The news of the parole officer's death spread like wildfire across Dicarthen. Every whisper, every conversation, it all circled back to the same thing: the officer had been carrying something suspicious during his patrol, something that connected him to Cassius' murder. It was too neat, too perfect. A story that everyone bought without question.
Everyone was calling him, "The Parole Murderer."
I couldn't help but smirk. It worked out better than expected. Cassius' death, the officer's murder, it all fell into place like pieces of a puzzle. No one was going to connect it to me. They wouldn't. I wasn't involved—not really. But the officer? He was the perfect scapegoat. And the substance they found on him? That was the icing on the cake.
It's amazing how willing people are to accept anything when they're desperate for an answer. But as perfect as it was, one thing kept gnawing at me: Snowflake.
She hadn't stopped following me.
At first, it was subtle—a glance here, a pause there. But in the last few days, it had turned into something else entirely. Something obsessive. She wasn't just observing me from a distance anymore; she was close. I could feel her presence. She was always there, lingering in the background. I'd try to shake her off, but she'd always find a way to slip back into my path.
It was starting to get on my nerves.
I was walking across the campus when I felt it again—a cold, suffocating presence. I turned my head, already knowing what I'd find.
Sure enough, she was there, hiding behind a column, her eyes locked on me. She wasn't even trying to be subtle anymore. It was like she wanted me to notice her.
I stopped, not even bothering to keep pretending I didn't know she was there. It wasn't worth it. I turned fully to face her.
Castor: [staring] "You've been following me."
Snowflake didn't flinch. No hesitation, no nervous glance. She simply met my gaze, her expression unreadable.
Snowflake: [casually] "So what if I have?"
I couldn't help the sarcastic laugh that escaped me. Of course, she wouldn't try to deny it. She was too confident for that. Too direct. It was a little too much, really.
Castor: [sighing] "Why? What do you want from me, Snowflake?"
She stepped a little closer, and I could feel the tension rise. She wasn't afraid to invade my space. She wasn't afraid of anything, it seemed.
Snowflake: [coolly] "Nothing. Just curious."
Curious? Yeah, right. She wasn't curious. She was studying me. But why? What was her game? Was she testing me? Trying to figure out how far she could push?
Castor: [voice flat] "Curious about what?"
She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes slightly, as if she was trying to figure me out. It sent an uncomfortable shiver down my spine. She was too perceptive, too calculated.
Snowflake: [mocking] "You. The way you move, the way you think. It's interesting."
Interesting? Fuck. There it was again. I couldn't decide whether it was an insult or a compliment, but either way, it unsettled me. She wasn't just watching me out of curiosity—she was studying me like I was some kind of experiment. And she fucking liked it.
Castor: [leaning in, voice low] "You're obsessed with me, aren't you?"
Her lips twitched, and that small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She wasn't going to deny it. She wasn't going to say anything. She was just going to let the silence hang there, thick and heavy.
Snowflake: [grinning] "Maybe."
That word hit me like a punch in the gut. Maybe? She wasn't even pretending anymore. She didn't care that I knew. She was obsessed, and she was letting me see it.
I stepped back, the frustration bubbling up inside me. She wasn't just some curious onlooker. She was getting too close, too personal. She didn't get to play this game with me.
Castor: [gritting my teeth] "Don't make me warn you again, Snowflake. This isn't some fucking game."
She didn't flinch. Didn't even seem to care. She just stood there, eyes steady on me, like she was daring me to do something about it.
Snowflake: [casually] "Oh, I know. But you're more interesting than I thought."
The words were like ice in my veins. She wasn't intimidated. She wasn't backing off. She was just letting the tension stretch and stretch, knowing that sooner or later, I'd crack.
Castor: [low, threatening] "Stay the hell out of my way."
But her grin only widened. She wasn't backing down. She wasn't scared.
Snowflake: [softly] "I'm not going anywhere, Castor."
Her words were a quiet promise. A dangerous one. And as she turned and walked away, I realized something. She wasn't going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.
And that fucking terrified me.
The days bled into each other like a faded memory, and yet one image kept creeping into my head—the same one that had been haunting me since that night. I'd wake up, disoriented, the sharp sting of blood on my hands, a crimson reminder of the things I'd done. I'd glance at my palms, eyes wide with disbelief, as though I didn't recognize the mess I'd left behind. The blood didn't feel real, though. It was too vivid, too tangible, like some sick trick my mind was playing on me.
