The ferry cut through gray waters like a blade through silk, leaving a wake that disappeared within seconds. Kael Morrison stood at the railing, watching Crimson Peak Academy emerge from the morning fog—a fortress of glass and steel rising from an artificial island, beautiful and terrible in equal measure.
Fifteen years. Fifteen years since he'd last seen anything connected to his family's world.
The salt air stung his reconstructed face, a reminder of the fire that should have killed him. The surgeons had done excellent work; even his uncle wouldn't recognize him now. Victor Morrison thought his nephew died screaming in that burning mansion. Let him keep thinking that. Ghosts were more dangerous than living enemies.
"First time at the academy?" A voice beside him—cheerful, curious. A young man with expensive clothes and an easy smile. The kind of person who'd never known real hardship.
Kael glanced at him briefly. "Yeah."
"I'm Marcus Vale. Second year. You look like you could use a friendly face." Marcus extended his hand. "Fair warning—this place eats nice people alive. The ranking system is brutal."
Kael shook his hand, careful to seem appropriately nervous. "Kael. Scholarship student."
Marcus winced sympathetically. "That's rough. They don't make it easy for scholarship kids. But hey, keep your head down, work hard, maybe you'll break into the top hundred by graduation."
*Keep my head down. If only you knew.*
"Thanks for the advice," Kael said, injecting just enough uncertainty into his voice. The role required him to seem ordinary, forgettable. A nobody from nowhere, grateful for any scrap of kindness from his betters.
The ferry docked with a metallic groan. Students streamed off, separating immediately into visible hierarchies. The children of ancient clans walked with absolute confidence, servants carrying their luggage. Legacy students—those from wealthy but non-clan families—clustered in groups, trying to appear equally important. And then the scholarship students, maybe thirty out of three hundred, carrying their own bags and avoiding eye contact.
Kael shouldered his single duffel and joined the latter group. Everything he owned fit in one bag. Everything that mattered, anyway. The rest—the evidence, the weapons, the carefully forged documents—was already on the island, hidden in dead drops his master had arranged months ago.
The academy's main entrance was designed to intimidate. Massive doors of dark wood, carved with symbols of the five ancient clans that had ruled from shadows for generations. Morrison. Blackthorn. Steele. Vale. Chen. Their crests intertwined like a promise or a threat.
Kael's jaw tightened seeing the Morrison crest—a dragon consuming its own tail, representing eternal dominance. His father used to say it actually represented their family's tendency toward self-destruction. His father had been right about a lot of things.
*I'm coming for you, uncle. For all of you.*
"Attention!" A woman's voice cut through the crowd's murmur. Professor Elena Cross stood on the entrance steps, her silver hair pulled back severely, her expression colder than the morning air. "I am your Combat Instructor. You will address me as Professor Cross or ma'am. Nothing else."
The students fell silent immediately.
"Crimson Peak Academy operates on a ranking system," Professor Cross continued. "Your rank determines everything—your living quarters, your meal privileges, your training access, your future. There are three hundred students. Currently, you have no rank. That changes today."
She smiled, and it wasn't friendly. "Welcome to the Proving Grounds. You have seventy-two hours to establish your worth. The top fifty will receive Apex privileges. Ranks fifty-one through one hundred are Shadows. Below one hundred..." She shrugged. "Pray you're useful for something."
Whispers rippled through the scholarship students. Kael had researched this, but hearing it stated so bluntly was different. The Proving Grounds had sent students to the hospital every year. Two years ago, someone died during the combat trials.
"Your first trial begins in one hour," Professor Cross said. "Report to the Crucible Arena in training gear. Anyone late is automatically ranked last." She turned and walked away, dismissing three hundred lives with a wave of her hand.
The crowd scattered, students rushing toward their assigned dormitories. Kael followed the scholarship group to the southern wing—the oldest, least maintained section of campus. His room was small, barely larger than a prison cell, with a narrow bed and a metal locker. The window overlooked the training yards where upper-year students were already sparring.
He watched them for a moment, analyzing techniques and identifying weaknesses. The tall one favored high kicks but left his midsection exposed. The woman with the blade preferred speed over power, telegraphing her attacks with shoulder shifts. Amateur mistakes dressed up as elite training.
*They've been taught to fight each other, not real threats. They've never faced someone who actually wants to kill them.*
Kael had. Many times.
