It started with two warnings. The first: Stay away from the East Wing. The second: Blackthorn Academy has zero tolerance for rule-breakers. They never spelled out the punishment. They didn't need to. Watching the old groundskeeper's hands tremble as he chained the East Wing gates shut told me enough.
My name is Elara Veyne, and my fingers gripped the wooden arms of my chair. Headmaster Crowe's voice filled the grand hall, smooth and cold. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting shifting patterns of red and purple across the uniforms. I sat perfectly still, back straight. Don't look, don't fidget, don't make a sound. Around me, expensive shoes tapped on the stone floor. Whispers passed between the benches. No one looked at me. They never did. Being unnoticed felt like my only defense.
The headmaster's cufflinks glinted as he adjusted his sleeves. "Blackthorn isn't merely a school," he said, his gaze moving over the rows of students before it settled on the small group of us scholarship kids at the back. "It's a legacy. And legacies demand obedience."
The rules were announced, sharp and clear:
"Curfew is nine sharp. No excuses."
A murmur of annoyance went through the older students. Crowe offered a slight smile that didn't reach his cold eyes.
"No mirrors permitted in dormitories."
Beside me, my new roommate – a girl whose hair ribbon looked painfully tight – snorted softly. "Like she'd need one," she muttered, loud enough for me to hear. It felt like a small, sharp poke.
"The East Wing is forbidden." Here, his voice lowered. The air in the hall grew still and heavy. "This is not superstition, students. It is for your protection."
At that, a teacher nearby dropped a pen; it clattered loudly on the floor. Near the large oak doors, the groundskeeper muttered something and made the sign of the cross on his chest. I felt a sudden chill, despite the stuffy air in the hall.
---
Our tour guide, a prefect named Clara with a sharp voice, led us through the main courtyard. "Chapel attendance is mandatory Sundays," she stated, pointing towards dark stone spires. "Skip a service, and you'll be scrubbing latrines for a month."
I walked behind the group, my worn shoes scuffing the cobblestones. The East Wing stood to our left, large and imposing, showing signs of neglect. Its windows were boarded over. Thick ivy covered the limestone walls in many places. The groundskeeper – the same old man from the gates – was there, sprinkling a line of coarse salt along the building's foundation. He looked up, saw me looking at him, and dropped the pouch. White salt scattered in the wind.
"Structural problems," Clara said quickly, seeing where I was looking. She tossed her blonde braid over her shoulder. "They'll probably tear it down next summer."
It sounded like a lie. The stones looked ancient and solid. But the scorch marks arching over the main East Wing doorway – those looked newer. Blackened marks reached up the stone towards the roof.
---
My dorm room smelled of lemon polish, damp stone, and faintly of metal. By the time I carried my suitcase up the stairs, the large clock in the hall struck 7:50 pm. One hour and ten minutes until curfew. My cot was, predictably, in the worst spot – under a rattling window with a rusty frame. My three roommates had already claimed the better beds, their trunks open, showing silk scarves and silver-backed hairbrushes.
"Scholarship gets the leftovers," said the girl with the tight ribbon, smirking as she threw a thin, worn blanket onto my cot.
I showered in the communal bathroom; the hot water turned cold halfway through my turn. Back in the room, I unpacked my few items: toothbrush, three pairs of underwear, a threadbare towel, and harsh soap from the foster home.
Blackthorn Academy. For the children of the wealthy and connected. Ninety-six percent came from families with generations of history here. Four percent were... others. Scholarship cases. Like me.
At sixteen, awkward and quiet, I was easy to overlook. Usually, that was better. I remembered the mix of jealousy and pity on my foster siblings' faces when the Blackthorn acceptance letter came. Holding that letter now, under my thin mattress, I felt only a cold sense of unease.
BONG.
The heavy school bell rang out, the sound echoing in the stone corridors. My roommates laughed loudly about some boy and changed into matching silk pajamas, ignoring me. The door slammed shut behind them.
I wasn't hungry enough to face the dining hall alone. I pulled a warm Coke and a packet of biscuits from my bag. As I ate, my fingers touched the flashlight I'd packed.
Curiosity was a hard habit to break.
Wearing my thin pajamas, flashlight in hand, I opened the heavy dorm room door. The corridor stretched ahead, dim and long. Curfew wasn't for another hour. Who would notice me? Quiet Elara Veyne?