I'd blink it away, but it always came back. The same ghost of blood, the same sickening feeling that crawled up my spine, making my stomach churn. But I couldn't let myself go there, not again.
I killed the parole officer. That was clear. I'd done it, there was no denying it. He'd been a loose end, someone I couldn't afford to let talk. The pieces had fallen into place so perfectly, I almost didn't believe it myself. His death was an accident, sure—unfortunate, but necessary. No one cared about him. Hell, no one cared about any of them, except for me. For all intents and purposes, I'd done the world a favor. Or at least that's what I told myself to keep the dark thoughts at bay.
But Cassius and Marienne? No. I didn't do that. I couldn't have.
I refuse to believe I did anything to them.
Even though the thought keeps pushing itself forward, gnawing at my thoughts like a persistent fly I couldn't swat away. Did I do it? Did I hurt them too? The hallucinations—no, I won't call them that. The memories? They weren't mine. They couldn't be. I didn't touch them. Not like that.
But the blood... it never stops.
Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror, my own reflection a stranger, staring back at me. The eyes, hollow with guilt, filled with regret I don't even fully understand yet. And the blood. It's always there. Always fresh. Always on my hands, on my clothes.
I swallow hard and rub my palms against my jeans, like I could erase it. But it stays. Even in the dead of night, when I try to sleep, my mind floods with memories—flashes of images I can't make sense of. People screaming. Faces blurred with pain. Blood on the floor. And no matter how much I try to tell myself it isn't real, that I wasn't the one who did it, I feel the weight of it.
But the guilt over Cassius... Marienne... I can't let myself go there. It isn't real. I didn't do that. I won't.
Still, the hallucinations don't stop.
I catch myself staring at my hands sometimes, the ghost of red dripping from my fingertips, pooling on the floor. My stomach twists, but I force myself to breathe. Focus. If I let the doubt creep in, it'll swallow me whole. And that's not an option.
I need to control this. I need to control everything.
Then there's Snowflake, of course. I can feel her eyes on me even when I don't see her. She's always there, lurking in the corners of my mind, watching me, studying me. Her obsession is getting harder to ignore. But the worst part? It's not even that she's obsessing over me—it's the way she sees me. She doesn't just see me. She sees the darkness in me, the part of me that I've been trying to bury, the part of me that's responsible for all this blood.
And she likes it. Fuck, she likes it.
Every time she looks at me, I see that glint in her eyes. She's drawn to me, drawn to the chaos inside me. She's not scared of what I've done. She's fascinated by it. And that's... dangerous.
I'm not sure if I want her to stop, though. Maybe it's because, in some twisted way, she's the only one who gets it. The only one who understands that sometimes, things just have to happen. People have to die. It's just part of the game.
But I won't let her drag me down into whatever sick fantasy she has for us. I won't. I can't. I refuse to believe this is what I am now.
I didn't kill them. I didn't. I couldn't have.
But the blood? It's never going away.
I woke up with the same feeling I had every morning lately—disoriented, too much silence in my head, the weight of guilt pressing against my chest like a vice. The blood was still there, and no matter how hard I tried to scrub it away, it clung to me, haunting every waking moment. But today... today felt different.
I had to make a decision. No more killing. Not unless it was absolutely necessary.
I couldn't let myself keep spiraling down this path. The blood wasn't just on my hands anymore, it was on my soul. And the more I told myself I was justifying it—doing what had to be done—the more I realized I was losing pieces of myself. I was losing who I was. I couldn't keep doing this. I couldn't keep letting the darkness pull me deeper, no matter how fucking comforting it felt at times.
The problem was, I was good at it. Too good at it. Taking live felt like a reflex, an instinct. It wasn't a tool; it was a part of me.
But I wasn't that person. Not anymore. I had to draw a line.
No more unnecessary bloodshed.
I had a goal, a reason for being here, and I wasn't going to get caught up in the muck of my own damn mistakes. I'd killed for convenience, for protection, for revenge—but it stopped now. It would only be when there was no other choice, no other option. It would only be when it was necessary. And it had to stay that way.
I'd find another way. I'd get the answers I needed without leaving a trail of bodies behind me. I wasn't going to become some monster—some thing that thrived on violence.
But even as I told myself that, I felt the flicker of doubt. Was I fooling myself? Could I really change my approach? Could I control it? The blood always seemed to be right there, just beneath the surface, waiting for the next excuse to spill.
