Chapter 1: First Day In Blackthorn Academy
"The first thing they told us was to stay away from the East Wing. The second was that Blackthorn Academy didn't tolerate rule-breakers. They never explained what happened to those who disobeyed—but the way the groundskeeper's hands shook as he locked the wrought-iron gates told me enough."
Elara Veyne's fingers dug into the wooden arms of her chair as Headmaster Crowe's voice echoed through the grand hall. The morning light streaming through the stained-glass windows painted the students in fractured colors—splotches of blood-red and bruise-purple sliding across their uniforms. She sat perfectly still, back rigid, as if movement might draw attention. Around her, polished shoes tapped impatiently, and whispers slithered between the benches. No one glanced at her. No one ever did.
The headmaster's cufflinks gleamed as he adjusted his sleeves. "Blackthorn is not just a school," he said, his gaze skimming over the rows of students before settling, like a weight, on the cluster of scholarship pupils at the back. "It is a legacy. And legacies require discipline."
The rules came like a blade between the ribs:
"Curfew at nine. No exceptions."
A murmur of protest from the upperclassmen. The headmaster's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"No mirrors in the dormitories."
Elara's roommate—a girl with a ribbon tied too tight around her throat—snorted. "As if she'll need one," she muttered.
"The East Wing is strictly off-limits." Here, the headmaster paused. The air grew thick. "Not for superstition, but for your safety."
At that, the history teacher's pen stilled. The groundskeeper near the doors crossed himself.
---
Their guide, a prefect named Clara with a voice like over-steeped tea, led them through the courtyard. "The chapel is mandatory Sundays," she recited, pointing to the spires. "Miss a service, and it's latrine duty for a month."
Elara lagged behind, her shoes scuffing the cobblestones. The East Wing loomed to their left, its windows boarded, ivy strangling the limestone. The groundskeeper—an old man with a hunched back—was sprinkling salt along its foundation. When he caught her staring, he dropped the pouch. The wind carried the granules away like snow.
"Structural issues," Clara said, following her gaze. She flicked her braid over one shoulder. "They'll probably tear it down next year."
A lie. The stones were centuries old, but the scorch marks arching over the doorframe were fresh—blackened tendrils reaching for the roof.
---
The dorm smelled of lavender polish and mildew. Elara's cot was wedged beneath the window, its frame rusted at the joints. Her three roommates had already claimed the best spots, their trunks spilling silk and silver hairbrushes onto the floorboards.
"Scholarship students get the leftovers," said the girl with the ribbon, smirking as she tossed a moth-eaten blanket at Elara's feet.
The other two laughed. One—tall, with a nose like a knife—held up a hand mirror, angling it so Elara could see her own reflection: tangled hair, too-pale face, the bruise-like shadows under her eyes. "Oops," she said sweetly. "Guess you'll never know if you're pretty."
Elara turned away. She was used to this.
---
Ms. Brenner's English class was a special kind of hell.
"Let's see if our charity case can keep up," the teacher said, slamming a battered copy of Macbeth onto Elara's desk. The cover was missing; someone had doodled a noose on the title page.
The boy behind her—Theo, with his too-white smile—leaned forward. "Bet she's never even read a book," he whispered, loud enough for the class to hear.
When Elara reached for her pen, he "accidentally" knocked his inkwell over. Black spread across her essay, drowning her words.
Ms. Brenner sighed. "Careless," she said, and marked Elara down for the stain.
---
By lunch, her skirt was damp from the puddle someone had "guided" her into. By afternoon, her hands were streaked with ink, her nails bitten to the quick.
The whispers followed her:
"Foster kid."
"No parents."
"Probably cursed anyway."
She ate alone in the library, her bread going stale in her hands.
---
The locker was her only refuge.
Elara twisted the combination, the metal cold under her fingers. The door creaked open—
And there it was.
A diary, bound in leather the color of dried blood. It hadn't been there this morning.
She reached for it. The cover was smooth, unmarked, but when she flipped to the first page, her breath caught.
There, in handwriting that mirrored her own:
"I wish they'd all disappear."
The ink glistened, wet as a fresh wound.