The Headmistress

Isadora:

The tolling bell had barely faded when my knock echoed against the heavy dormitory door. Naturally, I ignored it. The door creaked open anyway.

A silhouette filled the arched frame. Tall. Severe. Dressed in black from her collar to her boots, with silver hair pulled back so tightly it could cut glass. Her eyes glowed faintly. Not a metaphor. Glowed. Pale gold, like a dying star.

“You must be Miss Gravelle,” she said, stepping into the room with the grace of a guillotine.

I sat up slowly. “That would be me, I'm here for your disposal”

Her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite disapproval. Just a subtle flex of something predatory.

“I am Headmistress Vaeloria Voss,” she said, as if her name alone should cause fainting or applause. “And this—” she gestured around the room “—is not your lodging, for nod.”

I arched a brow. “My normalcy disappointing you?”

She didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, she extended a gloved hand, waiting with the patience of someone who could hex a person into next week if they hesitated too long.

I stood and took her hand. It was cold. Of course it was. Like shaking hands with winter.

“Come,” she said. “There are things you must see. And things that must see you.”

I followed her out into the hallway, where shadows didn’t just stretch—they pulsed. The sconces on the walls were lit, but the flames burned blue, casting everything in a funeral glow.

“You’re aware of the academy’s purpose, I presume?”

“To educate and domesticate society’s charming little nightmares?”

Another almost-smile.

“We refine the raw potential of the gifted. Train those with bloodlines steeped in magic, curse, or darkness to control their natures.”

“So I’m a tourist.”

“No,” she said, glancing at me sidelong. “You’re an anomaly. And I do not abide mysteries without answers.”

We passed beneath a vaulted archway, and I realized the walls were whispering. Not in a metaphorical way. Actual whispering. In a language I didn’t know but instinctively distrusted.

“They’re old,” Vaeloria said, noting my glance. “The stones. They remember things. Speak to one another.”

“Gossiping architecture. Lovely.”

“Be careful what you say around them. They listen.”

We turned down a spiral staircase that corkscrewed impossibly deep. It should’ve led to a basement. It didn’t. When we reached the bottom, the air was warmer. Wetter. The floor was polished obsidian, and I could see our reflections ripple beneath our feet.

“Ashwyck rests on the edge of a ley fracture,” the Headmistress said. “The energies here are... volatile.”

“Perfect place for someone utterly useless.”

She stopped.

Suddenly. Sharply.

Her gaze pierced through me. “You think yourself powerless. That’s a dangerous assumption here.”

“I think myself realistic.”

“There are things worse than lacking power, Miss Gravelle.”

“Like pretending I have any?”

“Like not knowing when you do.”

We continued in silence, though the air vibrated faintly—like something just behind the veil of reality was scratching to get through.

Eventually, we reached a door carved from what looked suspiciously like bone. Vaeloria pressed her hand to it, and the surface sighed open.

The room beyond was round, walls draped in velvet and stitched with runes that moved if you looked too long. Candles floated around a massive divination pool. Inside, the water shimmered black and gold.

“Aura reading,” she said, gesturing for me to approach.

I hesitated. “What if it tells you I’m ordinary?”

“It won’t.”

“But it might.”

Vaeloria stepped closer, her voice low and cold. “Ordinary girls do not set wards humming simply by entering a room.”

I looked at the runes. They were indeed humming.

Wonderful.

With an exaggerated sigh, I stepped forward and knelt beside the pool. The surface moved—reaching, almost. It curled up like fingers, then flattened again as I placed my hands on either side of the basin.

The candles flared.

The water boiled.

Then went still.

Colors bled from the surface—violet, then crimson, then a shade of silver so pale it was nearly white. The runes on the walls pulsed in time with my heartbeat.

Vaeloria tilted her head.

“That’s... unexpected.”

“Let me guess. I’m a banshee-witch-vampire hybrid, born under a cursed eclipse and destined to destroy the moon.”

She blinked once. “No. You’re something older.”

The water rose again, and in it I saw not myself, but something wearing my face. Eyes black as pitch. Smiling.

I ripped my hands away. The vision shattered. Candles extinguished in a hiss.

Vaeloria didn’t speak for a long moment. When she finally did, it was with careful deliberation.

“We will have to monitor you closely. Your presence here may be... catalytic.”

“Great. I’ve always wanted to be a chemical reaction.”

She looked at me again with that strange mix of fascination and dread. “Come. I’ll show you your quarters.”

We returned above ground through a corridor lined with paintings that moved when you weren’t looking. One winked. Another licked its lips.

I ignored them.

Eventually, we reached a tall, narrow tower tucked behind the library. The door was small and arched, with a handle shaped like a serpent.

Inside: books. Thousands. Floor to ceiling. Dusty tomes and chained volumes, some bound in questionable materials. A spiral staircase wound up three more floors. Alcoves jutted from the walls, each holding a desk, a reading chair, and a faintly glowing lantern.

“This was once the scriptorium,” Vaeloria said. “It has not been used in centuries.”

“So naturally, you’re sticking the freak in it.”

“I’m placing the anomaly where she cannot be disturbed—or disturb others.”

Fair.

She handed me a key shaped like a thorn. “Classes begin at first bell. Do not be late. And do not wander after curfew.”

“Because of rules or monsters?”

“Because of both.”

She turned on her heel and left me there, alone in my tower of books.

I stood in the silence, listening to the creaks and sighs of the old structure, then climbed to the highest floor. There, beneath a round window facing the forest, was a bed. Dusty, sure. But bigger than the last one. Covered in black quilts and silver embroidery that glowed faintly in the dark.

A note rested on the pillow.

You are not what they think. Neither are you what you fear.

It wasn’t signed.

Charming.

I sat on the edge of the bed and looked out at the forest. Mist curled through the trees. A howl rose, distant and mournful.

Ashwyck Academy didn’t feel like a school.

It felt like a test.

And monsters or not...

I wasn’t planning on failing.