I clenched my fists, the memories of the officer's death—and Cassius and Marienne—flooding my mind again. The blood. The guilt. I'd always felt like I was on the edge of something, ready to slip over. But I couldn't. I wouldn't.
I had to change. I had to take control. This wasn't who I wanted to be.
I looked at myself in the mirror, staring into the eyes that had seen so much darkness, so much loss, so much destruction. I wasn't proud of what I'd done, but I couldn't dwell on it. I had to move forward. For whatever reason, I couldn't let myself fall into the trap of believing that death was the only solution.
There had to be another way.
I took a deep breath.
No more killing unless it was necessary.
That was my resolution.
And somehow, I had to believe it.
I wake up to the blaring sound of my alarm, a sharp, jarring reminder that I'm still stuck in this routine. I let it ring for a moment, half-hoping I could just disappear back into sleep. But the truth is, I never get that luxury. I'm always awake before I even want to be.
The room's dim, barely any light filtering in through the blinds. It's like the whole world is still in a haze, waiting for me to catch up. My body protests when I swing my legs off the bed and plant my feet on the cold floor. There's that familiar ache in my limbs, the kind that doesn't go away no matter how much I sleep—or don't sleep. My body's adjusting, but it doesn't feel any better. It's like I've gotten used to feeling like this: just worn down, like I'm always on the edge of something.
The mirror in the bathroom gives me nothing but honesty. I can't help but stare at myself for a second longer than usual, like maybe I'll find some kind of answer there. The same dark circles under my eyes, the same hollow expression. It feels like I've aged ten years in the span of a few months. My reflection looks almost foreign now, a little too tired, a little too jaded. I try to shake it off, splash some water on my face, and go through the motions of shaving. It's all autopilot by now. I can't keep pretending everything's fine, but at least I don't have to let anyone else see it.
I get dressed quickly—Nothing special. I don't care about standing out, don't care about making any sort of statement. I'd rather just blend in, not have anyone ask questions. Maybe I'm just tired of pretending I've got everything together. Maybe I don't want anyone to see how cracked the surface is.
I grab a quick cup of coffee, the kind that kicks me into gear without asking for much. No time for breakfast. There's always a part of me that feels guilty for skipping it—like I should be more responsible, like I should have it all figured out. But I can't seem to care about that right now. I've got more pressing things on my mind.
I step out of my room and into the hallway, not really registering anything around me. I've gotten good at ignoring the small talk, the passing hellos, the awkward glances from my roommates. It's easier this way, to keep to myself. The less anyone sees, the better.
When I step outside, the campus is quieter than usual. People are scattered, rushing to get to class, but there's an undercurrent of something—tension, maybe. Everyone seems a little off, a little too distracted, like the chaos of the past few days is still hanging in the air. It's like they're all walking through the same fog I am.
I don't know why I'm still walking around like nothing's changed. Maybe it's the routine, or maybe it's just easier to pretend everything is fine. But the truth is, I can feel it all. The weight of everything that's happened, the consequences of the things I've done, and the cold, creeping realization that nothing's going to be simple from here on out. I'm stuck in a cycle. And for the first time, I'm not sure how to break out of it.
As I walk through campus, I notice something odd. The usual weight of Snowflake's presence isn't there. No subtle glances from behind corners, no silent footsteps trailing mine. She's not following me today.
I can't say I'm relieved. In fact, the silence feels a little off, like the calm before a storm. Her absence creates a kind of tension, an unfamiliar void where I'd usually expect her to be. But I try not to dwell on it. Maybe she's got her own distractions now, her own plans. Who knows? For now, I focus on keeping my head down and moving forward.
I meet up with Ethan and Misha by the old fountain near the campus entrance. It's a familiar spot, the kind of place where we always catch our breath after a chaotic week. The noise of Dicarthen fades into the background, replaced by the cool breeze that flutters through the trees. Ethan's already leaning against the stone rim of the fountain, his arms crossed, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Misha's sitting on the edge, tapping her foot impatiently, but that's just her way.
Ethan: "It's you, Castor."
Ethan faced forward and extends his arms as if to hug me.
I lightly hugged him before retracing my steps to face Misha and wave at her.
Castor: "How are you two holding up?"
After all, this week was a mess.
Ethan: (letting out a slight chuckle) Man, what a week, A friggin' mess. How's your head, Castor?"
