Three days later, I stood before the mirror in my walk-in closet, adjusting the collar of a perfectly tailored blazer. The reflection staring back looked every inch the young aristocrat, white hair styled with casual precision, red eyes sharp with intelligence, pale features arranged in an expression of polite disinterest.
Perfect.
Downstairs, the family had gathered to see me off. Marcus straightened my tie with paternal pride. Victoria fussed over imaginary wrinkles in my jacket. Lydia rolled her eyes at the display but couldn't hide her smile.
"Remember," Marcus said, "confidence without arrogance. Intelligence without condescension."
"And don't forget to smile occasionally," Victoria added. "You have a lovely smile when you use it."
Lydia snorted. "He doesn't smile. He has facial expressions ranging from 'mildly interested' to 'contemplating murder.'"
If only she knew how accurate that was
'Attachment is weakness' the old part of me whispered. 'Gods stand alone, we conquer alone'
But I wasn't a god anymore, was I?
The car ride to Whitmore Academy was peaceful.
As we pulled up to the imposing gates, Gothic architecture soared toward grey clouds, and perfectly manicured grounds stretched as far as the eye could see. I watched students in expensive uniforms move between buildings, their conversations a mix of academic discussion and social maneuvering.
I stepped out of the car and felt dozens of eyes turn my way. Whispers followed in my wake as I walked toward the admissions building.
"Is that him? The Blackthorne heir?"
"I heard he's some kind of genius..."
"Those eyes... kind of creepy, right?"
"He looks like he could kill you with a glance."
I allowed myself a small smile. They had no idea how right they were...
The admissions office was all polished wood and leather-bound books. Behind an antique desk sat a woman in her fifties, her grey hair pulled back severely and her dark eyes sharp with assessment.
"Mr. Blackthorne," she said, rising to shake my hand. "I'm Dean Margaret Ashford. Welcome to Whitmore Academy."
Her grip was firm, her gaze calculating. This wasn't just an admissions interview, it was an evaluation.
The question was, what exactly were they evaluating me for?
"Thank you for seeing me, Dean Ashford," I replied, my voice carrying just the right note of respectful confidence.
She gestured to a chair across from her desk.
"Please, sit. I've reviewed your academic records, and I must say, they're quite impressive. Perfect scores across the board, recommendations that border on effusive, and research papers that would be remarkable for a graduate student, let alone someone your age."
"I enjoy learning," I said simply.
"So I see. Tell me, Mr. Blackthorne, what draws you to Whitmore specifically? Your family's wealth could secure admission to any institution in the world."
Here it comes. The real question, hidden beneath polite inquiry.
"I'm interested in... unusual subjects," I said carefully. "Theoretical frameworks that most institutions consider too speculative to pursue seriously. I understand Whitmore has a more... flexible approach to unconventional research."
Something shifted in her expression, a flicker of interest, perhaps even approval.
"And what sort of unconventional research interests you?" her gaze searching for a crack in my Composure
I met her gaze steadily. "Structural anomalies in modern architecture. The intersection of mythology and applied physics. The psychological effects of environmental pressures on human development."
Tower studies, without saying the word.
Dean Ashford leaned back in her chair, studying me with new attention. "Those are very specific interests for someone your age. What sparked this... curiosity?"
"I believe the world is more complex than most people realize," I said. "There are forces at work that conventional science can't explain. I want to understand them."
"Even if that understanding comes with certain... responsibilities and sometimes even consequences?"
There it is. The coded language that meant they knew exactly what I was really asking for.
"Especially then," I replied.
She was quiet for a long moment, then reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a leather-bound folder. "Mr. Blackthorne, Whitmore Academy offers a very particular type of education. Our students are expected to maintain the highest standards of discretion regarding certain aspects of their coursework. Are you prepared for that level of commitment?"
They're recruiting Tower researchers. Probably have been for years.
"I understand the value of discretion, Dean Ashford."
"I believe you do." She opened the folder and slid a paper across the desk. "Welcome to Whitmore Academy, Mr. Blackthorne. Classes begin Monday. Your schedule is attached, along with a list of required reading materials."
I glanced at the course list. Mixed in with standard subjects were the classes I'd expected
Environmental Anomaly Research, Advanced Structural Analysis, and something called Practical Applications of Theoretical Impossibilities.
Perfect.
"Thank you," I said, shaking her hand again. "I look forward to beginning my studies."
[Objective Complete: Academy Admission Secured]
[New Objective: Begin Intelligence Gathering Phase]
[Warning: Try Not to Accidentally Intimidate Teenagers With Your Divine Presence]