CHAPTER THREE

The ceiling soared impossibly high above us, arched in pale stone veined faintly with gold. Suspended from it were geometric chandeliers—tier upon tier of rectangular and circular structures interlocked like celestial machinery.

Light fractured through them in shards, scattering across polished marble floors and silk-draped tables like splintered stars.

The marble beneath my heels gleamed cream and flawless, reflecting distorted silhouettes of heirs and heiresses who stood too straight and spoke too little.

The gold-embroidered chair felt heavier than it should have, its carved arms cold against my palms. My fingers trembled before I could stop them. I clasp my hands together under the table, pressing my knuckles tight until the shaking eased.

I cannot show weakness. Not here. Not in front of them. My blazer suddenly felt less like tailored perfection and more like armor—stitched with expectation, lined with legacy. I lift my gaze slowly. Directly across from me.

His hair falls in a cascade of liquid silver, long and impossibly soft-looking, catching the fractured chandelier light like threads of moonlight. It frames a face too ethereal that it feels sinful to look at. Lashes long enough to soften the sharpness of his gaze. At first glance—beautiful. At second—calculating.

His hands are folded neatly before him, posture immaculate, expression unreadable. He isn’t looking at anyone in particular. But it feels like he is looking at everyone. Appraising, measuring And deciding.

My eyes drop—carefully—to the name card in front of him. Just for confirmation.

Alaric Veyne.

The Veynes own the skies. Public fleets, private aircraft, classified corridors of airspace that governments pretend not to notice. There is nowhere on earth you could land without brushing against their shadow.

Veyne Air. Veyne Corporation.

And the rumors—the quiet, untouchable rumors—of a mercenary arm powerful enough to destabilize nations if they choose to.

Even my family’s intelligence division has found nothing concrete after years of searching. Anyone who got close is snuffed out. Which means whatever they are hiding is either brilliant or terrifying. Alaric does not blink. As if he already knows I am thinking about him.

To his right, a laugh spills into the air. Bright. Musical. Effortless. I read the card.

Faye Marlowe leans back in her chair, copper curls tumbling over one bare shoulder, green eyes dancing with mischief as if this entire gathering is a private performance staged for her amusement.

Opera royalty.

The Marlowes have commanded stages for generations. Their voices could fill cathedrals without amplification. Their names alone could sell out entire seasons. She catches my gaze and winks at me again. As if we shared a secret. I am not sure whether to feel chosen—or targeted.

Next to her sits Sora Han. Stillness personified. Her dark hair is cut precisely at her jaw, sharp as a blade making her look like a finely polished blade. Her posture was perfect, not stiff like steel but not relaxed either. Controlled and calculated. Behind her stands her butler. A mirror. When Sora adjusts her shoulders, the girl adjusts hers a heartbeat later. When Sora folds her hands, so does she. It isn’t obedience. It is synchronization.

The Han conglomerate spans continents—technology, shipping, infrastructure, energy. Entire economies move because Sora’s family wills it. She doesn’t need to speak. The world already listens.

Further down sit Isolde Hartley. Her name card stands alone. Her twin doesn’t not need one. Isolde’s chin is lifted slightly, sharp gaze forward, like someone who has grown up around things that ended arguments permanently.

The Hartleys manufactured firearms.

Not small ones. Not decorative ones. Weapons governments purchase quietly. Rumor has it they have secret nuclear weapon plants.

Behind her stands Ivy Hartley, identical in feature yet utterly different in presence. Where Isolde is blade-forward, Ivy is shadow. Her gloved hands are folded neatly behind her back, eyes moving not erratically, not obviously but constantly. Her presence is barely contained by her butler status.

I have the unsettling realization that if anyone in this room survives everything that was coming in this place it would be Ivy.

Aurora Whitford lounges two seats away, blonde hair falling in immaculate waves over a tailored cream dress that probably hasn’t been released to the public yet. Or its probably just her private collection that no one in the worlds has access to.

Fashion empire. Apparel monopoly.

Influence stitched into every runway and red carpet. She examines the hall like a critic judging a mediocre collection yawning in the process. But boredom, I realize now, is her camouflage.

Only women inherit the Whitford empire. That alone means the public-facing narrative was incomplete.

Besides Alaric sits Celeste Briar.

Her fingers toying absently with a silver pendant at her throat, movements precise and fast, almost surgical. Her brown eyes are warm—genuinely warm—but tension pulled faintly at her shoulders. Her posture is riddled with timidness. Like she wants to fold into herself.

Both her parents are renowned surgeons.

Miracle hands, the underground called them. There are whispers of a hospital that treats injuries no legitimate institution would touch. No questions asked. No records kept. A neutral hospital for every clique of society. They are respected in society. Protected beneath it.

Messing with the Briars is a death sentence.