Castor: "Better than I thought,"
I answer, leaning against the fountain beside Misha.
Castor: "You'd think I'd be in a complete wreck, but surprisingly, I'm still standing."
Well, not to mention I still haven't completely gotten over my first time killing a man and feeling little to no disgust.
Misha: "Still, what the hell was all that about with the parole officer? I heard rumors floating around, but you haven't said a word."
I rub the back of my neck, avoiding her gaze.
Castor: "Rumors are just rumors. You know how this place works."
I try to keep it light, but the weight of the truth lingers beneath my words. The parole officer's death wasn't a rumor. And what happened to Cassius... fuck, I don't even want to think about it.
Ethan cuts in, his voice too calm, like he's trying to suss me out without showing his hand.
Ethan: "Yeah, well, rumors have a way of sticking. And so do the people behind them."
I glance at him.
Castor: "Are you implying something?"
Ethan: "Just making sure you're not getting in over your head. You know we're not exactly strangers to the mess Dicarthen can create. People talk, Castor. And not all of it's in your favor."
Not in my favor? Does this guy know anything?
I roll my eyes. I have to play cool.
Castor: "I'm aware. It's been that kind of week, hasn't it?"
My fingers dig into the stone rim of the fountain, a little too hard, but I stop myself from tightening my grip. No need to start cracking the stone just yet.
Misha: "Oh, it's been a lot more than just a week. It's a circus. We've all been walking on eggshells, waiting for something to explode."
She pauses, eyes flicking to me.
Misha: "But you've got that weird calm about you. What's up with that? Not gonna lie, it's kind of unsettling."
Castor: "I guess, I've adjusted... to it."
I push off the fountain's edge, stretching my arms above my head, trying to shake off the conversation before it goes any deeper. Ethan and Misha aren't stupid. They know something's off, but I'm not about to hand them the truth on a silver platter.
Ethan: "Anyway, you heading to class or are you gonna ditch and mope somewhere?"
He says it like a joke, but there's an edge to it. Like he actually expects me to disappear for the day. Tempting, really. But I need normalcy, even if it's just an act.
Castor: "And risk another run-in with Varrow? No thanks."
Misha: "Ugh, don't remind me. The man has it out for you, I swear."
She's not wrong. Aldric Varrow has made it his personal mission to make my life hell. I don't even know why, but every lecture feels like a battlefield.
Ethan: "You probably deserve it."
Castor: "Thanks for the support, asshole."
Ethan just grins, and Misha rolls her eyes before flicking a piece of gravel at him. It's familiar, this back-and-forth, but something about it feels distant today. Like I'm watching it happen instead of living in it.
I shove my hands into my pockets and turn to leave, but as I step forward, I collide with someone.
Ovari Helios.
Straight-backed, eyes sharp, carrying that effortless authority that makes it clear she's someone important. She barely stumbles, looking up at me with mild surprise, as if she didn't expect to cross paths with me either.
Ovari: "Whitmore."
Ah, my last name. Never Castor, always Whitmore with her. Like I'm a name in a file rather than a person.
Castor: "Helios."
Suppose I should return the favour.
Her gaze flicks over me, assessing, before she tilts her head.
Ovari: "I take it you've considered my offer?"
Offer? Oh, right. The student council thing. I'd almost forgotten, with everything that's happened. Hell, I figured she had too.
Castor: "You're still on about that?"
Ovari: "I don't make empty offers."
Of course she doesn't. She's the kind of person who remembers every deal, every favor, every word spoken in passing.
I exhale, rubbing the back of my neck.
Castor: "I'll get back to you on that."
Her lips press into a thin line.
Ovari: "I expect an answer soon."
With that, she moves past me, disappearing into the crowd. I watch her go, shaking my head. Out of everything that's happened, this is what she's worried about? Unbelievable.
I sigh and start heading to class. Time to survive another day at Dicarthen.
I take my seat in Aldric Varrow's class, already bracing for whatever new hell he has planned for today. The room is filled with the usual tension—everyone trying to stay unnoticed, except for a few masochists who actually enjoy his lectures. I lean back in my chair, arms crossed, waiting.
Varrow's class is really where everything started to go wrong—at first, he never noticed my presence but one interaction with him and now I'm stuck in this damn hellhole.
Aldric: "Whitmore. How fortunate that you've decided to grace us with your presence."
And there it is. Not even thirty seconds in and he's already on my case.
