The gates of Harrington Academy rose above you, black iron twisting like frozen vines against the pale morning sky.
A single car rolled through, tires crunching on gravel, then disappeared down the long, tree-lined path. The scent of damp earth mixed with polished stone and faint perfume drifting from the courtyard beyond.
You stepped forward, and the hush of the place pressed down. Students moved in quiet, precise patterns, uniforms immaculate, shoes clicking against stone. A laugh floated past—soft, rehearsed, careful.
Ivy clung to the walls of the towers, the wind stirring it so the leaves whispered secrets you could almost—but not quite—understand. Somewhere beyond a window, a piano note hung in the air, lonely and deliberate.
A sharp bell cut through the silence. Footsteps multiplied, echoing off the walls in neat, confident rhythms.
Principal Ashworth
Welcome to Harrington.
You turned. The principal was there, tall, perfectly poised, eyes scanning you like a chessboard. Their smile was polite but unreadable, and you sensed immediately that every gesture here carried weight.
Principal Ashworth
You're expected. We don't keep students waiting past the first bell—it sets a tone.
They gestured with one elegant hand toward the main building, its stone face carved with the school crest: a hawk in flight, wings spread wide beneath the words Per Ardua ad Astra.
Principal Ashworth
Your dormitory is West House. Top floor, corner room. You'll find your schedule on the desk. Classes begin promptly at eight-fifteen.
Behind the principal, a few students had slowed to watch. A boy with sandy-blond hair and pale grey eyes leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, studying you with an intensity that felt personal. He didn't look away when you noticed him. He just tilted his head—a slow, deliberate motion—and let his mouth curve into something that wasn't quite a smile.
Principal Ashworth
Miss Davison will show you to your room. She's reliable.
A girl stepped forward from the crowd. Dark hair, sharp eyes, a knowing sort of composure. She extended her hand, fingers cool and deliberate.
Chloe Davison
You must be the new one. Everyone's been talking about you.
Behind her, the sandy-haired boy pushed off the pillar and walked past—close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours, close enough that you caught the faint smell of cedar and cold air. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to.