Celeste does not look like someone who enjoyed the spectacle of legacy though. It's expected since she wasn't born into one. Therefore it must be because she is exceptionally gifted at bringing people from the dead like her parents.

And then—

Lilith Ashbourne.

She sits close enough that I can feel her presence without looking directly at her. It's magnetic. When I do, violet eyes met mine—calm and amused. But under all that amusement, there's a predatory tint. Her expression a soft smile that does not reach her eyes.

The Ashbournes did not control corporations. They controlled connections. Underground networks. Information. Debts. There were no public balance sheets for her empire. Only consequences. Behind her stands her butler. Brown-haired. Slim. Unremarkable. I try to memorize her face but when I look away, I couldn’t recall it.

My pulse ticks up. We are not gathered randomly. Selection implies limination.

Crystal glasses chime as sparkling water is poured. The sound echoes too loudly in the vaulted hall. Somewhere across the room, another table laughs too hard. Someone else wasn’t laughing at all.

Alaric leans forward slightly, resting one elbow against the table.

“We are acquainted, I presume,” he says softly. His gaze drifts allover us.

I take a sip of my sparkling water. It tastes bitter. I place the glass back on the table.

His voice carries effortlessly. “No need for loud declarations.”

No one replies. He already knew who we are. Of course he does. I guess we all got folders.

A sharp voice slices through the hall.

“First-year heirs.”

Every head turns towards the balcony above. A woman stands there in black. The same one who did the welcome announcement. Now i clearly look at her. She looks about mid forties, hair in a severe bun. Composed and immaculate.

“Welcome to Blackthorn Sovereign Academy.” The name settles over us like a verdict.

“You are the next lifeline of this world. Gathered with purpose.”

A pause.

“This will not be an ordinary college experience. This is a battlefield. You will prove you are worthy to inherit what you were born into.”

My hands tighten under the table.

“The penalty for failure to graduate within three years—”

The chandeliers seem to hum with the tension of her deliberate pauses.

“—is death.”

The silence does not fall. It fractures.

Somewhere behind us, a glass slips from someone’s hand and shatters against marble.

No one moves to clean it. My pulse roars in my ears.

Death?

Not metaphorical. Not academic expulsion. Death.

Faye’s smile falters—but only slightly. Its humorless now. Sora does not move at all. Its almost like she's petrified. Isolde’s expression sharpens almost imperceptibly. Aurora stops pretending to be bored. Celeste’s fingers still against her pendant. The colour drains from her face and her lips part a little. Lilith smiles like a gambler enjoying the high stakes. Alaric just looks on unaffected.

Do not react, I tell myself. Do not give them the satisfaction.

“I am Headmistress Valeria Blackthorn,” the woman continued smoothly. Like she just didn't hand us death warrants. “You will attend all classes. Three absences result in execution.”

A faint cry sounds from another table.

“You will not commit murder on school grounds.”

Interesting phrasing.

“No drugs.”

A beat. "Once you enter this academy, you either leave in glory or return as a fallen soldier with honors. Take your pick" Her eyes scan the hall with a satisfied smirk.

“That is all. Good luck.”

The microphone clicks off. And for a moment, no one breathed.

Then a second voice rings out, artificially cheerful. She looks younger than the Headmistress, late twenties probably in an elegant pink pant suit.

“Sleeping arrangements are behind your name cards. Enjoy the remainder of your day. Classes begin tomorrow.”

I flip my card.

Alpha Hall.

My vision blurs for half a second. My head spins. Alpha Hall is reserved for the most strategically valuable heirs. The most powerful. The most dangerous. I look up slowly. Every single person at the table is staring at me.

“Alpha Hall,” Lilith repeats softly, savoring each syllable.

Faye clapped her hands lightly. “Oh good. We’re all rooming together. How domestic.”

I scan the table again. Alaric is watching.Not amused. Not surprised. Just satisfied. As if this outcome had already been calculated, decided and he knew the end game.

The stained-glass window at the far end of the hall caught my attention again—sunlight pouring through fractured images of humans battling something monstrous. Shapes drawn in gold and shadow. Limbs too long. Eyes too hollow.

A shocking realisation dawned on me. This school is not preparing us for board meetings. It is preparing us for war. And someone has chosen us specifically to fight it.

The chandeliers shimmer overhead. Servants move silently. Students whisper in panic. But at our table, no one cries, no one begs to be sent home, no one asks questions. We are heirs.

We have been trained our entire lives to survive hostile takeovers. This is simply the most literal one yet. We walked into it ourselves.

And as I sit here beneath fractured light and gilded ceilings, surrounded by empires disguised as distressed teenagers and youths, i understood something cold and certain.

This was only the first move. And one of us, at this table will not make it to graduation. Therefore, my parents fears were quite literally manifesting infront of me.