Castor: "Wouldn't miss it for the world, Professor."
He narrows his eyes, pacing at the front of the room like he's waiting for an excuse to rip me apart.
Aldric: "Oh? Then perhaps you'd be so kind as to explain the theorem I discussed in the last class—assuming, of course, that you were paying attention and not daydreaming about whatever nonsense fills that empty skull of yours."
Ah. A classic Varrow trap. If I answer wrong, I'm an idiot. If I answer right, I'm an insufferable know-it-all. Either way, he wins.
Castor: "That would be the Hardy-Weinberg equilibrium, though I have to admit, Professor, your delivery was so riveting that I almost mistook it for a bedtime story."
A few students suppress their laughter. Aldric's jaw tightens.
Aldric: "Charming as ever. And yet, despite your incessant need for sarcasm, you still fail to grasp the importance of academic discipline."
I open my mouth for another quip—because at this point, why not?—but then I catch movement from the corner of my eye. I turn slightly and—
Isla Vritra.
Sitting right next to me.
I didn't even notice.
How the hell did I not notice?
She's scribbling something in her notebook, completely uninterested in the little battle between me and Varrow. Her long, dark hair falls over her shoulder, partially hiding her face, but there's no mistaking that quiet intensity she always carries.
I frown. When did she sit down? How long has she been there? I usually notice things like this—people, movements, shifts in the room—but somehow, she slipped right past me.
Aldric keeps talking, but I'm barely listening.
Because Isla Vritra is sitting next to me.
And I have no idea why.
I lean slightly toward Isla, my voice low enough that Aldric won't hear but casual enough not to seem too interested.
Castor: "Hello, you."
She doesn't even look up from her notebook, just tilts her head slightly in my direction before responding.
Isla: "Hello yourself."
That throws me off for a second. I wasn't expecting a reply—at least, not one so... effortless. Most people either ignore me when I push my luck or snap back, but Isla? She just meets me halfway, like it's nothing.
I clear my throat, recovering quickly.
Castor: "Didn't take you for someone who listens to Aldric's lectures. Or, well, attends them."
She finally looks up, one brow slightly raised.
Isla: "Didn't take you for someone who starts conversations just to hear himself talk."
Ouch. Fair.
I smirk, leaning back in my chair.
Castor: "Guilty as charged. But hey, it's been a hell of a week, right? First the whole parole officer thing, then the mess with the Demara sisters' petition. Dicarthen's been more chaotic than usual."
Her pen pauses against the paper, and for once, she actually seems interested. Not in a fake, polite way, but like she's genuinely considering what I said.
Isla: "What do you think will happen with the petition?"
I blink. Didn't expect her to bite.
Castor: "Honestly? If they push too hard, they'll either get shut down or 'mysteriously' disappear from the academy. You know how this place works."
She hums, tapping her fingers against the notebook.
Isla: "And yet they're still trying."
Castor: "Some people don't know when to quit."
She gives me a look, one that lingers a second too long, like she's weighing my words. Then, for the first time since I sat down, she closes her notebook and actually faces me.
Isla: "Neither do you."
I don't know whether to be impressed or annoyed. Maybe both.
Castor: "What exactly are you trying to imply?"
Isla doesn't answer right away. Instead, she studies me, her gaze sharp, assessing, as if she's deciding how much to say. Then, with the same calm detachment, she speaks.
Isla: "Marienne."
My stomach twists.
I keep my expression neutral, but my fingers tighten around the edge of my desk. Of all the things she could've said, that was the last name I expected to hear coming from her.
Castor: "What about her?"
She tilts her head slightly, as if curious about my reaction.
Isla: "Nothing solid. Just something I overheard."
I narrow my eyes. Overheard? Isla isn't the type to eavesdrop for the fun of it. If she's mentioning this, it's because she thinks it matters.
Castor: "From who?"
Isla: "My family has certain… connections."
Of course. The Vritras weren't just any noble house—they were a power in their own right, with their fingers in places most wouldn't dare to reach. If Isla wanted to know something, she probably already did.
Isla: "You were close to her, weren't you?"
I don't answer. She doesn't need me to.
She leans forward slightly, lowering her voice.
Isla: "I heard a lot about the Whitmore prodigy back when she was in Dicarthen. A rising star, too talented for her own good."
My throat feels tight, but I force out a response.
Castor: "People talk."
Isla: "They do. And they say she got into trouble with the wrong people."
