CHAPTER FOUR

No one stands first. That is the strangest part.

The announcement has ended. The final echo of Headmistress Blackthorn’s voice has dissolved into the vaulted heights of the cavernous Grand Hall.

Conversations have resumed in fractured bursts around us, chairs scraping marble, hushed arguments, nervous laughter attempting to pass as composure.

Other tables are already rising. Some heirs clinging to one another in hurried clusters, whispering through pale lips. Others moved with brittle dignity, spines straight, faces bloodless and drawn but controlled.

Our table does not move. We remained seated as if stitched into place.Waiting. For what? For who? The air between us feels taut, not frozen and stunned like the others had been. Instead it is suspended and measured.

Then Alaric Veyne rises. He does not push his chair back abruptly. He deliberately does not draw attention to himself. He simply stands, smooth and unhurried, as though the next motion in the room has always belonged to him.

And the invisible thread binding us snaps. For the first time, I notice the figure standing behind him. His butler. How have I missed him before?

He is Alaric’s exact height. The same lean but muscular build, even the same quiet posture. But where Alaric’s ethereal beauty catches light, his butler absorbs​ it. Black hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. Eyes so dark they seem almost matte, swallowing reflection and light rather than returning it. He is quite literally a shadow.

He stands half a step behind Alaric, neither looming nor deferential just aligned. He is shadowing so precisely that I wonder whether he has been trained to minimize his presence or more like extinguish it completely.

Or whether Alaric simply occupies so much space in my awareness that everything else dims around him.

Alaric brushes a strand of silver hair back behind one ear. The chandeliers fracture light across it, rendering it nearly white.

For half a heartbeat, if one did not know any better one would mistake him for a girl. A breathtaking girl, that is until you met his eyes. They are not soft. They are always assessing.

“We should familiarize ourselves with the terrain,” he says quietly. The words are calm, polite even, they are not an order. But they are not a suggestion either.

Lilith Ashbourne stands next, as if she had anticipated the exact moment he would move. “Lead the way, Veyne.”

There is a faint edge to the way she says his surname. Not in mockery or challenge, but there'ssomething there i can't quite place yet. Its testing. He does not rise to it. I look from one to the other. Interesting.

Her butler steps forward in tandem, brown-haired, unremarkable at first glance, the kind of face you could pass in a crowd and forget seconds later. That unsettles me more than sharp features would have for some reason. I can't seem to retain her features out of view.

I stand after them, smoothing invisible wrinkles from my blazer. The fabric feels heavier than it had minutes ago, the crest over my breast pocket suddenly less like heritage and more like a target. And an open target at that.

Faye Marlowe rises in a sweep of copper curls and silk-lined confidence, she walks towards me and loops her arm through mine as if we were leaving a gala rather than walking toward an institution that had just promised our execution. I am quite taken aback but i don't pull back. I let her drag me along.

“Well,” she murmurs, her pink lips barely moving, “this is delightfully unhinged.”

“You’re enjoying this,” I say back under my breath.

“Of course I am. When has life ever been this honest?” Honest? Really? She really feels this is honesty?

Death within three years.

No euphemisms. No press statements. No shareholders to soothe. Just rules. And we can't even decide to exit the stage we entered willingly on our own terms. And she is calling it the honesty of a lifetime. A sarcastic laugh threatens to spill out of me. I turn my head slightly to see out of the corner of my eye.

A cold awareness settles in my chest, not the panic, not yet, but something sharper. People like us do not die in public. We just make solemn headlines. We disappear in quiet ways.

Sora Han falls into step behind us, her butler gliding half a pace behind her like a synchronized extension of her will. Their movements were nearly identical — efficient, economical, unembellished.

Isolde and Ivy, move together without speaking. They do not need to. Isolde’s posture has shifted subtly, shoulders squared, chin lifted — the stance of someone stepping into terrain she has been preparing for since childhood.

Aurora Whitford adjusts her sleeve once before walking, expression composed, blue eyes scanning the hall’s exits with clinical interest. Her butler mirrored her coloring — pale blonde hair, cerulean gaze — but where Aurora’s composure is curated, his expression holds something darker. Not fear but pain?

