The corridors of Le Rosey were alive with whispers as we walked toward our first class. It wasn't just our beauty that turned heads; it was the shimmer of obsidian beads on our ankles, gleaming darker than shadow. Students parted naturally, like the tide retreating before a storm.
The teacher was already inside when we entered, chalk in hand, pausing mid-sentence as the three of us stepped across the threshold. The room hushed. Dozens of eyes shifted toward us, but we barely noticed. Our attention had been held elsewhere. Near the middle row sat three girls. Their uniforms were neat but plain, their hair modestly styled, their beads unmistakable—bronze. Their presence should have made them invisible in a room where gold and silver thrived. Instead, the world narrowed to them alone. For a heartbeat, our gazes locked. Something wordless passed between us—curiosity, recognition, hunger. Their eyes widened, not in fear, but in something softer. Their bronze beads should have doomed them to the bottom of the hierarchy, yet to us, they glowed brighter than gold.
Without speaking, we moved, our heels clicking against the polished floor as we crossed the classroom. Every step seemed to echo, heavy with defiance. The only empty seats near them waited, and we claimed them without hesitation.
Whispers broke out immediately.
"Did you see where they sat?" a silver girl hissed.
"Next to the bronze? Impossible."
"They could sit anywhere—why them?"
The teacher cleared his throat, visibly shaken but forcing composure. "Welcome, Marinos." Please… take your notes. We have a lot to cover today."
We opened our notebooks, pens gliding smoothly as though nothing unusual had happened. The lesson was simple—political history, the rise of bead-coded societies after the Great Division. But our focus was not entirely on the board. Every so often, one of us stole a glance sideways, eyes lingering on the bronze girls' lips, the way their fingers tightened around their pens, the faint blush coloring their cheeks.
For the first time, they weren't invisible. They were unforgettable.
The rest of the class sat in silent awe, stunned by the choice we had made. Everyone in the world knew the unspoken law: when an obsidian showed interest, that person became untouchable. Not even a king, not even the president himself, would dare interfere. To do so would be suicide—literally. The power behind obsidian beads stretched so far that even the most heavily guarded palace could be reduced to rubble overnight. One order, one command, and bombs would erase anyone who dared defy us.
That was how it had always been. That was why no one dared move, no one dared whisper too loudly. They knew: if the triplets of the Marino family wanted bronze, then bronze would rise above all else.
Still, the tension hung heavy. Gold girls shifted uneasily in their seats, realizing in an instant how fragile their carefully constructed hierarchy was. Silver boys clenched their jaws, torn between envy and lust. And at the back, a group of seniors leaned against the wall, their golden beads glittering in the light. Their eyes were sharp, calculating, already revising strategies of alliances and marriage proposals.
Yet, at that moment, none of it mattered. The bronze girls kept their eyes forward, but their faces betrayed them. A flicker of surprise. A hint of longing. Fear, yes, but also something deeper—hope. We took notes diligently, acting as though we didn't notice the storm of emotions swirling around us. But inside, we knew the truth. Something had shifted today. Something irreversible. When the bell rang, the classroom erupted into noise. Chairs scraped, books slammed shut, whispers multiplied. But no one dared approach us. No one dared approach them. The bronze girls gathered their books carefully, their hands trembling slightly as they stood.
We rose too, slow and deliberate, shadows stretching long across the desks. As they walked past, the faintest brush of fabric against ours sent sparks racing through our veins.
Obsession. That was what it was. Pure, consuming obsession.
And as the bronze girls disappeared into the hallway, we knew that whatever paths lay ahead at Le Rosey, they would not be ordinary. We had chosen whether we admit it aloud or not. And the world—gold, silver, and bronze alike—would bend or break because of it.