Am I crazy for wondering how it would feel to behead a man with an axe? or to stomp on one's heart, literally?
My head sinks into the mess of papers sprawled across my study table, ink bleeding into margins, notes overlapping like tangled thoughts. I've been working for hours, but none of it sticks. The words blur, the formulas dissolve, and my mind drifts—slipping into that quiet space where logic fades and emotion takes over.
It's peaceful. The night. I've always loved this hour, when the moon casts its soft glow and the world finally shuts up. There's something sacred about the silence—like the universe is holding its breath. Most people sleep through it, poor souls. They miss the beauty of this stillness, the way the wind brushes against my face as I lean toward the window and watch the city fall asleep. This is when I feel most like myself. The day demands too much—performance, perfection, poise. But the night? The night lets me unravel.
I'm heavy with everything I've bottled up. Thoughts I didn't have time to think. Feelings I didn't dare feel. And just as I'm sinking into that familiar 3 a.m. haze, my phone buzzes—sharp and sudden. I flinch. I swear I had it on Do Not Disturb. I always do.
I reach over, fingers brushing the charging cable, and grab it. A flood of DMs lights up the screen. I scroll through them absently, not really reading, just scanning. Who even are these people? Then I see it—right at the top.
afluent.ice..
How did I miss that? He's sent his usual good night text. I leave it on seen, like I mostly do. Not because I don't care. But because it's not him. Not the one I wish it was. And somehow, that makes the silence feel louder.
Anyways, it's way past my bedtime. Which should be around 12 according to my parents. But I happen to extend it to my liking often.
I jump on my bed, tired from all the stress of the day. The bed feels empty, though it's not like there was ever a time it wasn't. The ceiling holds a nice fan. There are plenty of knives in the kitchen. The pills are always there. I just remembered I have an assignment to submit tomorrow. At this point, I'm willing to think about anything but give in to my intrusive thoughts.
Things at school are tough. Academy isn't just a school—it's a kingdom tucked into the mist-veiled countryside of Britain, where ivy climbs ancient stone and silence is stitched with power. Reserved for the elite, it gleams with perfection: marble corridors, tailored uniforms, and a curriculum designed to shape future rulers. But beneath the polished surface, it's a battlefield. Two factions dominate the social order. The Obsidians—fierce, commanding, heirs to syndicates and empires—are experts in physical strength, sports, and aggression. They don't just play games; they conquer them.
Then there's us—the Savants. We are the tacticians, the scholars, the ones who lead with intellect and influence. Necole and I didn't inherit our thrones—we earned them. Wealth gave us access, but brilliance, beauty, and presence secured our power. We decide who joins, who stays, and who gets voted out.
Even ordinary students walk these halls—those without legacy or fortune—but they learn quickly: survival here demands more than ambition. You need grades, reputation, money, and a mind sharp enough to cut through silk. Ravencourt doesn't forgive weakness. It watches, waits, and devours. Rivalries between factions simmer beneath the surface, alliances form when necessary, but the real danger isn't the groups—it's the people inside them. Secrets rot behind designer smiles. Betrayal wears perfume. And power? It's the most seductive poison of all. This place isn't for the weak. It's for those who were born to rule—or willing to burn everything to get there. One misstep, and even we could lose everything.