The mountains, peaks piercing the sky, surrounded the Reichenbach Academy like a fortress. The academy itself, a structure of black towers adorned with burgundy banners, stood as a testament to centuries of history, its gates older than most kingdoms.
Xavier Thorpe stepped out of the large black SUV with tinted windows. It was his father's idea; he said it was a sign of luxury and status. Xavier's hood was pulled low, covering his light brown shoulder-length hair, sketchbook pressed to his chest, as he ignored the sideways glances.
The assistants his father had sent to help with move-in day worked quickly, grabbing his trunk from the back of the car, along with suitcases filled with paint-stained clothing.
He could hear the whispers over the frantic movements and the slow murmurs from Alice, his father's main assistant. That's Thorpe. The accused. A year ago, he would've snapped back, tried to prove them wrong. Now he just kept walking, jaw set, eyes fixed on the arch of the gate as Alice continued on about schedules and trying to maintain appearances this year.
That being accused of murder was "bad for optics." Optics. Not once had his father asked if he was okay. But Xavier had known better by now that that's what to expect.
Victor, Xavier's father, had pulled him out of Nevermore the moment the school year had ended, shipped him across the ocean, and planted him here in the Swiss Alps, not for his son's sake, but for the tabloids.
Xavier took a pause, studying the arch just above the gate like a mystery that had been waiting to be solved. A fractured spiderwebbed through the carved crest, jagged and imperfect.
His pencil was out before he realized it, sketching the broken lines with compulsive accuracy. Alice's voice dulled to a drone, drowned by the swell of students greeting friends with laughter and shouts.
Friends.
He wondered if Ajax was still pulling stupid pranks, if Enid had finally made things official with him. He wondered if Wednesday had read any of the letters he sent. Enid's blog was the only tether left to that world—snippets of people he cared about, but couldn't reach.
The graphite lines narrowed his focus, pulling him into rhythm, until his sketch smudged against someone's shoulder.
Xavier blinked and pulled back just in time to avoid plowing her over. She barely came up halfway to his chest, short against the looming gates of Reichenbach, yet she held her ground as if the cobblestones belonged to her. A battered suitcase was dragged behind her, its wheels catching in the uneven stone.
Dark red hair spilled from a messy braid, strands escaping to frame her face. Gold glinted at her fingers, at her ears, at her throat, where a vial of blood swayed with every movement, catching the gray mountain light. Eyes followed it before they followed her. Whispers tangled at the edge of Xavier's hearing.
Vampire, he thought automatically.
He'd seen others at Nevermore wear vials like that, tokens filled with the blood of partners or friends. But on her, the symbol read differently. It held a sharper, heavier meaning, one that Xavier couldn't quite decipher.
"We'll meet you up at your dorm, Thorn."
The voice carried from the crowd. A tall woman with long, black hair streaked with silver-gray, as her hand lifted in an absent wave while she moved with the throng.
The girl glanced back over her shoulder. "Okay, Mamá."
The word was casual, but her voice was flint. When she turned back, her eyes caught his for a beat too long, measuring, unflinching. Thorn... fitting.
"You planning to stare at walls all year, or people?" she asked, her tone dry enough to cut through the noise.
He blinked at her, defensive instinct kicking hard. "At least walls won't judge me," he muttered, low, as if hoping she wouldn't hear.
But she did, something in her expression shifted, interest sparking where he expected disgust. Instead of looking away, she tilted her head, studying him. "Fair point."
Students gave her a wide berth as she walked ahead of him, whispering hybrid the same way they had whispered accused at him, and for a moment, he didn't know what he was looking at.
Hybrid? Xavier faltered. Vampires weren't supposed to be hybrids. Not that he knew of.
She yanked the suitcase over a rut and glanced up, catching him staring. One brow arched.
Xavier froze mid-step as a shoulder slammed into her next, deliberate and hard. A werewolf student bared his teeth, growling low enough to turn heads.
"Watch it, Hybrid Freak."
