VALEMONT ACADEMY || Kael Ravenheart ||

Valemont Academy had always been a beautifully crafted cage. For over a century, Valemont Academy stood like a cathedral of prestige — carved into history by the bloodlines that built empires and brokered legacies. Towering gates opened not just to students, but to heirs, inheritors, and symbols of dynasties. But today, a girl walked through those gates without a last name.

I watched from the Orion Suite window as the newest crop of students passed through the wrought iron gates, their carefully curated facades already cracking under the weight of our legacy. The morning mist clung to the stone gargoyles that lined the entrance, their chiseled faces worn smooth by centuries of rain and judgment.

Habit #1 of new students: They always look up.

And there—just as the clock tower struck eight—she proved me right.

---

THE FIRST SIGHTING

She paused beneath the archway, gloved fingers tightening around the strap of a vintage Chanel bag that cost more than most scholarships. The morning light caught the delicate bones of her face, the stubborn set of her chin, the way her eyes—hazel, gold-flecked, utterly unimpressed—skimmed over the gargoyles as if they were particularly dull statues.

Interesting.

"Who's that?" Eric Thorne materialized at my shoulder, squinting through the leaded glass.

I didn't answer. My ledger was already open.

Observation #1: Subject exhibits zero awe toward Valemont architecture. Possible theories:

• Arrogance
• Prior exposure
• Superior spatial awareness

A breeze caught the hem of her skirt—ivory tweed, Chanel Fall '23, tailored to conceal weapons—and for half a second, I saw the outline of what might have been a blade strapped to her thigh.

Habit #2: Always armed.

I inked the detail with particular care.

---

THE REGISTRATION

I moved through the secret passages with the ease of someone who'd mapped every stone in this prison. The registrar's office had a convenient slit in the paneling—left by some long-dead Ravenheart who'd enjoyed spying on his enemies.

"Name?" The registrar's pen hovered.

"{{User}} Roselle."

Lie.

The name rolled off her tongue smoothly, but her left thumb twitched against her index finger. Telltale #3: Micro-expressions when deceiving.

"Suite assignment?"

"Celestia."

The registrar's eyebrows shot up. The whispers began immediately.

"That's the Vale suite—" "—how did a Roselle get—" "—must be a mistake."

The girl— {{user}}, my new obsession*—merely adjusted her gloves and stared down the murmuring crowd until they fell silent.

Habit #4: Command presence through silence.

I committed the curve of her neck to memory.

---

THE LEDGER GROWS

By noon, I had:

• Stolen her admission file (Father's connections made this trivial)
• Confirmed the Chanel was authentic (Fall '23 runway, modified for concealment)
• Discovered she'd been expelled from three boarding schools ("Boredom," according to notes)

But the most fascinating detail came at 3:17 PM, when I watched her through the library window.

She thought she was alone.

The rigid posture melted. The mask slipped. And for thirty-seven precious seconds, {{User}} Roselle became someone else entirely—a girl who traced the embossed Vale crest on a book's spine with something like... homesickness.

Habit #5: Vulnerability manifests when unobserved.

I sketched the moment in the ledger's margins, capturing the way the sunlight caught the gold in her hair.

---

THE FIRST CONFRONTATION

I intercepted her at the Astral Hall entrance, my body blocking the secret passage she'd been about to discover.

"Looking for something, Roselle?"

She didn't startle. Didn't flush. Just met my gaze with those unsettlingly aware eyes.

"The ladies' lounge." A lie. Habit #6: Maintains eye contact when deceiving.

I stepped closer. Cedarwood. Iron. The scent of old money and older power. "It's in the opposite direction."

Her fingers twitched toward her thigh—reaching for the hidden blade. "How fortunate you happened by."

I smiled. "Isn't it just?"

The clock struck four. Somewhere in the distance, a servant dropped a tray. And in that split second of distraction—

She was gone.

Habit #7: Disappears when challenged.

I licked my teeth and turned to the ledger's next blank page.

---

THE REVELATION

Midnight found me in the archives, poring over century-old enrollment records.

There—between the water-stained pages of 1893—I found it.

A Roselle had never attended Valemont.

But a Vale had.

Isabella Moretti Vale.

Mother.

The puzzle pieces clicked together with delicious clarity: the Chanel, the weapons training, the way she'd touched that book spine—

Habit #8: Lies taste like peppermint.

I'd know the truth by morning. I don’t know how long I stared out the window before I realized the lecture had ended.

The professor’s droning voice had faded into static, and I was stuck in a memory—her. That moment in the rain, the blur of motion and rebellion, as vivid as if it had happened seconds ago.

I blinked, pushing my hand through my hair. Get a grip, Kael.

"You're zoning out again," Eric said from beside me, tossing a pen at my head. "That's the third time this week. You sure you're not dying?"

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have the energy to fake it.

Instead, I grabbed my bag and stood up, letting the murmur of students wash over me. Valemont Academy had always felt like a performance stage, one where everyone knew their roles. I just didn’t care for mine anymore.

Shia was waiting near the corridor, leaning against the railing like she owned it. Her signature smirk was in place, and her eyes flared with that smug satisfaction I had come to loathe.

“I heard the new girl snapped at you in Lit class,” she said sweetly, twirling her hair. “Should I be concerned?”

I didn’t respond. That only fueled her.

“She’s a Roselle, right? Bit full of herself for someone who comes from scrap metal and half-baked patents.”

I stopped walking.

“Sia,” I said quietly.

She looked up, innocent.

“Don’t.”

Her smile faltered just a little. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t have to.

“You don’t even know her,” she scoffed. “You’re just into the whole mysterious act. She rolls her eyes, and suddenly you’re obsessed.”

Not obsessed, I wanted to say. Just... intrigued. Unexplainably.

But I didn’t owe Sia explanations. I hadn’t for years.

I brushed past her. I didn’t care if she followed.

She wasn’t Roselle. She never would be. Great choice-- {{User}} standing up for herself will assert her confidence and elegance early on. The courtyard was unusually quiet when I reached it—too quiet for midweek lunch. Then I heard her voice.

“I don’t think I need your permission to speak to someone, especially not someone who isn’t yours.”

{{User}} Roselle.

I moved closer, keeping behind a stone arch that framed the trimmed path leading toward the fountain. Just enough cover to see without being seen.

Shia stood in front of her, arms folded, wearing that same forced smile I knew too well. She only wore it when she felt threatened. And right now, she was threatened—because Austin Rotherfield was sitting beside {{User}}, calm as ever, casually flipping through his sketchbook like this whole interaction was background noise.

“And I don’t think flaunting yourself in front of someone else’s—” Shia began, but {{User}} cut her off.

“Austin isn’t your possession,” said smoothly. “Unless he says otherwise?”

Austin just raised a brow without looking up. “Didn’t realize I’d been claimed. That explains the leash I’ve been missing.”

A few nearby students chuckled. Sia’s smile twitched, but {{User}} wasn’t done. “That’s enough.”

All three turned.

Kael Ravenheart.

Even in a school of legacies, Kael stood apart. He rarely spoke unless necessary — especially not to girls. Except Shia. They were close by family arrangement, not affection.

Which made what he did next all the more surprising. “She didn’t ask for your opinion, Shia.”

Shia stared. “Kael, I was just—”

“Provoking.” His voice was calm, but the chill in it silenced her. “You always talk when you shouldn’t.”

He turned slightly to {{User}}. “You alright?”