Celeste Briar hesitated only briefly before joining us. Her butler, slight and attentive — rested a light hand against her visibly trembling sshoulders as if steadying her. She does not shrug it off, but neither does she lean into it. She keeps fumbling here fingers across her neck.

Seven heirs. Seven butlers.

We move as a unit toward the Grand Hall doors. We weave through the nearly empty hall, our step echoing everywhere.

The doors open before we touch them. No guards stand outside. No visible cameras mark the walls. Which means surveillance is embedded, hidden and everywhere.

The corridor beyond bears none of the hall’s theatrical opulence. The marble gives way to black stone, pale and unadorned. The ceiling archs high but without ornamentation. No gold. No banners. No celebratory grandeur.

Tall windows line one side, revealing the academy grounds. Or what little of them could be seen. A thick fog rolls thick and low across manicured lawns, swallowing hedges and statues alike. Dark clouds pressed heavily overhead, diffusing the light into something directionless. It is impossible to tell the time of day. Morning and afternoon bleed into each other beneath the sky. Shadows stretch unnaturally long across the grounds. Too long.

The opposite wall holds doors at precise intervals, closed and unmarked. The difference between the Hall and this corridor is immediate. The Hall had been presentation, this is infrastructure. Our footsteps echoed softly against stone as we moved along in silence taking in everything. At first, we remained loosely clustered, but spacing shifted gradually ver subtly without discussion.

Alaric at the front, Lilith beside him, Sora just behind,I find myself in the center and hate that I noticed.

“Alpha Hall,” Aurora says lightly, breaking the silence from behind me. “Top-tier placement. Impressive.” Her tone is neutral. Measured. But I heard the subtext.

Alpha meant scrutiny, visibility,expectation.

“Or expendable,” Isolde replies calmly.

Faye hums softly besides me. “Optimism suits you.”

“It’s not optimism,” Isolde says. “It’s probability.” She does not look afraid. She looks prepared. How does one prepare for impending death?

“How many heirs are admitted each year?” Celeste asks quietly. Her whisper like voice echoes all around us. No one answers her at first.

Alaric does. Eventually.

“Forty.”

My stomach tightens. A chill runs down my spine. My hold on Faye involuntarily tightens.

“And how many graduate?”

“Varies.”

“That isn’t an answer.” Celeste’s voice goes up an octave. It sounds hysterical. I glance back. She looks deathly pale.

“It is,” he replies smoothly. “It simply lacks precision.”

"And we can't leave? Right now?" Celeste’s voice cracks at the word leaves.

"No" Lilith laughs humorless under her breath.

“So we’re being culled,” Faye says brightly.

“How agricultural.”

“Culling implies randomness,” Sora says. “It will not be random.” Her voice carries no emotion. Only certainty.

That certainty settles into my bones. This is not about academic merit as i thought coming here. It is about utility. Keeping only the most usefully gifted.

The corridor curves, revealing a staircase descending rather than rising. Alpha Hall is not elevated. It is below. The realization lodges somewhere deep and uncomfortable. Subterranean placements are easier to secure. Harder to escape. We descend together.

The air cools incrementally with each step. Not enough to fog breath, but enough to make skin tighten. The walls shift from pale stone to darker granite. Lighting embedded along the floor casts upward glows that eliminate heavy shadows.

Deliberate design. No corners for concealment. No blind spots. We reach a pair of black metal doors. No handle. They open inward soundlessly like the hall doors. The technology here is quite modern an forward. Are the doors sensor biometric?

Lilith smiles faintly. “Hospitable.”

Alpha Hall is not what I expected. It is not dungeon-like. It is refined. A circular lounge stretches before us beneath a dommed ceiling painted in deep midnight blue. Constellations etched in gold spirals overhead, intricate and precise, unfamiliar in arrangement.

Italian leather sofas curved around the central space in pale ivory arcs. In the middle stood a circular table — smaller than the one in the Grand Hall, but unmistakably intentionally the same. The Italian sofas are facing a huge floor to ceiling glass wall that overlooks a different part of the Academy. A well manicured garden with statues littered around. It reflected the late afternoon? Or evening? It is quite difficult to tell with the muted weather. Everything looks grey scaled.

