CHAPTER TWO

Blackthorn Sovereign Academy did not admit students.

It inherited them.

I have known this ever since I could remember. Only legacies are welcomed here, children of families whose names were etched into history, wealth, power.

Though occasionally, in recent years, exceptions were made. The academy made some exceptions. Very rare exceptions of gifted children whose talents surpassed extraordinary bounds, were invited—but even they were tested, evaluated, measured against the standards of the Academy. Only the godly learn here. And only the exceptional taught here.

The campus was situated further in after the Inverness castle that overlooked the River Ness and Old City town we left behind.

It rose atop a cliff that overlooked a silver lake, the kind that reflected the sky so perfectly it looked as though the heavens themselves had descended to rest upon the water. The castle was the main visible building. Its towers, carved from imported marble and black stone, gleamed under the early morning sun, rising taller than any structure in most cities. Smaller mansions and other buildings obscured by the fog despite the sun were in sight.

They carried a weight of history older than some countries, an age that whispered secrets through the ivy climbing the walls in deliberate, geometric patterns. The ivy was trimmed weekly by groundskeepers whose salaries outstripped those of surgeons in many hospitals, their precision perfect, as if they were sculpting the estate itself or so that is what my parents told me.

Every student arrives with a lineage.

And a butler.

Not the gray-haired, gloved, silent kind found in old novels and TV shows.

These attendants were children trained from birth in etiquette, discretion, and loyalty. They were from heir heritages themselves bred to serve. They were shadows, stepping a half-beat behind their assigned heirs, polished and poised, moving as if their existence depended entirely on the movements of the one they served. Each heir was assigned a butler at birth; we were their entire world, and they were ours. If you could not afford your own staff, you did not belong.

I watch from the rolled-down window as the sunlight strikes my white blazer, blindingly bright, a shield against the world. The badge of the school on my blazer establishing the fact I belonged here. Born to be here.

I am here. I have been groomed all my life for this trial. I was born exceptional and all I have to do is prove it here. I let out a small breath. Even then, the anxiety of factors beyond my control gnaws at my mind. Decisively fueling my anxiety.

Cassian, leaps out of the car, smoothing his charcoal sleeve in the process. He walks around to the back and opens the door the before the Genesis G90 had even fully stopped.

I step out of the burgurndy vehicle as though the world had been waiting for me. My black and red heel hits the polished black marble of the driveway first, veins of silver glinting beneath, and I felt its chill shoot up my spine. Cassian takes my hand gently, his touch firm yet deferential, guiding me forward out of the car into my own battle arena.

“Welcome, Miss Vale,” he said softly, almost reverently. I start taking in my surroundings.

Across the marble courtyard, other heirs arrive in waves. Trust fund royals with imperious airs. Political dynasties disguised as innocents. Corporate empires paraded in the guise of families. And above us, carved into the stone archway, the words glare down at me like a decree:

LEGACY IS LAW.

I take a slow breath, letting the words sink in as Cassian guides me past the arch. He doesn’t let go of my hand, not yet, not until we reach the first step of the vast staircase. The marble here gleames under the golden rays, impossibly smooth, polished to a reflection.

I turn my gaze back to the arrivals. Just like me, no heir is accompanied by parents. It's all cars, butlers, driver and old nannies at best.

Then something catches my eye. Something that makes my breath hitch as various files run through my mind.

An Obsidian bentley parks a few meters away—but it isn’t the car that draws my attention. A boy. A silver-haired boy. Not pale blond. Silver.

Hair that shimmers as though spun from moonlight, tumbling carelessly over his shoulders, catching the sun in a way that makes it look almost metallic. His face is sharp well-defined cheekbones, a strong jawline, and a well-sculpted nose. Very symmetrical. Too perfect in a way he is less a product of inheritance and more like something constructed by meticulous design.

Even from this distance, his eyes draw me in. Too light, not blue, not gray. Cold and piercing. Like they dissect everything in the way. They meet mine briefly, and something in my chest twists.

It wasn’t attraction. It wasn’t fear. It was recognition. I finally know him.

I look away before I could dwell on his otherworldly looks, desperate to quell the unease that has rooted itself inside me on top of the anxiety. But as he passes me to ascend the staircase, my heart almost runs out of my ribcage. His pressure chokes me.

More cars arrive, a procession of luxury vehicles, every child emerging like a jewel polished by circumstance.

A redhead catches my attention next. She emerges from a vintage cream Rolls-Royce with a gold platted M on both sides. Copper curls tumbling perfectly over a structured emerald coat. Her green eyes sparkle like spring leaves in sunlight, open curiosityand glee reclected in them. Freckles dot her cheeks delicately, almost artistically. She laughs at something whispered by her butler —a sound so light, so musical, it dances in the air magicallydispensingthe heavy atmosphere. I find myself lingering on her laughter longer than I should have as if enchanted. She hooks her arm into her butlers and gestures towards the archway positively beaming. I wretch my gaze away from her alluring existence as she passes me. She winks. I gasp involuntarily.

