ALPHA ACADEMY:MARKED BY FOUR

The first thing I noticed about Blackthorne Academy was that the air felt wrong.

Not heavy, not sharp—just wrong. Like it had been scrubbed clean of warmth and left with a faint metallic tang that clung to my tongue. The gates stood taller than any school entrance I’d ever seen, black iron twisted into wolf shapes that bared their teeth at me. Ivy crawled up the stone walls, strangling what little life dared grow here. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled once, low and final, like the sound of a coffin lid closing.

“Charming,” I muttered, hugging my bag tighter.

The cab that had dropped me off was already gone, its taillights swallowed by the winding road. I was alone. Or at least, I thought I was—until a whisper skated across the back of my neck.

She doesn’t belong here.

I spun, but no one was there. Just shadows, stretching too long in the fading afternoon light.

“Senior year,” I told myself, forcing my sneakers forward through the gates. “Survive senior year, graduate, get the hell out.”

That was the plan. Nothing else.

***

The courtyard was huge, paved with gray stone that seemed to hum faintly under my shoes. Students moved across it in small clusters, dressed in the Academy’s uniform—black coats, silver trim, pale shirts buttoned all the way to the throat. They didn’t look at me. Not directly. Their eyes slid over me the way people look at an accident on the highway: curious, but pretending not to stare.

“Transfer?” a voice snapped.

I turned. A woman in her fifties stood on the steps, her back so straight it looked painful. She wore the same uniform, though her coat had gold embroidery at the cuffs. Her hair was scraped into a bun so tight it could have been carved from stone.

“Yes,” I said. “Lyra Hawthorne. Senior year.”

She checked a clipboard. “Dorm Three. East Wing.”

She shoved a key into my palm, her fingers ice cold. Then her eyes—gray and sharp as flint—locked on mine.

“Rules,” she said, her tone flat, ritualistic. “No mirrors in your room. No wandering during Red Moon nights. Curfew is ten sharp. If the bell tolls after dark, you stay in your room. Do you understand?”

My brows pulled together. “Sorry, did you say no mirrors?”

Her mouth tightened. “No mirrors. Do you understand?”

I swallowed. “Yeah. I… understand.”

“Good.” She turned on her heel and marched away, her shoes clicking against the stone.

That was weird. Very weird.

***

Dorm Three wasn’t hard to find. The halls were long, lit by lanterns that flickered like they were alive. The walls were stone, damp in some places, and smelled faintly of smoke and old paper. My footsteps echoed too loudly.

I’d just reached the stairs when I felt it—that prickle of eyes on the back of my neck. Slowly, I looked over my shoulder.

He stood across the courtyard, half in shadow.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair ruffled by the wind. His eyes—storm-gray, cutting through distance like they saw too much. And when our gazes locked, his whole body went rigid.

Not like he was surprised. More like I had burned him.

My breath hitched.

Then, as if he couldn’t stand another second of looking at me, he turned sharply and walked away.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Rude.”

I forced myself up the stairs, though my heart was beating too fast. Whoever he was, I hoped I’d never see him again. People like that—people who looked at you like you were a mistake—they didn’t bring anything good.

***

My room was small. Bed, desk, wardrobe. No mirror. Not even in the bathroom. I stood in the doorway for a long time, staring at the empty wall where one should’ve been. My own face felt strange without glass to confirm it.

A knock startled me.

“Come in?” I called.

The door opened without hesitation. A boy leaned against the frame like he owned it. Blond hair messy in a way that probably took effort, smile sharp enough to slice skin.

“Well, well,” he said. “Pretty little transfer.” His eyes swept me in one practiced glance. “You shouldn’t be here.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t take it personally.” He pushed off the doorframe, stepping into the room uninvited. “Most people don’t last long at Blackthorne. Especially not girls who look like you.”

I folded my arms. “And what exactly do I look like?”

He grinned wider. “Lost. Tempting. Fun to ruin.”

My skin prickled, though I refused to step back. “Thanks for the warm welcome.”

“You’ll get used to it.” He tapped the doorframe as he left, still smiling that dangerous smile. “See you around, pretty thing.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

I exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to my chest. Who the hell was he?

***

I unpacked slowly, trying to shake the feeling of eyes watching me through the walls. The dorm was too quiet, the kind of quiet that buzzed. By the time I’d folded the last shirt into the drawer, night had fallen.

Somewhere outside, a bell rang once, low and long. Then silence.

I froze.

And then the howling began.

Not one wolf. Not two. A chorus. Wolves circling somewhere close—too close. Their cries rose and fell, sharp enough to scrape bone. I pressed my hands to my ears, but it was useless. The sound got inside my head.

And then—clear as if someone was standing right behind me—

Lyra.

My breath caught.

The voice was a whisper. Not male, not female. Just cold. Just certain.

Lyra.

My hands shook. I stumbled back from the window, my pulse hammering.

“Who’s there?” I whispered. My voice cracked.

Silence.

Then the howls surged again, louder, as if answering.

The room felt smaller, darker. The walls pressed in. My reflection wasn’t in the glass of the window, though the moonlight should’ve caught me.

I was shaking when I finally crawled into bed, pulling the covers to my chin.

The last thing I heard before sleep dragged me under was that voice again, softer this time.

Wake up.