She pauses, letting the words sink in before continuing.
Isla: "Particularly with the lady of the Ravencroft house."
The name hits me like a punch to the gut. Ravencroft. I hadn't thought about them in a long time, but suddenly, it all comes rushing back.
Castor: "You're sure about this?"
She shrugs.
Isla: "I don't deal in certainty, Whitmore. Just whispers. But from what I've gathered… Marienne's downfall wasn't just bad luck. It was orchestrated."
I inhale slowly, forcing my hands to relax.
So Marienne wasn't just caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Someone wanted her to fall. And if it was the Ravencrofts… that changed everything.
Castor: "Thanks, Isla. Really. You didn't have to tell me any of this."
I don't say things like that often, but this—this matters. More than she probably realizes.
She tilts her head slightly, considering me for a moment before replying.
Isla: "I just felt obliged to tell you."
I blink. Obliged? Isla doesn't do things out of obligation. If she speaks, it's because she chooses to.
Before I can question it, she adds, her voice quieter, almost… thoughtful.
Isla: "I really do like how hard you work for your sister."
My breath catches.
My face grows uncomfortably warm before I can stop it. Shit.
I force myself to look away, running a hand through my hair as if that'll somehow make the heat in my face disappear.
She just had to say that, didn't she?
I glance back at her, but she's not smirking or teasing me—just watching, like she's genuinely curious about my reaction.
I clear my throat, trying to mask my sudden awkwardness.
Castor: "Uh, yeah. Well… she meant a lot to me."
Smooth. Really smooth.
I'm just walking, minding my own business, when a voice cuts through the air like a blade.
Professor Jonathon: "Castor Whitmore."
I stop dead in my tracks. That voice is too calm, too precise, like he's already three steps ahead of me in whatever conversation we're about to have.
I turn to see Professor Jonathon, his sharp gaze locked onto me, his expression unreadable. Out of all the professors in this academy, he's the one I've never quite figured out.
Castor: "Professor?"
Professor Jonathon: "The headmistress wants to see you."
My stomach drops.
Shit.
I keep my face neutral, but inside, every alarm bell is going off at once. She knows. She fucking knows. The break-in with Snowflake, sneaking past security, the whole damn thing—it must've caught up to me.
I force a casual shrug.
Castor: "Any particular reason why?"
Professor Jonathon: "She didn't say."
That makes it worse.
I nod, pretending like this is just another routine summons, but my pulse is racing as I follow him through the winding corridors. Every step feels heavier, my mind running through every possible excuse, every possible way out—just in case.
And then I reach the headmistress's office.
The moment I step inside, the air shifts.
Her presence is suffocating.
She doesn't even have to speak—just sitting behind her desk, she exudes authority so thick it could choke someone. Her eyes settle on me, sharp, dissecting, as if she can already see through every single one of my carefully constructed lies.
For a full minute, I forget how to breathe.
Headmistress Morgan Vale: "Welcome, Castor."
Her voice is measured and calm, but there's something behind it—something calculating. She gestures for me to sit, and I do, feeling her gaze linger on me longer than necessary. It's as if she's studying me, weighing me for something I'm not yet aware of. The silence stretches for a moment before she speaks again.
Headmistress Morgan Vale: "How's life at Dicarthen treating you?"
I can feel the weight of the question, like it's not just small talk. I shift in my seat, trying to find the right words. I don't want to sound weak, but I don't want to lie either.
Castor: "It's… fine. A bit overwhelming, but I'm managing."
I force a half-smile, hoping it doesn't look too forced. Her sharp eyes never leave me, and I feel like she can see right through the facade.
Headmistress Morgan Vale: "I see."
Her voice is flat, unreadable. She leans back in her chair, still watching me closely. The silence again stretches, thick with tension. She doesn't speak immediately, but I can feel the subtle shift, like she's about to drop something heavy. Then, unexpectedly, she says the name that's haunted me for months.
Headmistress Morgan Vale: "Marienne."
The mention of her name stabs at me. My chest tightens, and for a split second, I forget to breathe. I wasn't expecting her to bring her up so casually, but here it is, the elephant in the room.
Castor: "What about her?"
My voice comes out a little too sharp, and I curse myself inwardly. I'm trying to keep it together, but every word that leaves her mouth feels like it digs into something I've been trying to ignore.
Headmistress Morgan Vale: "She left quite an impression here, didn't she? The prodigy who could do no wrong."