Xavier felt the word like a stone thrown at him, too, even though it wasn't meant for him. Thorn straightened but didn't lash back, her fists clenched tight, knuckles whitening.
Before he could think better of it, he stepped in front of her. "Back off," he said, voice edged with something sharp. "Or you'll regret it."
The werewolf sneered but kept walking, muttering under his breath.
Thorn crouched to fix her suitcase, then looked up at him with a half-smirk. "Didn't think I needed a knight in charcoal-smudged armor."
Heat prickled at his ears. He ducked behind his sketchbook, pretending to fix a line that wasn't there.
Her smile widened, a half-smirk, half-dare as she turned and started down the path toward the dormitories. North Wing. The same wing Xavier had been assigned.
"Hey, where are you headed?" The words slipped out before he could stop them, curiosity breaking through the armor of silence he'd worn since stepping out of the SUV.
She glanced over her shoulder, eyebrow raised. "My dorm?" Her voice carried no explanation, just the blunt weight of fact, before she tugged the battered suitcase harder across the stones.
Xavier blinked, fumbling for something else to say, but the moment collapsed around him. His father's assistants swept past in a flurry of suits and clipped instructions, and when he turned back toward the crimson-haired stranger, she was already gone.
Left staring at empty cobblestones, Xavier exhaled hard and dragged a hand through his hair. The hood slipped back, cool alpine air cutting across the sweat at his temples.
He sighed. One more person to wonder about in a place already thick with whispers.
"Xavier."
Alice's voice came quietly but firmly. Her long, pale fingers rested on his shoulder for a beat before he fell into step beside her. "Your new uniform has already been delivered to your dorm. Please try it on to ensure it fits."
He rolled his eyes, but followed as she steered them along the central path.
The campus patio unfolded around them, alive with students gathered in clusters. Fangs flashed in laughter, wolves shouldered one another in low growls, sirens sang out in melodic bursts that tangled with smoke from stoners lounging on the stairs. Seers passed by with glazed eyes, muttering half-prophecies. Outcasts, like at Nevermore, yet sharper here, more dangerous, as if the mountains themselves demanded it.
"Reichenbach Academy is known for its prestige," Alice said, her smile tight. "But also its danger."
They turned toward the looming North Wing, banners snapping overhead.
"The dorms are co-ed, though the rooms are not. You are to take your studying seriously. Reichenbach produces the strongest of our kind. Every type of outcast leaves here at the top of their game."
Xavier barked out a laugh without humor. "So that's why my father shipped me here? Because his loser psychic son can't get a grip on his visions?"
"Xavier." Alice's tone sharpened. "You know why you're here."
The heavy door creaked open as another student held it for them.
"It's a fresh start," she continued, "away from the stench of those murder allegations in Jericho."
He took the stairs two at a time, jaw clenched. "Right. A fresh start where everyone already seems to know my name."
Two men in pressed uniforms were already inside his room, setting down trunks and stacking canvases against the wall. His gaze snagged on the closet, where a uniform hung waitingly.
It was more collegiate gothic than prep school, dark burgundy and black, embroidered crests catching the dim light. Gold piping edged the lapel, pocket seams lined with precision. Buttons gleamed, polished enough to reflect his scowl.
"Is there a school-issued hoodie?" Xavier asked over his shoulder.
Alice's smile faltered. She sighed softly. "It's on your bed."
Xavier turned.
The hoodie lay folded neatly, its fabric heavy and rich burgundy, which absorbed the low dorm light. Black ribbing gripped the cuffs and hem, the hood lined in the same shadow-dark fabric. Drawstrings tipped with glints of metal hung like fangs.
On the left breast sat the crest: a bold R embroidered in gold so fine that it caught fire when the light hit, circled by a laurel wreath. It was a mark of victory, a testament to centuries of scholars who came before.
Prestige. Expectation. Pressure woven into every thread.
Xavier stared at the hoodie for a long moment before setting his sketchbook on the bed beside it. He picked the garment up, thumb brushing over the embroidery.
