It's been two weeks since I received my admission letter... and since the incident with Mal.
He's been avoiding me.
Whenever I pass his house, there's no sign of him. It got so bad I had to ask his little sister.
"Oh, he's been with Camie lately," she said.
And there it was-that pinch in my heart. Of course. Who else but Camie? The perfect person to run to, to distract himself, to satisfy his... needs.
I don't reach out.
If he's still interested, he'll reach out.
I've spent my days re-reading the handbook, getting my things ready in preparation for the big day. Tomorrow.
Mum decides to celebrate by throwing a special dinner. I really love that woman.
"Kiddo," I hear, and turn toward the man beside me at the table.
It's Dad. He always calls me that-my very own nickname.
"Yes, Dad," I reply with a smile.
"There's cake. Your favourite."
"Really?" I softly exclaim.
"Red velvet.?"
"Yeah, kiddo. Come have the first bite," he says, handing me a plate and the cake knife.
I stand and walk toward the cake at the center of the table. As I slice into it, noticing the way Dad looked at Mum-so full of love and appreciation. And I wonder...
Will anyone ever look at me like that?
Dad's hair, like mine, is blue-black. It suits him, especially with those ocean-tinted eyes. Makes me believe they were the envied couple back in the day.
I take a bite-heavy on the icing-and let out a soft moan. "This is really good."
Mum and Dad snap out of their love bubble, and Dad beams with pride. "Of course. It's made by my darling."
Mum blushes. "Stop it, Drew," she says with a shy smile.
I fake a cough to remind them I'm still here, and we all burst out laughing.
Let me just say: dinner was superb. One of the most memorable I've ever had.
****
Dragging my box outside the house, I spot my parents waiting.
"Bye, Isa!" my mum calls, waving with teary eyes.
"Love you, kiddo," my dad says, pulling her close. He isn't crying, but I can see it in his eyes -he's really going to miss me.
I wave again as I leave the compound.
"I'm really going to miss them," I murmur, dragging my luggage to the roadside.
Unfolding the map sent by the school, I study the pickup point. They must be really rich to offer private transportation, I muse.
I hail a cab, load in my luggage, and give the driver the address. He nods and pulls it up on his dashboard.
He didn't even come to say goodbye. I don't even know if he got in.
I sigh, settling in to enjoy my last hours of
unlimited screen time.
****
Isadora stood at the edge of the moss-covered platform, staring at the sleek structure hovering silently before her. This wasn't any train she'd seen before-no wheels, no engine sounds, not even tracks in the usual sense. The vessel floated just inches above the ground, pulsing faintly with a bluish light, as if the air around it were alive.
She swallowed. Is this how I'm getting to school?
No signs. No driver. Just a seamless black surface and a narrow staircase that folded down as she approached.
She hesitated, gripping her luggage.
Then stepped inside.
What she entered was one of Creisleigh Hall's most protected secrets-an experimental SkyTrain built using classified mag-tech, technology the outside world hadn't even heard of. It was developed by the school's own research division, buried deep beneath the grounds. Untraceable. Silent. Unfailingly accurate. It emerged only once a year-for the newly selected.
The train required no prompts, no directions. It simply knew.
And it knew where to go.
The journey defied any familiar sensation. The vessel skimmed the earth, gliding past woods, rivers, and forgotten paths not marked on modern maps. For nearly thirty minutes, the world blurred by until the fog parted to reveal it:
Creisleigh Hall.
Tucked in a hidden valley not found on any public system, the school looked like a fortress from another era. Stone towers reached into the clouds. Ivy-covered walls shimmered faintly in the dying light. The front gates-iron twisted into arcane symbols-groaned open only at the SkyTrain's arrival.
Yet under its Gothic grandeur, Creisleigh pulsed with something far more advanced.
The school was its own world-four towering dormitories for each year group, a sprawling prep wing, temperature-controlled botanical gardens, underground labs, and lecture chambers suspended like floating lanterns, lined with gold filigree and smart-glass.