Her voice drips with something—what is it? Nostalgia? Bitterness? She's playing a game, and I'm not sure if I'm supposed to keep up. My grip tightens around the arms of my chair. This is where it all starts, isn't it?
Headmistress Morgan Vale: "I was eager to meet her brother. You."
I'm still trying to process the weight of her words, but she doesn't stop there.
Headmistress Morgan Vale: "And I'm pleased to see you're fitting in just fine. How's it feel to step out of her shadow?"
I stiffen. I didn't expect that last part, the jab hidden beneath politeness. I try to keep my face neutral, but her words stoke something in me. It's not about being in her shadow—it's about the damn mystery surrounding her. Why did she disappear? Who did this to her? And what the hell does she know?
Castor: "I'm not trying to step out of anything."
I don't know why I say it, but it's the truth. All I want is to find out what happened to her, not to build my life on her memory. But in the back of my mind, I know I'll never escape that comparison.
Headmistress Morgan Vale: "Of course. You're not one to play to expectations. A bit like your sister, actually."
She smiles slightly, but there's a coldness behind it. A reminder. I can feel her prodding at something deeper—my guilt, my frustration. And then she brings up something that sends a chill through me. I wasn't prepared for this.
Headmistress Morgan Vale: "There have been some interesting rumors floating around about you."
I don't speak, just let her continue. My throat tightens as I brace myself.
Headmistress Morgan Vale: "A commoner, well-liked among the seniors, trying to uncover the truth about his sister's disappearance. Curious, don't you think?"
Her words feel like knives, each one sharper than the last. I want to ask her how she knows, but I already know the answer. She knows everything, doesn't she? She's been watching me. But I don't let her see my discomfort. I keep my voice steady.
Castor: "I'm just trying to understand what happened to her."
It sounds weak even to my own ears. But it's true. There's no other way to explain it.
Headmistress Morgan Vale: "Trying, or digging?"
The question hangs in the air, biting at the edges of my patience. She's testing me, pushing me further into a corner. And I can't afford to break. Not now. I swallow hard, but the words come out anyway.
Castor: "Is there a difference?"
I can feel my pulse quicken. She's not playing fair. She's pulling at things I don't even know if I'm ready to face.
Headmistress Morgan Vale: "Oh, there's a difference, Castor. You're treading dangerous waters here."
Her gaze hardens, and for a moment, I wonder if she knows everything—about Snowflake, about the break-in, about the secrets I've been keeping. My heart races. The silence stretches again, but this time it's heavy with something darker.
Headmistress Morgan Vale: "I admire your determination, though. Few would go this far for family. But be careful what you uncover."
She leans forward slightly, her voice lowering, almost conspiratorial.
Headmistress Morgan Vale: "Because what you're looking for… might not be the truth you want to find."
My mind spins. What is she implying? What does she know? Before I can speak, she moves on, her tone abruptly shifting, like she's just revealed a secret and is now pulling back.
Headmistress Morgan Vale: "The real reason behind Marienne's disappearance, Castor… it wasn't the academy. It wasn't some accident. It was orchestrated by someone within these walls."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. The silence is suffocating. I can feel the blood drain from my face. Someone inside the academy? My mind races. Could it be the Ravencroft lady? I can't believe it, but I can't dismiss it either. I need more. I need answers.
Castor: "Could this be connected to Lady Ravencroft?"
I don't know why I ask it, but I have to know. She doesn't say yes, but she doesn't deny it either. And that's enough to send a cold chill down my spine. My heart skips a beat.
Headmistress Morgan Vale: "I'll leave that for you to figure out, Castor."
She looks at me, her expression unreadable. She's done with this conversation, I can tell. I can feel it. But I'm not done. Not by a long shot.
Headmistress Morgan Vale: "I just wanted to talk to you personally, Castor. To remind you that the truth... well, it's not always what we expect it to be."
Her voice softens, but there's a hardness beneath it. A finality. I stand up slowly, my legs stiff. The room feels colder now, and the air tastes heavier.
Headmistress Morgan Vale: "You may leave now."
I turn to leave, but the weight of her words follows me like a shadow. There's more to this than I thought. More than I'm ready to face.
As I step outside the Headmistress's office, the weight of our conversation lingers in the air, pressing down on me. Morgan Vale's words still echo in my mind. The truth behind Marienne's disappearance—behind everything—is tangled up in the Great Houses. I'd been chasing shadows for so long, but now, it feels like I'm getting closer to something real. Something dangerous.
