The morning broke in shades of grey.
A thin mist clung to the stone walls of Blackwell Academy, veiling the courtyard in something almost spectral. Ivy crawled up the ancient façade like veins on marble skin, and the gargoyles perched along the roofline dripped rainwater from the storm that had raged through the night. The air was damp, carrying the metallic tang of old stone and the faint perfume of wet earth.
Serena pulled her coat tighter as she stepped out of her dormitory. The building's heavy oak doors shut behind her with a groan, and for a moment she stood still, taking it in the gothic spires cutting into the pale sky, the way the school seemed less like an institution and more like a living, breathing relic. It didn't just house secrets; it was one.
---
Calle found her halfway to the Great Hall.
"You survived the night," she said with a smile that didn't quite disguise her yawn.
"Barely," Serena replied. "This place has a way of feeling… too awake, even when it's silent."
"That's just Blackwell breathing down your neck," Calle shrugged. "Come on. You should eat before first bell. But remember there are rules in the Great Hall."
The Great Hall was a cathedral disguised as a dining room. Light poured through high, arched windows, fractured by stained glass into muted blues and reds that painted the long tables. The air smelled of roasted coffee, butter, and something faintly spiced.
It didn't take Serena long to notice them.
At the far end of the room sat three girls on an elevated platform table Vanessa king, Clarissa lane and mia porter They were not whispering, yet their voices somehow felt louder than the rest. Their laughter was the kind that could draw blood. Vanessa, with her perfectly sleek hair and frostbitten gaze, scanned the room like a queen surveying her court.
Calle guided Serena to a table far from theirs.
"Upper table is untouchable," Calle murmured, pouring tea. "You don't talk to them unless they talk to you. And if they talk to you, God help you."
Before Serena could respond, the room shifted. She didn't notice him at first it was the reaction she noticed. Heads turned, shoulders straightened, conversations faltered.
Damien Hawthorne had entered.
He walked like he owned the ground underfoot like the marble was laid for him. Dark hair fell carelessly over his brow, his uniform slightly undone in a way that shouldn't have been allowed, yet no one dared correct it. His gaze swept over the hall, sharp and unhurried.
When it brushed past her, Serena looked away too quickly, pretending to butter a roll.
Calle caught her expression. "That," she whispered, "is the Devil of Blackwell. Don't give him a reason to remember your face."
---
Gothic Literature was her first class. Professor Aldridge, a tall man with ink-stained fingers and a voice like thunder muffled through velvet, spoke of Byron and Brontë as though they were living friends. Serena scribbled notes, trying to keep up with the tide of names, dates, and macabre anecdotes.
History of Aristocracy followed, then Art—her sanctuary.
The art room was tucked into the east wing, behind a narrow, arched doorway most students seemed to overlook. Sunlight filtered through stained-glass panes, scattering red and gold fragments across the wooden floor. Dust hung suspended in the air, glowing softly in the light.
She sat at the far table and began to sketch lines first, then shadow. The room's stillness wrapped around her like a warm coat.
Calle joined her, leaning on the edge of the desk.
"This place has teeth," she said, watching Serena shade the curve of a gargoyle's wing.
"I've noticed."
"They say Damien once got a student expelled just by speaking their name to the Headmaster."
Serena smirked faintly. "And you believe that?"
Calle's expression didn't change. "At Blackwell, every rumor has a root. You don't have to see the roots to know they're there."
She paused, her tone softening. "Stay out of his way, Serena. Trust me. That's how you survive here."
---
Evening settled early. On her way back to her dorm, Serena cut through the east courtyard. The mist had returned, curling low around the ankles of the stone benches. She slowed when she saw him Damien standing under the shadow of the Blackwell crest carved into the wall.
His head tilted slightly, as if sensing her, and for one sharp second their eyes almost met.
Almost.
He turned away without acknowledgment, walking toward the west gate with the unhurried confidence of someone who had never been told no.
Serena let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
Better this way, she told herself. Better if he never notices me.
But as she climbed the dorm steps, her pulse still refused to settle.