Chapter 7: The First Taste of Ashwood

NEXT MORNING

The sheets were yanked off my body with a suddenness that jolted me out of a dreamless, restless sleep and the cold air spilled over my skin like a slap.

“Get up, Aubrey,” Ingrid’s voice broke through the fog of half-sleep, sharp and impatient. “We’re already late.”

I groaned, dragging a pillow over my head. “Late for what?” My voice was hoarse, disoriented. For a fleeting second, I thought I was home—the familiar creak of the wooden floorboards beneath Ingrid’s steps felt like a sound I’d heard a thousand times before in another life. But the ceiling above me was too high, the air too cold, and the walls too silent. Then it hit me, the way a dream slips away and reality digs its claws in.

I wasn’t home.

Ashwood’s dormitory pressed in around me—strange, cold, and faintly smelling of lavender soap. The events of yesterday returned in fragments, heavy as stones. The assembly. The eyes. Atlas Blackwood.

“Breakfast,” Ingrid said, emphasizing each syllable as if speaking to a child. She flung open the curtains with a dramatic sweep. Pale light spilled into the room, muted, and soft as mist. “You do want to eat, right? Or are you planning to fast in honor of Atlas Blackwood’s glorious arrival?”

I sat up slowly, rubbing sleep from my eyes. “God, you’re relentless.”

She grinned, utterly unbothered, and tossed my uniform onto the bed in a crumpled heap. “You’re lucky, I’m your roommate. Left to your own devices, you’d sleep until noon and get kicked out for violating Ashwood rule on punctuality.”

I rolled my eyes but didn’t argue. My limbs were slow to respond as I stood and dressed, the uniform’s fabric stiff from newness. It clung uncomfortably to my skin, and the collar felt too tight around my throat. I fumbled with the buttons, still groggy, while Ingrid prattled on behind me, the cadence of her words quick and merciless.

“Aubrey, yesterday I didn’t ask about Atlas blackwood because you were tired, but now that you are well rested—so, what I need to know,” she said, her voice floating towards me as she braided her hair in front of the mirror, “is exactly how close you got to him. Like, close enough to smell him? Or just close enough to make eye contact and melt into a puddle of fear and hormones?”

I blinked at her reflection in the mirror. “Are you serious?”

“Deadly.” She tied off her braid with a silk ribbon that matched her uniform, looking far too composed for someone who’d dragged me from bed moments ago. “So? Spill. Did he smell like cedarwood and death? Or more like—I don’t know—smoke and dominance?”

My mouth parted in disbelief. “Smoke and dominance? Who even says that?”

She shot me a pointed look. “I do. Now stop deflecting.”

I slipped into my shoes with a sigh, trying to ignore the tight coil of anxiety that had returned to my stomach. “I wasn’t exactly cataloging his cologne, Ingrid. I was a little busy being, you know, pinned to a wall and accused of trespassing.”

Ingrid practically vibrated with anticipation as we left the room, her arm looped through mine before I could even process it. “You must’ve noticed something,” she insisted as we stepped into the corridor, our footsteps echoing against the stone. “How tall is he, really? Six-foot-two? Six-foot-three? What about his jawline? Sharp? Chiseled? Dangerous? And don’t even try to pretend you didn’t stare.”

I exhaled slowly, the memory of him pressing into the edges of my thoughts like smoke slipping through cracks in a door. “He’s... tall,” I said finally, “And his jawline is... fine.”

“Fine?” Ingrid gasped, scandalized. “That’s it? Fine? Aubrey, come on. You sound like you’re describing a piece of furniture. He’s a living legend.”

We descended the stairs slowly, the old wood creaking beneath our weight. A draft snaked up from below, curling around my ankles as we walked, making me pull my blazer tighter around myself.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I murmured, staring at the stained-glass window at the landing—sunlight catching on the colored panes, throwing fractured light across Ingrid’s face. “He was... intimidating.”

Her eyes gleamed with triumph. “Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.”

I shook my head, reluctant to give her more, but the words slipped out anyway, unbidden. “His voice—it was cold. Calm, but... controlled. Like everything he said was deliberate, like he didn’t waste breath on words he didn’t mean. And his eyes...” I trailed off, unwilling to speak the rest aloud.

Ingrid leaned in, hanging on every syllable. “And?”

I hesitated, the memory pressing down on me. “They were... strange. Like he wasn’t just looking at me—but through me. Like he already knew everything I was about to say before I opened my mouth.”

She let out a low whistle. “That’s hot.”

I scowled, and we pushed past the courtyard.

Ingrid, undeterred, continued as we crossed the threshold. “You’re lucky, you know. Most girls would kill for that kind of close encounter. And here you are, living the fantasy.”

I didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure what I was living with—but it didn’t feel like a fantasy… Not even close… It felt like standing at the edge of something vast and unknowable, like the world had tilted on its axis, and I was still trying to find my balance. Atlas Blackwood wasn’t just a name… and only I have encountered it.