Strategic. We are meant to gather here. To plan. To fracture.

Seven corridors branch outward like spokes.

Seven. My pulse skips.

To one side, a fully stocked kitchen gleames in stainless steel and marble — stocked not for presentation but for sustained habitation. Adjacent to it, a single corridor bears etched lettering in black glass:

BUTLERS. Separate and defined.

Each of the seven main corridors bears a gold plaque. Names etched into black glass and illuminated. I step toward mine.

Lyria Vale.

The letters glow softly. How long had they known? How long had they prepared this configuration? Silence thickens around us. We are reading and calculating.

Faye unhooks her arm from mine and twirls once beneath the constellations her arms spread out head dipped towards the ceiling. “I do love a dramatic ceiling.” She chirps.

Aurora approaches her corridor without hesitation.

Isolde pauses only long enough to exchange a look with Ivy before entering hers. Ivy remains in the central lounge, scanning.

Sora’s butler stepped toward the BUTLERS corridor but does not enter yet. Neither do the others. They are waiting.

“Curfew?” Celeste asks quietly.

“Unannounced,” Alaric replies.

I look at him sharply. “How do you know that?”

“For an institution that enforces death for absence,” he says, “compliance will be tested without warning.”

A chill slides down my spine. What he said makes sense. Is curfew time even valid if we can't leave school grounds?

Lilith trails her fingers along the central table’s polished surface. “They want us unsettled,” she murmurs. “Uncertain. Fear accelerates revelation.”

“And what do you reveal under fear?” I ask. Her violet eyes shift to me. Soft and interested.

“Truth.” We are not allies. Not yet.

But recognition is beginning to form between us. We are not the panicked heirs from the other tables. We are assembled deliberately. Because together i just realized we are dangerous.

A faint scream echoed from the door behind us. Beyond the door from the corridors we just walked. Then metal against stone. Soft. Dragging. Every head turned. It stopped. Silence swallowing it whole.

No one speaks. Isolde’s stance shifts subtly. Ivy’s gaze narrows. Sora’s butler takes a silent step forward. Alaric does not move.

“Structural settling,” Aurora says evenly.

“It’s a new wing,” Celeste adds, though her voice lacks conviction. This building is already testing perception.

Alaric breaks the silence. “Tomorrow we attend our first class.”

“And tonight?” Faye asks.

“Tonight,” he says, “we observe.”

Observe what? Each other? The architecture?The inconsistencies?

Lilith turns toward her corridor. “Sweet dreams.”

One by one, they retreat. Aurora without hesitation. Sora precise and silent. Isolde with Ivy lingering. Celeste after one final glance toward the corridor beyond the heavy metal doors. Faye squeezes my hand once before disappearing.

I remain beneath painted constellations. Alaric doesn't move. He fixes his gaze on me. I hadn’t realized how tall he was. Even in my heels, I only came up to his shoulders.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” he says.

“And you’re assuming too much.” I fire back.

A faint smile touches his mouth.

This time, a genuine one, albeit small. “This academy is not preparing us to inherit corporations.” I sound out. Even though i already know the answer.

“That’s obvious.” He humors me with a light laugh. His gaze flickers toward the heavy black doors as he takes off his grey suit jacket undoing the top two buttons of his white shirt in the process. “It is preparing us for something else.”

My breath catches watching him. I tear my gaze from him. “I know.”

He studies me then. Truly studies me his eyes roaming all over me. “And yet,” he says softly, “you came anyway Princess.”

“So did you.” I match his tone. But.....Princess?

A pause. Recognition passes between us. Not alliance yet.

Then he inclines his head and turns away, silver hair catching the low floor light like liquid mercury. His butler takes his coat as the disappear.

I stand alone beneath artificial stars breathlessly. The air feels heavier. Charged.

And as I step toward my corridor, pulse steady but elevated, I understand something with terrifying clarity. We were not here to compete for top inheritance. We are here because something beyond boardrooms and bloodlines is rising.

And they need heirs powerful enough, or expendable enough, to face it.

Or my imagination is working overtime.

Maybe?