The iron gates of Graymoor Academy yawned open like the jaws of some ancient beast. They creaked as if groaning under the weight of secrets buried deep within the school's towering walls. Cassian Vale stood before them, his fingers curled tightly around the strap of his weather-worn duffle bag, eyes fixed on the intimidating crest above the gate—a coiled serpent wrapped around a rose. Latin words etched in gold beneath it shimmered beneath the morning sun: Lux in tenebris vincit. Light conquers darkness.
Cassian knew better.
Graymoor wasn't about light.
It was about power.
And the darkness always had teeth.
He stepped forward, his black boots crunching against gravel as he entered the elite sanctuary where heirs and heiresses of the nation's richest families were polished into royalty. Cassian Vale, scholarship student, ghost of a fallen name, didn't belong.
But he was here anyway.
The courtyard was immaculate. Students buzzed around in sleek uniforms, navy and silver trimming that seemed to shimmer when they moved. Some wore their ties loose, others sharp and perfect. Luxury cars still idled along the curb, chauffeurs unloading luggage that probably cost more than Cassian's life.
Eyes found him immediately. Not because he looked shabby—his uniform was standard, pressed and clean. But he moved differently. Like he didn't want to be seen, but refused to shrink.
Whispers followed him like shadows:
"That's him."
"The Vale kid? No way."
"Didn't his dad, like, kill someone?"
"More than someone. A lot of someones."
Cassian kept his head high, jaw clenched. He knew what they said. Hell, he'd memorized the articles by heart.
Crime Lord's Son Granted Scholarship to Graymoor: A Publicity Stunt or Redemption?
The Fall of the Vale Dynasty: Murder, Money, and Madness.
Inside the main hall, marble columns soared upward like they were trying to escape the sins of those who walked beneath them. An enormous chandelier hung overhead, dripping with crystal and menace.
The administration office smelled of polished wood and old money.
"Cassian Vale?" a clipped voice asked.
He turned. A woman in a pinstripe suit held out a digital tablet. She looked him over like a stain on her schedule.
"Sign here. You'll be in House Obsidian. Room 403. Your roommate is Elliot Grayson. I suggest you stay out of trouble."
Cassian signed. No questions.
As he turned to leave, she added, "They know who you are. Don't provoke them."
He paused, glanced over his shoulder, and offered a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"What if they provoke me?"
She didn't respond.
Room 403 was at the far end of the Obsidian wing—a sharp, modern dorm building with sleek dark panels and soundless automatic doors. The moment he stepped in, he was greeted by music playing softly from a speaker and the warm scent of expensive cologne.
His new roommate was already there.
Elliot Grayson.
Curly blond hair. Pierced ears. Legs crossed over the back of a leather chair, phone in hand, and not a single care in the world.
He looked up and grinned.
"And here I thought they were joking. They really did put a Vale in Graymoor."
Cassian dropped his bag on the bed nearest the window.
"Hope I don't disappoint."
Elliot snorted. "Oh, you won't. You're the best scandal we've had in years."
Cassian said nothing. He began unpacking.
"Relax," Elliot continued, standing. "I'm not one of those assholes. I'm the fun kind. Also… kinda fascinated by you. Your dad was like the godfather of Eastbridge. Half the faculty probably paid him off at some point."
Cassian looked up slowly. "Do you always talk this much?"
"Only when nervous. Or excited. Haven't decided which one you make me yet."
He didn't smile.
Elliot did. "You'll love it here. Unless Ares Mikhailov decides he doesn't like you. Then you'll hate it."
The name was a needle in his spine.
Cassian met his eyes. "Ares?"
"The king of Graymoor. Son of the city council's overlord. Controls more people than the headmaster. He's... intense. And extremely hard to read."
Cassian didn't blink.
Ares Mikhailov.
The boy behind the curtain. The one whose name was whispered in every courtroom when Cassian's father fell. The one he came here for.
"So stay out of his way," Elliot said. "And if he looks at you? Look away. Unless you want to die dramatically."
Cassian turned to the window. His reflection stared back at him through the glass—a stranger wearing his name.
"What if I want him to look?"
Elliot's brow arched. "Then I suggest you get good at surviving."
Orientation was held in the Assembly Dome, a half-glass structure overlooking the lake. Sunlight poured in, making the polished floor glow.
Students sat in clusters by house. Obsidian. Argent. Garnet. Cerulean. Each more elite than the last.
Cassian kept to the side.
And then the temperature shifted.
Ares Mikhailov entered.
The dome fell to a hush.
Tall. Composed. Black-gray uniform tailored like armor. His hair, a glossy black curtain, swept to the side. Cold green eyes scanned the room like a predator measuring meat.
He walked past rows like a crowned prince—greetings whispered, people shifting to make space. But he didn't speak. Didn't smile.
And when his eyes fell on Cassian—
they paused.
For just a second.
And Cassian… stared back.
Neither looked away.
A spark. Cold. Electric. Dangerous.
Then Ares looked to the front. Sat down.
Cassian exhaled.
Elliot leaned in. "He looked at you. Holy shit."
Cassian said nothing.
But in his mind, old memories were stirring. The sound of fire. His mother's screams. His father's blood.
And one name repeated again and again.
Mikhailov.
He was in the right place.
Graymoor was a chessboard.
And Cassian Vale had just made his opening move.
Pomp, speech, rules: codes of conduct, hierarchy, tradition. He sat stiffly while parents clapped politely, cameras clicked, other students whispered about the scholarship scandal, the symbolism.
After the ceremony he floated back to Obsidian wing. Every footstep measured. He passed portraits of past Obsidian icons—tycoons, senators, mafia overlords—frozen in gild frames.
Ares's portrait held pride of place. The caption read: Ares Mikhailov – Class of '24 – undefeated duelist champion.
His pulse hammered.
Night fell. He unpacked books, old family journals, a single photo hidden beneath pages—his mother smiling in a red dress next to a younger version of Cassian, father looming in back. He kissed her cheek in silence.
Elliot knocked: "Late-night snack? Or gossip session?"
Cassian closed the photo. "Neither."
Elliot shrugged. "Suit yourself. Just don't let me be the only late-night company."
Lights buzzed out. Hallway went dark. Cassian lay in the soft bed, muscles tight, brain racing.
He had one thought: the city council meets in a week. The gala is in two. And he was here—right where his enemies played.
He slept fitfully. Loud doors closing, whispered footsteps below. A distant laugh, a muffled curse. His dreams dreamt of glass breaking, sirens wailing, neon lights cutting through smoke.
In that dream he felt eyes on him—pacelike, calculating.
He woke. Breath ragged. Checked time: 2:13 a.m.
He gazed at the window, framed by noiseless steel. Courtyard below empty as grave.
And there, reflected in the glass behind him: a second silhouette.
Tall. Sharp shoulders. A face half-obscured in shadow.
Eyes glowed faint green.
Cassian swallowed.
He nestled deeper in the duvet.
He didn't sleep again that night.