An Asian girl steps out from a pearl-white limousine next. Dark hair cut to a severe, elegant line at her jaw, her foxy eyes weep over everything. Her movements precise and deliberate. Her butler follows like a mirror, each step shadowing hers, perfectly synchronized. There is a stillness to her presence, a calm power that demands attention without asking for it. I feel a certain friction as she runs are eyes all over me before ascending too.

A pair of identical brunette twins emerge from a Blue Mercedes S580 next. Ocean blue eyes, noses sloped in symmetry, brows matching perfectly. One wore the academy heir crest; the other, gloves and silence, walking half a step behind. They move as a unit, yet one was heir, one shadow. The subtle difference was fascinating. I couldn't help but look on in intrigue as the passed me. I thought it was an error in the files.

A tall blonde descends from a gold-trimmed red Audi. Crystalline blue eyes bored into the world around her. Tan skin, legs for days. Boredom seemed her constant companion, but even so, she radiated an air of dominance and entitlement, that made lesser heirs shrink in comparison. Her movements in stride were so fluid and mesmerising you couldn't help but be drawn in. She walked a goddess who barely graced mere mortals.

Another brunette emerges. She steps out of a seemingly unimpossing black sedan. She was unremarkable with zero prescence. But thats exactly why she caught my attention. In the courtyard of brewing storms, she alone looks like a lonely sunny island. She looks softer, her brown eyes seem warm. She glances around her nervously. In a place full of ice gazes and genetic stoicism, her warm and timid air seem out of place. Her male butler is close beside her as she takes small steps. Like he was shielding her. Unlike the others, she glances back at him before ascending the stairs, as if seeking reassurance.

A purple Mclaren Artura coupe rolls around. The roar of the engine dies down. Then a dark-haired girl emerges from the drivers seat. Her hair falling like ink to her waist, and violet eyes struck like amethysts under storm clouds. Not contacts. Not trick of light. Violet. Deep and vibrant like purple lightning tearing open midnight skies. When her gaze meets mine briefly, the air between us tightens, like the seconds before a storm tears the sky open powerful and unforgiving. She casually tosses the keys to her as she ascends the marble stairs.

A bell rings overhead, deep and resonant, echoing through the stone halls and across the lake. The academy doors open deep with with a decisive creak. I start up the steps to the splitting stairway. I take a sharp left entering a large cavernous hall.

“First-year heirs,” announces a tall woman in obsidian robes, voice smooth as glass. “Welcome to Blackthorn Sovereign Academy.”

I walk slowly, each step measured, heels clicking sharply against the marble. We are ushered inside by men in impeccable dress, who moved like wraiths along the edges of the hall. One of those positions himself infront of me and Cassian. We follow the wraith wordlessly.

The Grand Hall did not resemble a school at all. It resembled a coronation.

Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings painted with scenes of conquest and myth. Round tables, draped in ivory silk, stretched beneath banners embroidered with gold thread. Each place setting held etched crystal, sterling cutlery, and name cards embossed in black wax.

The air smells faintly of roses… and something metallic, something sharp beneath. The wraith infront of us disappears.

I slowed when I saw my name:

VALE, LYRIA — TABLE IX.

Cassian pulls out the gold-embroidered chair, and I sit, lifting my gaze.

The silver-haired boy is already seated. So is the infectious redhead, the foxy asian girl, one of the twins, the blonde goddess, the warm brunette, and the violet-eyed girl. All at the same table.

No one speaks. Not a word. Silence stretches like a taut wire between us. It isn’t coincidence. Someone must have arranged this. It is selection.

The silver-haired boy leans back slightly, eyes flicking over each of us, calculating, weighing, observing. “They’ve chosen,” he murmurs, a low, dangerous whisper that seems to pull the air from the room.

My stomach tightens further.

“Chosen for what?” the redhead asks lightly, her voice fragile in the cavernous hall. The hushed whispers around don't seem to reach us.

The boy’s gaze shifts toward the far end of the hall, where a massive stained-glass window depicts a war scene. Humans fought something monstrous, something shadowed and unfamiliar. Creatures of myth? The details blurred as though the artist had intentionally left them indistinct, and the scene seemed alive, writhing in the colored light reflected through. He does not answer. It is as if he has not heard her at all.

I shiver, not from cold, but from the realization that nothing here was ordinary. Nothing is left to chance. And for the first time, I wondered if the world outside this academy, the world I had known, had ever existed at all. Weren’t Mother's cries and Father's fears unfounded?