And the rules?
Unforgiving:
No personal electronics.
No unsupervised outside contact.
No stepping beyond the red-marked paths. Ever.
Creisleigh didn't just train the brightest.
It forged the elite.
****
The train doors exhaled with a hiss that faded into silence. Isadora stepped out, adjusting to the station's dim light-an underground platform carved from obsidian and steel. The air was sharper here, colder, like it had been filtered through centuries.
She reached for her luggage, arranging it beside her.
"Dora," a voice called.
She turned.
Malakai.
Her Mal.
Time seemed to stutter. For a moment, it felt like nothing had broken between them. He stood there, taller than she remembered, with that same messy look he wore when he was nervous-and that face. That infuriating, stupidly photogenic face that made scandals look like perfume ads.
"I'm sorry," he said, like he wasn't sure he had the right to speak.
She blinked, her heart pounding. It was the last thing she expected, even though she'd rehearsed this moment a hundred times.
"For what?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
He looked at her-really looked. "For everything. For how it ended. For not coming back."
Her throat tightened. She had waited for this. Needed it.
But hearing it still hurt.
"I should be the one apologizing," she whispered. "But you have no idea what your silence did to me."
His gaze darkened. "I didn't mean to disappear. I just... didn't know what to say. I thought it'd be easier if I stayed away."
"For who?" she asked, voice shaking. "You didn't even try. You never checked on me."
"I was scared," he admitted. "Scared I'd make it worse. Scared you'd moved on."
She folded her arms. "I thought we still had something. Maybe I was just naive."
"It wasn't naive," he said. "I never stopped caring. I just... messed up."
The silence between them was thick, but different now.
"Don't mess it up again," she added.
He nodded, stunned but grateful. "I won't. Promise."
They stood in silence for a moment, something softer blooming between the cracks.
"So..." he scratched the back of his neck, "you got in. Obviously. What course?"
She chuckled-awkward, nervous. "Arts. English."
"You?"
"Science. Engineering," he shrugged. "Predictable, right?"
"Very," she replied. "You were always the tech guy."
"And you were always the one correcting everyone's grammar."
She rolled her eyes, but smiled for real this time.
A beat.
"Well," she said, hoisting her luggage in her bag over one shoulder, "I'm supposed to meet some Madame Velda? Something about uniforms."
"Oh yeah, same here-but not with a madame," he added quickly, ending with a laugh.
"Figures. New school, same scattered people."
They both laughed, the moment lighter now.
"I'll see you around," she said, turning.
"You will," he called after her.
As he walked away, heads turned-not just freshers, but older girls too. Curious. Amused. A few, clearly impressed.
Isadora didn't notice.
She didn't see the heads turning in her direction either not realising how striking she looked:
jhurli curls the color of ink bouncing against her fitted jacket. Green eyes that didn't seem natural, yet held an impossible pull. A summer dress hugging her frame with effortless grace.
She noticed none of it.
Because she only ever noticed him.
Snapping out of her reverie, she gathered her luggage and followed the others toward the gates.
Before her stood iron gates taller than any she'd ever seen-soaring into the mist above like the entrance to another world.
Her heart beat once.
Then again.
So this is it, she thought.
Creisleigh Hall.
Walking through the courtyard after being directed to Madam Velda's office, she finally took a closer look at the students around her-especially the girls.
The uniforms were sharp. Not intimidating, but composed in that quiet, confident way of people who knew they belonged. Some girls sat with friends, flipping through notes and lecture records. Others stood in pairs or wandered alone. No one held a phone-not here. They weren't allowed during class hours. The absence lent the air a watchful stillness, as if the school itself were always observing.
The uniforms echoed each other in form, even if their wearers' personalities varied. Black jackets, military-cut, trimmed with silver thread. A brooch shaped like the school insignia pinned neatly on the left. Pleated beige skirts-high-waisted, short, clean. Stockings: black, smooth. Flats: soft-soled, silent against the polished stone floors. And at each collar, a bow -always-like punctuation.
