Chapter One – The Transfer
There were three things I knew that morning: the sun was too bright, my blazer felt too stiff, and this place wasn't built for people like me.
Crescent Hollow Academy looked less like a school and more like a billionaire's tech fortress. Sleek towers of black glass stretched toward the sky, guarded by shimmering gates made of steel and spellcore. Hover-lights lined the driveway. Even the pavement looked expensive—like it had never known the word "mud."
I adjusted the collar of my deep navy blazer, the school's crest stitched in silver on the chest. My reflection stared back from the mirrored wall near the front doors: pale skin, white hair with faint crimson streaks, and a tight-lipped expression that said I had no clue what I was doing.
The doors slid open with a hiss.
A staff member in a dark suit stood there, back straight, eyes lowered. "Scarlet Stormborne? The rpis expecting you."
I nodded once, unsure if I was allowed to speak. Everything felt formal, cold. Even the air-conditioning smelled expensive.
Inside, the hall was quiet and spotless. Not quiet like a library. Quiet like tension. Everyone wore the same uniform—navy, silver, pressed to perfection. The students moved in packs, silent and orderly. Some turned their heads when they saw me. Most didn't bother.
The staff member led me down the hall without saying another word.
He finally stopped at a door. "This is your first class. Literature."
"Thanks," I muttered, but he was already walking away.
I took a breath and stepped inside.
Rows of desks gleamed under crystal lights. The walls displayed floating quotes that shifted every few seconds. I barely got through the door when the teacher glanced up.
"Scarlet Stormborne," she said, standing. She didn't smile. No one did. "Take the open seat."
I scanned the room. The only open seat was in the second row, right in front of a table that felt… heavier than the others.
I slid into it, trying not to look around. The silence stayed thick. No one whispered. No one asked who I was. I could feel someone staring.
After class, I stepped into the hallway. A sharp bump hit my shoulder.
"Watch where you're going," a girl muttered, not even looking at me.
Okay. So not everyone here was a robot.
My next class was Combat Theory. The hall leading to it was even more high-tech than the last—plasma-lit nameplates, floating display schedules, walls that shimmered with active enchantments.
The room opened into a massive training arena. Clean lines. Energy fields. Weapons locked behind shielded glass.
The instructor stood in the center, muscular, stiff posture, sleek black uniform. "Stormborne," he said. No mister, no miss. Just my name. "Have you completed standard sparring modules?"
"No, sir," I said.
He nodded. "Pair with him."
He didn't point. He didn't need to.
Everyone turned.
At the back of the room, leaning against a metal column, stood a boy like he owned gravity itself. Tall. Cold. Effortlessly controlled. Hair black as jet, eyes like winter steel.
Draven.
No one said his name. But I knew.
I walked to the mat. He didn't move.
"Scarlet," I said.
He didn't answer.
Then, without warning, he stepped forward.
We circled. I tried to focus. Simple motion. Breathe. Move. Dodge.
He lunged.
I slipped. Not a dramatic fall—just a small, stupid trip. Enough to throw me.
Before I hit the mat, his hand caught my wrist.
That's when it happened.
The air rippled. No sound, no heat. Just pressure, like space bent between us. His eyes flared for half a second—silver light crawling in the edges.
Everyone in the room paused.
He let go quickly, stepping back like I'd burned him.
The instructor raised an eyebrow. "Continue."
Neither of us moved.
"What are you?" Draven asked quietly.
I stared at him. "Excuse me?"
But he was already turning away.
Lunch was worse.
The dining hall was a statement, not a cafeteria. Towering ceilings. Glass walls. Hover-trays delivering plated meals. Tables sorted by status.
At the center stood a long, elevated table with silver trim and cushioned thrones instead of seats. The Alpha Table. No one looked directly at it.
I was about to find a corner table when a staff member appeared beside me.
"Scarlet Stormborne. You are to sit at the High Table."
Every head turned.
I froze. "Sorry?"
The staff didn't blink. "You were summoned."
I followed in silence.
As I approached the Alpha Table, it became obvious who sat there.
Four boys. Each terrifying in his own way.
Draven sat at the far end, hand curled around a goblet, posture relaxed but eyes sharp.
Next to him, Damian—curly hair, a smirk that felt more dangerous than charming.
Devon sat perfectly straight, silver rings flashing, an unreadable look on his face.
Dexter leaned forward slightly, golden-brown eyes watching me with quiet calculation.
They didn't speak. They didn't invite me. But there was an empty seat.
I sat.
Silence.
No one at the table said anything. But the energy shifted. Tension rippled through the hall. I could feel the questions. Why was I here? Why was I allowed?
No one speaks to the Alphas without permission. Not even teachers. Definitely not me.
My hands trembled as I reached for the water glass.
It vibrated.
I froze. A spark had jumped from my fingertip to the rim. No one said a word, but all four of them noticed.
I could tell
Draven's jaw tightened. Damian raised one brow. Devon tilted his head. Dexter's eyes darkened, just for a second.
I pushed my chair back.
"I'll eat somewhere else—"
"No," Draven said, voice low.
That one word stopped everything. The entire hall went quiet.
He looked at me.
"Stay."
So I stayed.
That night, I dreamed of wings. Of gold and bone. Of fire that didn't burn.
Four shadows stood beneath a crown. It pulsed like it was alive. Blood dripped from the tips. And a voice echoed from the sky.
"The queen has returned."
I woke up gasping. My sheets were damp. My window wide open.
Outside, something moved across the stars.
I sat up, hair falling over my shoulders like threads of smoke.
And in the reflection on the glass, for a second—just one—I saw scales glowing at the base of my neck.
Then they vanished