The bell sounded like it had been forged in some old cathedral—deep, echoing, judgmental. I followed the flow of uniforms into the Assembly Hall, feeling like a thread sewn into the wrong tapestry. The ceilings stretched so high they could've touched the clouds. A grand chandelier hung over polished oak benches, flickering with real candles.
Everyone knew where to sit—except me.
Rows of students separated themselves by invisible lines, gathering into four main groups marked by banners that hung from the walls like ancient battle standards.
Alder, with a green stag on a silver field.
Wolfe, blood red and bronze, a snarling wolf's head.
Corvin, black and indigo, with a crow in flight.
And Roswen, all white and gold—clean, royal, cold.
No one had explained this system to me.
I hovered awkwardly at the back until a girl waved me over. Not the glossy one from the car—this one had messy curls, round glasses, and a cardigan way too soft to be regulation. She slid over and patted the bench beside her.
"You're sitting with Corvin now," she whispered. "Sorry. It's a little like getting sorted into a house, except it's less about personality and more about politics."
I blinked. "That makes no sense."
"I know. You'll get used to it. I'm Petra. Third year. Chronic disappointment to my family, but very good at baking."
I cracked a smile, tension easing slightly.
"Corvin's kind of the 'miscellaneous weirdos' group," Petra added brightly. "Wolfe's for legacies. Alder's for heirs. Roswen is basically royalty. So congrats, you're with the artists and outcasts. You'll like it."
My eyes swept the room again.
Julian Alden stood near the Roswen group, surrounded by people who looked like they'd never sweat in theirt lives. His uniform fit like it had been tailored that morning. When he stepped onto the low platform at the front of the hall, the buzz of conversation quieted like a spell had been cast.
The Headmistress nodded toward him.
Julian began to speak.
---
"I'd like to welcome all returning students and new arrivals to Ravencroft's 183rd year," he said, voice steady, clear, annoyingly perfect. "A place where excellence is demanded, and character is revealed. Where we don't just learn what to think—but how to hold power with care."
A few girls sighed, audibly.
"Tradition is our foundation. But we also honor progress. Especially this year." His eyes scanned the hall, then—very briefly—they flicked to mine.
I looked away too quickly.
"May the walls of Ravencroft hold you," he said, "but never confine you."
Applause followed. Polite. Controlled.
Petra leaned over and whispered, "That sounded noble, didn't it? Almost like it wasn't complete PR."
"Is it?"
"Oh, definitely PR. Julian was born for it. The Aldens have been grooming him for Oxford and Parliament since he learned to walk."
"And he's a student here?"
"He's everything here," she said, voice dropping. "Top marks, Head Prefect, dating a Belgian duchess, heir to the Alden estate. Oh—and rumored to be part of The Velvet Order."
I frowned. "The what?"
Petra smiled. "Secret society. Super elite. Invite-only. Mostly heirs and old bloodlines. They host secret parties and run half the school from the shadows. Probably apocryphal, but fun to gossip about."
"Do you believe it?"
"I believe Julian's capable of whatever he wants to be," Petra said. "Which is almost worse."
---
After assembly, classes began.
I didn't speak much that day. The teachers were brilliant in the way dry lightning is brilliant—striking and dangerous. Everyone else moved like they already knew where to go, what to say, who to avoid. I wasn't part of anything yet.
Except the whispers.
They followed me.
The new girl.
American.
Scholarship.
She was staring at Julian.
Julian stared back.
I wanted to crawl into my blazer.
By lunch, I'd managed to locate the library, the art wing, and at least two unused staircases. It was in one of those—spiraling, ancient, smelling of stone and dust—that I heard a voice behind me.
"I wouldn't look so curious. They eat curiosity here."
I turned.
Theo Moreau.
Leaning against the banister like he'd been waiting for hours.
Dark curls fell in his eyes. His sleeves were rolled up again, a pencil tucked behind his ear. And in his hand was that same sketchbook from the night before.
"You don't talk to people much, do you?" I asked.
He considered that. "Not when I can help it."
"You're doing it now."
"You're an exception."
I folded my arms. "Why?"
He looked at me then—really looked. "Because I know what it's like to feel watched. Judged. Wondering if you're being seen or studied."
My breath caught slightly.
He stepped closer.
"Julian doesn't look at people the way he looked at you."
"You said that already."
"I'll keep saying it."
He handed me something. A sheet from his sketchbook.
I looked down—and saw myself, drawn in pencil and shadow. My hair a bit messy, eyes uncertain, head turned toward something unseen. The likeness was haunting.
"You drew me?"
"I draw things I don't understand," he said.
"And you don't understand me?"
"Not yet."
He turned and left without another word.
---
That night, while unpacking the last of my books, I dropped one behind the bed. As I reached to pull it out, my fingers brushed against something rough etched into the floorboards.
I crouched down, brushed away the dust, and read the words carved carefully into the wood:
> Don't trust the ones who smile.
I sat back slowly, spine pressed against the wall, heart suddenly too loud in my ears.
Welcome to Ravencroft.