summer days began to fade. And in its place, Oracle felt something he'd been searching for all along: the certainty that sometimes the greatest power isn't about being right. It's about choosing to be true. The pine trees whispered their approval in the wind, and somewhere in the darkness, a wind chime sang like a bell marking the moment when everything changed.