Silently admiring the attire, she approached the eastern wing of the administrative block. A black plaque on the door read: Uniforms and Residential Office, the letters gleaming with the same gold tint as her admission letter.
They really like black and gold, she mused, knocking once before entering.
Tucked into the eastern wing of the Administration Block, Madam Velda's office felt
Tucked into the eastern wing of the Administration Block, Madam Velda's office felt less like a workplace and more like a sanctum. Heavy maroon curtains filtered sunlight, casting the room in a muted burgundy glow. The air held the clean scent of lavender and starch-fitting for someone who presided over uniforms.
Her desk, a wide slab of mahogany with iron-forged legs, stood spotless save for a worn ledger book, a porcelain teacup marked with faded lipstick, and a crystal paperweight shaped like Queen Victoria's bust.
To the side, a tall mirrored wardrobe loomed-rumored by students to house either contraband or rejected uniforms. File racks lined the walls, each precisely labeled. A calendar with colour-coded post-its. A framed portrait of the school's founder-eerily resembling the woman behind the desk.
A vintage sewing machine sat in the corner, more decorative than useful. Next to it, a wooden hanger displayed the standard school uniform: pressed, pinned, flawless.
Madam Velda herself was composed, severe, early fifties. She wore deep navy today, her salt-and-pepper hair twisted into a precise bun. Her steel-grey eyes, framed by rimless glasses on a silver chain, flicked upward. A brass whistle hung from her waistband, though no one had ever heard her use it.
Her voice, when she spoke, was soft but unmistakably authoritative.
"Please, have a seat."
Isadora lowered herself onto the polished wooden chair beside the wall, taking in the orderliness of the room-the gleaming brass fixtures, the tidy papers, the impeccable symmetry.
Without glancing up again, the woman asked, "Name?"
"Isadora Ryles," she answered, steady despite the weight in the room.
Finally, Madam Velda looked at her, sharp gaze steady. She tapped a finger against the ledger.
"Dormitory B-12. Argent House. Top floor, west-facing window. Use the staircase beside the sundial. The lift is reserved."
There was a subtle pause on reserved-not rude, not unkind, just a quiet reminder: not every student stood on equal footing here.
"Argent House," she continued, "is named after the first Head Girl who stood firm through the storm. We name hostels after legacies, not buildings. It's a reminder of what we expect."
From beneath the desk, she retrieved a bundle: a brass key tied with black ribbon, a campus number tag clipped to a card, a folded lecture schedule printed in crisp crimson ink, and a uniform voucher.
Just then, the door opened. A woman stepped in, arms laden with two neatly wrapped bundles -each encased in crisp crepe tissue. One was labeled Autumn/Summer, the other Spring/Winter.
Without a word, she set them down and departed.
"These are your uniforms for all seasons," Madam Velda gestured. "Autumn and summer here. Spring and winter, there."
"Try them on immediately. Presentation is important."
Isadora excused herself to the fitting room.
The mirror inside bore witness to a new version of her.
First-the jacket. Black, structured, serious. She slid her arms in and squared her shoulders. The seams held her like a frame.
Then the blouse-white, crisp, with fine piping.
Next, the skirt. Pleated and pale against the jacket's weight. She stepped into it, buttoned the side-high-waisted, secure.
Then the stockings. Smooth. Familiar, yet new. The flats. Plain. Low. The bow. Slim and black, tied just so. And last-the brooch, shaped like the school insignia, fastened with precision.
When she returned to the office, Madam Velda met her gaze. No warmth, no dismissal. Just the professional, practiced neutrality of someone who had seen many pass through.
"Orientation will be in the Grand Hall. Third floor," she said. "Be punctual. Your journey starts there. After orientation, you'll register your courses through the SkyStream Access Card. You'll meet your professors. Finalize your schedule. Leave your luggage-it'll be delivered."