The sky above Asterley Academy was a bruised shade of gray when Haera Sol stepped through the wrought-iron gates. Cold air brushed against her cheek like the whisper of an old memory, and the scent of pine and petrichor hung heavy in the air. Everything about this place felt too quiet—like a secret just waiting to be remembered.
She adjusted the strap of her bag and looked up at the towering stone archway. Carved into it were Latin words she didn't understand, but they felt strangely familiar. The campus looked like it had been stolen from a painting: all dark spires, ivy-covered walls, and narrow windows glowing dimly with yellow light.
Haera wasn't supposed to be here.
Asterley Academy was for the elite—their children, their legacies. Not for girls like her, who came from nowhere and had nothing but a scholarship and a strange string of dreams that made sleep feel like drowning.
A soft cough behind her broke her thoughts. A man in a charcoal suit stood by the entry, holding a clipboard. His face was sharp, but his voice was dull.
"Haera Sol? You're late. Orientation began an hour ago."
She gave a small nod. "Sorry. The train—"
"Excuses are for lesser institutions." He turned and walked briskly through the arch. "Follow me."
She did.
The inside of the academy was even more haunting. Candlelit hallways stretched like veins across the main building. Wooden floors creaked softly beneath her feet, and portraits lined the walls, their eyes following her. She felt... watched. Not in the way you do when someone's staring. No, this was different.
Like the walls themselves were remembering her.
The man with the clipboard—Mr. Alder, he finally introduced himself—led her to a massive room with cathedral ceilings. Other students were already seated in rows, dressed in pressed uniforms: black blazers with the school crest stitched in silver thread. Haera adjusted her thrifted sweater and tried not to shrink.
"Take your seat," Alder said.
She scanned the crowd for an empty chair. Only one was left—beside a boy sitting perfectly still, his fingers laced in front of him. His black uniform looked like it had never been touched by dust, and his dark hair fell across his forehead with impossible precision. He didn't turn as she approached. Didn't even blink.
She sat down slowly.
And then—he spoke.
"You came back."
Haera blinked. "Excuse me?"
The boy turned to her now. His eyes were an impossible shade of stormy silver, like ash and ice had been poured into them.
"I said," he repeated slowly, as if tasting the words, "you came back."
Haera gave a tight, awkward smile. "I think you've mistaken me for someone else."
"I haven't."
A chill passed down her spine, not from his words, but from how calmly he said them. Like he was talking to an old friend. Or a ghost.
The orientation began. A stern-looking woman welcomed them, spoke of Asterley's legacy, its expectations, its history of cultivating the best minds in the world. But Haera couldn't focus. Not with the boy beside her still watching her—not just glancing. Watching.
When it ended, he stood up without a word and walked off.
She tried to shake it off. Maybe he was one of those eccentric, rich kids who liked messing with newcomers. But when she stepped into her dorm that evening—a narrow room with tall windows and ancient wooden floors—she found something that stopped her heart.
A single white envelope sat on her pillow. No name. No stamp. Just a seal—an ash-colored wax crest she didn't recognize.
She opened it with trembling hands.
Inside was a note, written in neat cursive:
"This place remembers what you forgot. Be careful what you remember."
Haera dropped the note.
Outside, the wind howled, rattling her window. And somewhere in the distance… a boy with silver eyes smiled.