The mist clung to Blackwell like a second skin that morning, swallowing the sharp edges of the gothic towers until they looked like jagged shadows pressed against a pale sky.
Serena sat upright in bed, breath caught in her throat, the remnants of a dream dissolving into the cold air. In it, she'd been standing on the west courtyard steps, the gargoyles leaning forward, their stone mouths curled in knowing smirks. The image refused to leave her, lingering in her mind like an omen.
She rubbed her arms, trying to shake the unease away, but it clung stubbornly. Her second day at Blackwell Academy had already began.
A sharp knock on her door pulled her from her thoughts.
"Up, sleeping beauty!" Calle's voice called from the hallway, sing-song but impatient. "You don't want to be late. Trust me."
Serena sighed, dragging herself out of bed. She dressed quickly, pulling on her blazer and smoothing her skirt before opening the door to Calle's expectant grin.
The corridors were alive with the low hum of chatter, the scent of strong coffee drifting from somewhere down the hall. As they walked, Calle leaned in conspiratorially.
"Just a heads-up," she murmured. "Vanessa King and her shadows, Clarissa Lane and Mia Porter, are already in the courtyard. And you know how they get when they're bored."
Serena's stomach tightened.Calle leaned in, lowering her voice. "So… did you pick Blackwell, or did it pick you?"
The question had been asked before but she avoided it and now calle was asking again almost as if it was conspiratorial. Serena hesitated. "I picked it. Why?"
Calle shrugged, but her gaze flicked to the vaulted ceiling like she was watching for ghosts. "Just wondering. Some people say the school has… ways of drawing the right people in."
"Sounds like superstition."
Calle's lips curved. "Maybe. Or maybe not."
She went on to talk about her own first year the confusion of finding classes hidden in staircases that didn't exist the day before, professors who seemed to know things she'd never said aloud. Then, casually, as if it weren't the most unsettling thing she could say over breakfast, Calle mentioned the Gothic Gala.
It's an invite-only event," she said, stabbing her fork into her eggs. "Held in the old library. The Hawthorne family hosts it, and let's just say… people who attend aren't quite the same afterward."
---
History of Aristocracy was the kind of class that smelled faintly of parchment and polished wood. Serena took a seat near the middle, determined to blend in. The professor, however, had other ideas.
"Miss… Vale, is it? Stand, please. Tell us what was the decisive factor in the Treaty of Blackwell, 1824?"
Dozens of eyes turned toward her. She could feel them weighing, measuring. Calmly, she recited the answer, her voice steady despite the sudden heat creeping up her neck.
When she sat down, there was a ripple an almost imperceptible shift in the room. It wasn't just curiosity. It was… interest.
---
Between classes, the hallways seemed to narrow. Students brushed past in their pressed uniforms, but one figure broke away from the flow—a tall boy with pale, aristocratic features and a smirk that didn't reach his eyes.
"You're Vale," he said, not asking.
Serena tilted her head. "And you are?"
"Someone who knows you should be careful about whose attention you catch." He stepped closer, his voice low enough to be a warning but not a threat. "Damien Hawthorne notices things. And once he does, it's too late to undo it."
She held his gaze until he stepped back, lips twitching into something almost like amusement before he walked away.
---
Her last class ended early, and she took the wrong staircase—at least, she thought it was wrong. The stone corridor opened into an abandoned section of the east wing. The air was colder here, the light dimmer.
On the far wall hung a massive, dust-covered portrait. The Hawthorne family, painted in intricate detail, stood like monarchs of some forgotten empire. One man in the center—a sharp jaw, cold gray eyes—looked so much like Damien that Serena's skin prickled.
When she turned to leave, the hall was empty. But when she got back to her dorm, a folded slip of paper lay on her desk.
Careful where you wander.
---
Calle found her staring at it. The color drained from her face.
"Serena," she said quietly, "there's only one person in Blackwell who leaves messages like that."
Serena didn't answer immediately. Her gaze stayed on the slip of paper, her thoughts tangling in silence. She had only been in Blackwell Academy for two nights—two—and already she was attracting the devil's attention. That wasn't why she came here. She hadn't crossed state lines, left her old school and her old life, just to end up tangled in something darker. She would avoid those gates, those corridors, those shadows.
She closed her fingers around the note like she could crush its meaning.
If Damien Hawthorne wanted to watch her, fine. But she would make damn sure she stayed far enough away for him to lose interest.
Or at least, she would try.