"Fancy," he muttered.
Behind him, one of the uniformed movers dropped a heavy storage bin onto the floor with a thud that rattled the frame of his bed.
"Hey—" Xavier crossed the room quickly, palms flattening against the lid before it could bounce open. He pried it back and checked inside, heart climbing into his throat.
Glass jars of paint. Brushes bundled with twine. A battered box of charcoal sticks. The familiar reek of turpentine clung to everything. All intact.
He exhaled, soft and shaky, and replaced the lid more carefully than the movers ever could. Straightening, he looked back at Alice.
"How are the art programs here? Clubs? Studios?" His arms folded across his chest, voice edged with something brittle.
Alice's expression barely shifted, but her hesitation said enough. "This academy isn't exactly known for its art, Xavier."
The words landed like a stone in his gut.
"Of course it's not…" His laugh was low, humorless. He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze flicking to the untouched canvases stacked in the corner like they already didn't belong here. Like contraband that had snuck its way through.
Alice's heels clicked against the floor as she approached, her tone calculated and calm. "Reichenbach doesn't cultivate hobbies. It cultivates strengths. Outcasts leave here honed, dangerous, and prepared. Whatever distractions you've carried from Nevermore… let them go. For your sake and your father's"
He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to argue. What was the point? His father's hand was behind every word she spoke.
Instead, he turned back to the uniform laid against his closet, its threads heavy with expectation. "Guess I'll just sketch the walls, then," he muttered, not bothering to hide the bitterness.
Alice didn't reply. She only tore a page from her clipboard and extended it toward him.
"Your schedule."
Xavier took it between two fingers, careful not to let their hands brush. His eyes flicked down the course list, skimming over names that meant nothing to him.
"They have archery," Alice offered, tone lighter, as if dangling bait. A small, hopeful smile ghosted across her pale face.
Xavier's expression didn't move. He just nodded once.
"Cool."
The steady thrum of wheels echoed from the corridor, suitcases dragged across the uneven stone, voices bouncing between the high, cold walls. Students settling in, the North Wing filling with strangers.
"Is there anything else you need before we go?" Alice asked, taking a careful step closer.
Xavier shifted back immediately, widening the space between them. "No. Thank you, Alice. You can go."
His voice was flat, final.
She studied him for a moment longer, eyes searching for something he wouldn't give, then she inclined her head. "Very well. I'll let your father know you're settled." Her heels clicked against the floor as she left, the door swinging shut with a muted thud behind her.
Silence pressed in.
Xavier laid the schedule on his desk, then sat heavily on the edge of the bed. The hoodie lay beside him, the crest catching dim light like a brand. He ran a thumb across the gold thread again, wondering if he'd ever wear it without feeling the weight of all the eyes, all the whispers.
With a low groan, he pushed it aside and flopped back against the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his long frame as he dragged his sketchbook into his lap, fingers smudged gray from charcoal. He flipped past pages of fractured lines and half-finished faces until he found a clean sheet.
The pencil hovered above the paper.
For a moment, the dorm pressed down on him; too clean, too sterile, every inch humming with someone else's rules. But the second the lead touched the page, the walls loosened their grip. His hand moved on instinct, fast and unthinking, carving shadows into shape.
At first, it was just lines. Slashes of graphite, jagged angles that split across the page. Then they began to tangle into the familiar architecture of the gate outside, the cracked crest looming heavy at the center. The fracture line spread wider under his hand, darker, more violent than it had been in stone.
He pressed harder, the pencil biting into the page. The sound of it scratching filled the room, steady, insistent, drowning out the muffled footsteps in the hall and the faint chatter from below.
When he finally stopped, a shiver crawled across his shoulders. The drawing stared back at him: the Reichenbach crest split wide, the laurel wreath broken, shards scattered like teeth.
Xavier dropped the pencil onto the open page and leaned back against the wall, chest rising and falling too fast.
Some welcome to Reichenbach.