I know now that my goal has shifted. I'm not just looking for my sister anymore. I'm looking for the truth about everything. The Houses, the lies, the power plays. I'll tear it all apart if I have to.
I barely notice the breeze against my skin, too lost in my thoughts. Until a voice calls out to me.
Snowflake.
Of course.
She's standing by the stone pillars, arms crossed, eyes sharp and calculating. She's watching me, waiting. I know she overheard the conversation with the Headmistress—there's no way she didn't. And just when I thought I might get a break from her, she's here.
Snowflake: "You look like you've seen a ghost. Did she scare you in there?"
Her tone is teasing, but I can sense the undercurrent of something else—something almost possessive in the way she watches me. She always seems to be studying me, analyzing my every move.
I force myself to relax, but it's hard. Her presence always feels like a trap, even if I know I could walk away from her at any time.
Castor: "What do you want, Snowflake?"
I try to keep my tone neutral, but there's an edge to it. I'm not in the mood for her games.
Snowflake: "Oh, nothing much. Just saw you talking to the Headmistress. Figured I'd ask how it went. You seemed… a little tense."
I don't answer right away. Instead, I just stare at her, waiting. But she doesn't wait for me to speak. Of course, she doesn't. She steps closer, eyes flicking toward mine like she knows exactly how to get under my skin. She's always one step ahead.
Snowflake: "I overheard a bit. You're looking for answers about your sister, huh? Well, you're not the only one. You're after the truth, Castor. But it's not going to be easy."
She knows too much. Always. It's like she has eyes everywhere, always keeping track of my every move. I can't shake the feeling that she's watching me more closely than I realize.
Castor: "What are you trying to say?"
She smiles slightly, like she's enjoying the game too much. She's always been this way—mysterious, elusive, but also... obsessive. It's unsettling.
Snowflake: "The person you're looking for is named Rose Ravencroft. You've heard of her, I'm sure."
My heart skips a beat. Ravencroft. That name. It's familiar, but I can't place it right now. There's too much going on in my head to think straight.
Castor: "Rose Ravencroft?"
Her name lingers in the air, heavy with meaning. Snowflake watches me intently, her eyes never leaving mine, like she's trying to gauge my reaction.
Snowflake: "You should. She's a big deal. One of the heirs of the Ravencroft house. They've got their hands in everything, and Rose? Well, she's not your average noble. She's got a reputation, especially among the seniors. Some say she's ruthless, willing to do whatever it takes to get what she wants. There's talk of her even manipulating her family to get ahead. She's got power. Connections. And if you want answers, you might want to start there."
I feel a knot form in my stomach. Rose Ravencroft. She sounds dangerous. But I can't ignore it. This is the lead I've been waiting for.
Castor: "Why are you telling me this? You've never been this helpful."
Snowflake's smirk widens. There's something unsettling about the way she looks at me, something possessive and expectant.
Snowflake: "Let's just say I don't mind seeing you succeed for once. You've been digging around in all the wrong places. If you want the truth, you're going to need to trust someone who actually knows what's going on. I'm doing this for you, Castor. You know that."
Her words feel like a warning wrapped in a favor, but I can't ignore the way her gaze lingers on me. It's like she's waiting for something more.
Castor: "Thanks. I guess."
It's the closest I'll ever get to gratitude with her. I don't trust her, but I can't deny she's right about one thing. If I want to get to the truth, I can't keep playing by the rules.
Maybe I have been a bit harsh on Snowflake. She might be suspicious and guilty, but in this academy, there's probably no one who cares about me like she does—whatever her twisted idea of showing her love for people is.
Snowflake: "Don't screw this up, Castor. Rose Ravencroft's not someone you want to mess with. But maybe... just maybe, she'll help you. You'll need her more than you think."
I nod slowly, my mind already racing with the possibilities.
Rose Ravencroft. I'll find her. And when I do, I'll make sure I'm ready for whatever she's got in store.
Castor: "I'll figure this out on my own."
I turn to leave, but Snowflake's voice calls out one last time, her tone almost pleading, like she wants something from me that she hasn't said outright.
Snowflake: "Remember, Castor, you're not the only one looking for answers. The Ravencrofts don't play nice with just anyone."
Her words stick with me as I walk away. I don't respond. I don't need to. I've got a new direction now. And I won't stop until I know the truth.