All Chapters of Ashwyck Academy for the Damned: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

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 someo

Isadora:After class, Loralie chirped something about the pool—something ridiculous involving “fresh air,” “clearing energy,” and “recharging by sunlight," all the wholesome things a golden siren needs. I nodded politely, trying not to roll my eyes, while clutching my newly gifted belladonna plant like it might anchor me to reality.“I’m going to drop this off,” I said, tilting the small black pot toward her.She beamed, tossed her hair, and flitted down the path into the mist like some unbothered woodland sprite. I, however, preferred the shade—the hush of it all.The corridors were blessedly quiet. No giggles. No squeaking shoes. No thrum of magic from careless first-years tossing spells into the air like confetti. Just the groan of old floorboards and the occasional whisper of wind pressing against ancient stained glass. Perfect.My room was hidden in the north wing—unfashionable, forgotten. Faded wallpaper curling at the corners, a warped mirror haunted by echoes of past residents

ISADORA:Ashwyck didn’t feel like a school.It felt like a warning.Dark, brooding architecture curled skyward like it wanted to pierce the clouds. The hallways smelled like rain on stone and secrets half-whispered. Shadows moved where they shouldn’t. Light flickered like it was nervous.Lunch, apparently, was no better.When I stepped through the towering double doors of the cafeteria—if you could call it that—I saw Loralie waiting near the archway, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. She offered a tight smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.“You survived your first half of the day,” she said cheerfully, falling into step beside me.“Yeah, I didn't get murdered, unfortunately. That counts for something, right?”“Absolutely.”She wasn’t kidding. Probably.The dining hall opened wide like a cathedral—vaulted ceilings, cold chandeliers dripping with blue fire instead of warmth, and black stone floors that reflected just enough light to make you feel disoriented. Everything

Isadora:Accult History was held in the east wing of Ashwyck, buried in a stone hall with Gothic windows that spilled grey light over long oak desks. The room smelled like ink, iron, and old secrets. It reminded me of a tomb that still remembered the warmth of those buried in it. Appropriate, I supposed, for a class about the first interspecies wars and the Blood Accord that birthed the High Table.I took a seat at the back. Last row, far corner. My spine pressed against the cold wall, notebook open, pen poised. I hadn’t spoken to anyone since lunch. Loralie had gone off to Divination. I had walked here alone, footsteps echoing.Safe. Contained. Alone.Exactly how I needed to be.The professor hadn’t arrived yet, but that didn’t stop the buzz of spellbound notes zipping through the air, students laughing too loud, brushing too close. Power hung in the room like perfume. Legacy kids making themselves known—flickers of magic like arrogant fingerprints on everything they touched.I breat

Isadora: All I wanted was quiet. To be alone. After everything today—Loralie’s incessant cheer, Professor Malric’s dangerous insinuations, Rhett’s unbearable smoldering heat—I needed silence like a wound needed air. Open. Honest. Raw. The moon was full, swollen and pale as bone. It followed me as I wandered without direction, letting my boots echo against the worn cobblestones of Ashwyck’s ancient paths. The night was colder here, heavier. Like the campus had taken a breath and hadn’t exhaled. Past the bell tower with its silent chimes. Past the conservatory where shadows clung to the glass. Past the enchanted hedge maze, whispering secrets only madmen or moths would chase. And then I found it. A graveyard. Because of course the school for the damned came with its own necropolis. The wrought iron gate groaned like an old man as I pushed it open. It gave, reluctantly, swinging just wide enough for me to slip through. The headstones stood like broken reminders in crooked rows. S