The locker hallway was empty, moonlight reflecting off the metal name tags. First-year wing. I passed my own locker – "E. VEYNE" in black letters.
The courtyard was deserted and quiet, except for the crunch of my slippers on the gravel. Then—
"Hello."
I gasped, spinning around. A girl stood near the hydrangea bushes, partly in shadow. She wore an older style of the uniform – the skirt was longer, and she had thick knee-socks. It looked out of place.
"Dinner's that way," the girl said quietly. "Are you lost?"
I looked at her old, scuffed shoes. "Not hungry," I replied, my voice barely a whisper.
A slow smile formed on her face, but her eyes remained watchful. "Just… exploring?"
My heart beat faster. She stood very close.
Then – CRUNCH. SCRAPE.
We both froze. The noise came from the darker area near the East Wing, by the groundskeeper's shed. The girl quickly grabbed my arm – her fingers were surprisingly strong and cold – and pulled me behind a large hedge.
Through the leaves, we saw the groundskeeper in the moonlight. He was shirtless, swinging a pickaxe rapidly, digging a hole in the dirt.
"He's digging late," the girl whispered, her voice close to my ear.
The old man stopped and straightened, looking around. His pale eyes seemed to scan the shadows where we hid. We crouched lower. He grunted and bent down again, picking up a thick, sealed plastic bag. Moonlight glinted off the plastic. Inside— Pajamas. Stained dark red. A school uniform. Also stained. Multiple sets. They looked small.
The girl's grip on my wrist tightened, sharp enough to hurt as he tossed the first bag in. He grabbed another, then a third, throwing them into the hole with frantic energy. A surge of pure terror went through me. I ripped my arm free from her grasp and bolted, stumbling blindly back towards the dorms. The half-full Coke can slipped from my hand, hitting the gravel path. Cold, sticky brown liquid sprayed up the front of my thin pajama bottoms as I scrambled away.
"We have to tell someone! The headmaster!" I hissed back at the strange girl, my voice trembling, heart hammering against my ribs. The cold, wet patch from the spilled Coke spread uncomfortably across my legs and groin area.
The girl let out a low, bitter laugh. "Oh, you really don't understand this place at all, do you?"
"Understand what? He's burying clothes covered in blood!" I whispered frantically.
A sharp slam echoed from the direction of the dorms – likely back in the dorm building. I flinched, turning towards the sound for just a split second.
"Find me if you need help," the girl's voice said, strangely calm despite the scene we'd just witnessed. "Ask for Marlena. Class of '89."
Still half-turned, processing the name, I started to reply automatically, wanting to give my own, "Okay... I'm Elara Vey—" I stopped abruptly, the rest of my name dying on my lips. Class of '89? That couldn't be right. That was decades ago. A chill went through me that had nothing to do with the night air. I spun my head back around.
She was gone. She had simply vanished. The space where she had stood near the hydrangea bushes was empty, consumed by shadows.
I stared at the empty space, completely stunned. How was that possible?
Suddenly, loud laughter burst out from the windows of the nearby dorm building. I looked up and saw figures appearing, pointing down into the courtyard. Pointing directly at me.
"Look at Veyne!" someone yelled down.
"What happened to her pajamas?" another voice shouted, followed by more loud, jeering laughter.
Confused for a second, I glanced down at myself instinctively. The large, dark, wet stain from the spilled Coke was spread prominently across the front of my light-colored pajama bottoms, concentrated right between my legs. In the dim moonlight filtering into the courtyard, it looked exactly like I had wet myself badly. A wave of heat rushed to my face; mortification hit me with physical force.
More students were crowding the windows now. Some pointed and laughed, mimicking me. Others shook their heads in disgust. A few made gestures for me to just get out of sight. My face burned with shame. I turned and ran, sprinting across the gravel path, through the stone archway, and into the echoing hallway that led towards the girls' dormitories and bathrooms. I didn't stop running until I reached the communal bathroom door, pushed it open, found an empty toilet stall, and slammed the flimsy lock shut behind me. Sliding down against the cold partition wall, I gasped for breath, trembling. Terror from the groundskeeper, confusion about Marlena, and the sting of public humiliation all crashed together. At that moment, huddled in the dark stall, I didn't know how to feel about any of it.