Three little trouble

Lydia gathered the remnants of her poise like shattered glass, each breath sharp, each step purposeful. The scent of aged parchment and distant violets hung in the air as she moved through the academy’s endless, echoing

corridors—each hallway an intricate gallery of stained-glass windows, flickering wall sconces, and oil portraits that seemed to watch her with hollow eyes.

Her shoes tapped a steady rhythm against the marble floors, though inside, her thoughts were anything but composed.

“Thanks to Mr. Arrogant,” she muttered under her breath, the words like smoke curling from her lips. That brooding, raven-haired stranger had stolen more than just her time—he’d

disturbed something deeper, something she wasn’t ready to name. Still, now wasn’t the moment to dwell on his shadowed gaze or the way his voice lingered in her ears like a

forgotten melody. She needed answers, a

map, anything to anchor her in this cold,

unfamiliar world.

Just as she rounded the corner, lost in thought, her body collided with another—sharp and sudden, like ice cracking beneath a weight it couldn’t bear.

“Ahh! Watch where you’re going, you blind fool!”

The voice that followed was cold and cruel, laced with the kind of venom that didn’t need volume to strike.

Lydia blinked, reeling back. Standing before her was a girl with raven-black hair as sleek as polished obsidian and a smirk sharpened into something weaponized. She flicked her hair over her shoulder like a dagger unsheathed, her eyes skimming over Lydia with the

dismissiveness one reserved for dirt beneath their shoes.

“I’ve complained about the headmaster letting people like you in,” the girl spat, not even

bothering to lower her voice. “The disabled should be kept in their own institutions.

Honestly, I can’t bear the sight.”

Lydia’s jaw clenched.

The sting wasn’t new—she’d heard cruelty dressed in lace before—but there was

something particularly vile in the girl’s

polished delivery. A venom that came not from ignorance, but delight.

The girl’s companions—painted in silk,

powdered like porcelain dolls—snickered

behind lace-gloved fingers. Laughter, light and hollow, echoed off the stone.

Lydia inhaled slowly. Deep. Measured.

Controlled. The kind of breath one takes before stepping into battle.

“Apologies for the collision,” she said, her voice crisp as the morning frost. “But if we’re being accurate, we both bumped into each other. Which makes you just as blind as I am.”

She met the girl’s glare head-on, her tone light but her eyes unwavering. She didn’t blink.

She didn’t back down. She never had.

The girl—Suzana, Lydia would later

learn—looked momentarily stunned, like a queen unaccustomed to being questioned by peasants. Her perfectly glossed lips parted in disbelief.

“How… how dare this thing speak back to me?” she stammered, her indignation simmering just beneath her painted veneer.

Lydia bent to retrieve her fallen book,

the motion graceful, unbothered. But before she could retreat, Suzana’s voice sliced through the air once more.

“You must be new. That would explain your charming fashion sense.”

Lydia straightened, adjusting her gloves. “Charming” echoed in her mind like a poison tipped with honey.

“I’m Suzana,” the girl declared with theatrical flair, gesturing to the two shadows at her sides. “And these are my dear friends—Tesla, and Victoria.”

Tesla nodded once, more to herself than to

Lydia, her bored eyes already drifting away. Victoria, however, stood tall with the elegance of a statue carved from pride.

“We are the ones you should be wary of,” she said, her voice silken, her smile sharp. “You’d do well to learn your place, and step aside when we pass.”

Then, with the haughty entitlement of those who’d never been told “no,” they brushed past Lydia as if she were air.

Their giggles trailed behind them like the tail of a poison-drenched perfume.

“I heard Callum was in the art studio this morning,” Tesla cooed.

“Was he?” Victoria murmured, her tone steeped in intrigue. “I’ll have to pay him a visit. Maybe he knows how to spot talent.”

Their voices faded as they vanished down the corridor, their laughter muffled by distance and their own delusions.

Lydia stood still for a moment, the quiet

wrapping around her like armor. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her dress, not from fear—but resolve.

Let them play their little games.

She had seen storms fiercer than their

whispered cruelty. She’d learned to survive far worse than painted smiles and poisonous words. And unlike them, her strength wasn’t woven from entitlement—it had been forged in movement, sharpened by silence, and

tempered by every school, every home, every

moment she’d ever had to start again.

With a breath, Lydia smoothed her skirt and raised her chin.

And when she looked up, she found herself standing before her classroom door.

Finally.

The door creaked open beneath her hand, groaning as if reluctant to reveal what lay

beyond. Lydia stepped into the classroom with a slow breath, her heels tapping quietly against the polished stone. It was empty—thank God—and for the first time since her

arrival, silence embraced her like an old friend.

The space smelled of chalk and varnished oak. Rows of carved desks stood in perfect

formation, their surfaces etched with initials and secrets from years past. A tall arched

window spilled pale morning light across the room, casting soft shadows on the floor like ghosts stretching their limbs.

Lydia crossed to the far side of the room, to the seat by the window, and sank into it. Her

fingers brushed over the smooth wood, grounding herself in the simplicity of stillness. No staring eyes. No venom-tipped words. Just her, the quiet, and the weight of everything unsaid.

She rested her elbow on the desk and tilted her chin into her hand, letting her eyes drift

beyond the window’s edge to where the courtyard stood—vast and elegant, all marble fountains and clipped hedges, like something torn from the pages of a dream. Yet beneath its beauty was an unmistakable chill, a rigid

structure where every smile had sharp edges, and every word carried a second meaning.

Lady Blackwell’s Academy was no ordinary school. It had teeth beneath its polished

exterior. Its walls whispered with tradition, wealth, and control—and those who walked its halls did so like predators disguised in silk.

This was a world built on legacies, and she had none.

Already, the air felt heavy with unspoken

hierarchies. The other girls with their cold stares and gilded names, their laughter as

cruel as it was hollow. They were trained in

elegance, yes—but also in dominance. Every interaction felt like a dance with invisible knives.

Lydia had danced before.

But still… something about this place stirred her. Beneath the suffocating formality and rigid tradition, there was a pulse. A quiet hum. As though the walls themselves held secrets too old to name—whispers of rebellion,

passion, and longing stitched between the stone. As if something unseen watched her, waiting to see what she would become.

She wasn’t sure yet.

Her life had been a constant blur—countries, languages, uniforms, temporary friendships. And now here, in this gothic fortress of a school, she was expected to become someone. Someone worthy. Someone that mattered.

She turned her gaze to her reflection in the glass. Pale skin, eyes too tired for her age, mouth set with quiet defiance. Not the kind of girl who belonged here, but perhaps the kind that could change something.

No, she thought, not change. Survive. And maybe—if fate allowed—be more than just

another name lost in this place’s marble silence.

The door behind her creaked, a soft warning.

She straightened in her seat, smoothing the front of her uniform just as the first few

students began to trickle in, their voices a low hum of gossip and polite rivalry.

The moment of stillness passed.

But Lydia carried it with her, tucked beneath her ribs like a fragile ember.

She wouldn’t forget how this day began.

She wouldn’t forget their faces.

And she wouldn’t forget the way this place looked at her—as if daring her to become something they couldn’t control.

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