He changed into training gear—plain black clothes that allowed movement. From his locker, he retrieved a simple knife, legal under academy rules for the trials. It wasn't the weapon he preferred, but it would do. His real weapons would come later, once he'd established himself as unremarkable.
The Crucible Arena was underground, accessible through a network of tunnels that seemed designed to disorient. Kael memorized every turn, every exit, every sight line. Information was survival. In fifteen years, that lesson had been carved into him with scars.
Three hundred students gathered in the massive circular chamber. The floor was sand covering concrete, stained dark in places where blood had soaked through. Weapons lined the walls—training equipment, supposedly, but Kael noticed several had actual edges. The Proving Grounds weren't entirely simulated, then.
Professor Cross stood in the center with three other instructors. "Trial One," she announced. "Free combat. Last thirty standing pass. Use any weapon, any technique. There are no rules except this—if someone yields, you stop or face expulsion."
*No rules. Perfect.*
"Begin!"
Chaos erupted instantly. Three hundred students are attacking each other with desperate violence, everyone trying to avoid being among the eliminated. Kael moved immediately to the arena's edge, letting the crowd thin itself. The panicked ones would fall first—those with no strategy, just fear.
A young man rushed at him with a training staff, screaming. Kael sidestepped, used the attacker's momentum to throw him into two other fighters, and kept moving. No need to waste energy on pointless conflicts.
He watched the real threats emerge. Near the center, a woman with short black hair was systematically dismantling opponents with brutal efficiency—no wasted movement, every strike designed to incapacitate. Rank contender, certainly top twenty. On the opposite side, a massive student with clan markings on his forearms was simply overpowering everyone through raw strength.
And there, commanding a small group with tactical precision, was someone Kael recognized from his research. Aria Blackthorn. Pharmaceutical heiress, ranked seventh in the previous year's standings. She moved like someone who'd been fighting her entire life, reading the battle like a chess match.
*She's good. That complicates things.*
Twenty minutes in, half the students were down. Kael had avoided confrontation, deflecting attacks and positioning himself strategically. But someone noticed his survival.
"You!" A student with a clan crest Kael didn't recognize pointed at him. "You've been dodging fights. Let's see how you do against me."
The arena quieted slightly as others noticed. The student was tall, confident, and clearly expecting an easy victory against a scholarship kid.
Kael raised his hands peacefully. "I yield."
Laughter erupted from multiple directions. The student's face flushed with anger. "You can't yield before we fight, coward!"
"Sure I can," Kael said calmly. "You're better than me. No point getting hurt." He lowered his hands and started to turn away.
The student attacked anyway, honor or pride demanding a demonstration. The punch came fast, aimed at Kael's head.
Kael's hand moved faster—not the full speed his master had trained into him, but enough. He caught the student's wrist, twisted just enough to lock the elbow, and swept his legs. The student hit the sand hard, gasping.
"I said I yielded," Kael repeated, releasing him and stepping back. "That was self-defense."
Professor Cross's voice cut through the stunned silence. "Acceptable. Continue."
Kael melted back into the crowd, but he felt eyes on him now. Aria Blackthorn was watching with calculation in her expression. The woman with black hair had noticed too.
*Too flashy. Control yourself.*
The trial ended with exactly thirty students standing. Kael was among them, having fought only when necessary. He'd revealed competence but not mastery. Just enough to survive without attracting real attention.
As they filed out, Marcus Vale appeared beside him again, grinning despite a split lip. "Not bad for someone who wanted to keep his head down. That wrist lock was clean."
"Got lucky," Kael said.
"Sure." Marcus didn't sound convinced. "Hey, some of us are getting food before the next trial. You hungry?"
Kael hesitated. Making friends wasn't part of the plan. Friends asked questions. Friends got close enough to see through masks.
But isolation was suspicious too.
"Yeah," he said finally. "Food sounds good."
As they walked toward the dining hall, Kael caught a glimpse of a portrait hanging in the corridor. Former academy headmasters, dating back decades. And there, in a photo from twenty years ago, stood Professor Magnus Thorn, younger but unmistakable.
The man who'd signed his parents' death warrant.
Kael's hands clenched briefly before he forced them to relax. Not yet. Not nearly yet.
Marcus was talking about the other trials, speculating about rankings, completely unaware that the person walking beside him had already killed twelve men and was planning to kill several more before the year ended.
*Keep playing the role. Be patient. Ghosts don't rush.*
The ghost had waited fifteen years. He could wait a little longer.