As Ingrid and I stepped into the dining hall, a rush of sound and movement enveloped us like a wave—laughter, clattering cutlery, the scrape of chairs against stone floors. The vast space was alive with activity, the high ceilings catching the din and amplifying it, the stained-glass windows casting fractured patterns of gold and crimson across the long oak tables. The air was thick with the mingled scents of roasted meats, freshly baked bread, spiced fruits.

“Watch out,” Ingrid muttered beside me, grabbing my sleeve just in time to pull me aside.

I stumbled back, eyes widening as a tray of food…laden with what looked like smoked sausages, eggs, and a towering stack of pastries went flying through the air. It crashed to the floor, splattering across the stone, the silver platter spinning like a coin before clattering to a stop. My gaze snapped up just in time to see two boys at the center of the chaos, mid-transformation, their bodies jerking with uncontrolled energy, claws where fingers should be, their faces twisted in partial snouts, eyes glowing faintly with that eerie golden light. One of them snarled, knocking over another tray, the sound sharp and guttural, like something feral had been dragged into the heart of breakfast.

“Gods,” I breathed, frozen.

Ingrid, however, merely sighed. “First-years. Happens every year. They get too hungry, too eager, and the shift just... happens. Partial transformations are messy.” She stepped around the mess with the ease of someone who’d seen it all before, tugging me along by the wrist. “Let’s get food before the rest of them lose their minds.”

I followed her on autopilot, still reeling, my senses bombarded from every direction…

At the far end, long tables groaned under the weight of a breakfast spread that surpassed anything I could’ve imagined. Platters of golden croissants glistened with honey; bowls overflowed with ripe berries, their skins dewy and dark; pitchers of freshly pressed juices shimmered with enchantment, glowing faintly in the morning light. There were dishes I couldn’t even name—savory tarts with unknown herbs, cuts of meat still sizzling on enchanted serving trays, and a tower of confections dusted with something that sparkled like frost.

“Welcome to breakfast,” Ingrid announced with a grin, thrusting a plate into my hands. “It only gets more ridiculous from here.”

I could hardly believe the variety, my eyes flitting from one dish to the next like a starving child at a royal banquet. I hesitated for a moment, overwhelmed, before finally reaching for a still-warm scone, the buttery scent making my stomach twist with hunger. Ingrid, meanwhile, was already piling her plate with practiced ease, balancing fruits, pastries, and a generous helping of eggs and bacon with the precision of a seasoned warrior.

“Don’t be shy,” she said, nudging me. “You’ll need the energy.”

“For what?” I asked, distracted as I added a slice of what looked like enchanted apple tart to my plate.

“You’ll see.”

We wove through the crowd, the tables arranged in long, regimented rows, the students seated in what seemed like a carefully maintained order. It wasn’t until we settled into an empty bench—tucked near the edge of the room but with a clear view of the main tables—that I realized something was off.

My eyes, almost unconsciously, scanned the room,searching for him. For the dark hair, the sharp lines, the inked skin beneath rolled sleeves. But Atlas Blackwood was nowhere to be seen.

“Looking for someone?” Ingrid asked, her voice light but knowing.

I didn’t answer immediately. My gaze lingered on the high table at the front of the room, where a few older students sat with an ease that bordered on arrogance. They didn’t speak much, just watched the room like sentinels. My attention shifted back to Ingrid, who was already biting into a croissant, her eyes dancing.

“He’s not here,” I said finally, quieter than I intended.

“No,” she agreed, “He won’t be. It’s rare for him to come here. He mostly stays alone. That's when yesterday, he showed up in the assembly hall. Everyone was surprised he showed up.”

I frowned, but she was already continuing, her voice lowering as she leaned in. “Everything at Ashwood Academy is based on hierarchy. Bloodline. Power. Legacy. The way people sit, the way they eat, who they speak to—it all revolves around status.”

I blinked, glancing at the tables again. Now that she’d said it, I could see the differences. The closer you sat to the front, to the high table, the more attention you commanded. The students there weren’t just older—they were elite, surrounded by a kind of deference that was palpable. The rest of us, scattered toward the back and sides, barely registered in their world.

“Students are seated based on where they stand,” Ingrid continued, voice smooth, her fork poised delicately over a piece of fruit. “Legacy families, bloodlines with influence, Alpha heirs—they get the front. The rest of us? Back row. And scholarship students?” She smirked. “ You are barely even on the map.”

I swallowed, the food suddenly feeling heavier in my hands.

“In the beginning, it’s subtle,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the room. "But give it time. You’ll see how deep it goes. Classes, dorm assignments, who you’re allowed to challenge—it’s all tied to the Order. And the Blackwoods?” Her gaze darkened. “They sit at the very top. Atlas doesn’t have to eat here. He chooses when to appear. If he’s not here, it’s because he’s above it.”

I stared at my plate, the morning sun catching on the silver cutlery, the hum of the dining hall pressing in around me. Everything about this place—the grandeur, the hierarchy, the unspoken rules—felt like a prison. ... Atlas Blackwood wasn’t here. And part of me wasn’t sure if I was relieved... or disappointed.

Before I could dwell longer on Atlas’s absence or the sharp glances exchanged at the high table, something else tugged at my attention—