The Orientation Hall was vast-almost cathedral-like in scale-with arched ceilings that soared above in sweeping curves, every inch of it etched in deep maroon and gold. Stained-glass panels lined the upper walls, casting shifting colours across the space as sunlight filtered in, painting students' faces in soft hues of crimson, sapphire, and emerald.
At the far end stood a raised podium, carved from dark oak and inlaid with the school's insignia-a silver-lined crest bearing an open book, a candle flame, a key crossed with a quill, and a tower wrapped in ivy, glinting sharply under the overhead lights. Behind it, an immense vertical banner unfurled down the wall, bearing the crest in full size, silent and commanding.
Rows upon rows of seats filled the hall, polished and uniform, yet noticeably small-not built for comfort, but for function. There were no name tags, no fixed numbers; the school didn't accept students based on predictable quotas. You got in if you were chosen, and even then, it didn't promise belonging.
The air hummed with a thousand murmurs-gossip, awe, nerves-and overhead, faint orchestral music trickled through unseen speakers, adding an eerie elegance to the moment.
***
Isadora stepped through the archway, blinking against the kaleidoscope of colours washing over the hall. For a second, she just stood there -silent-taking it all in. The space felt alive. Not warm, not welcoming, but alive, like something was watching.
Clusters of students were already seated or standing around in loose circles, most of them dressed in the same crisp uniforms she now wore. Laughter rang out from one side-loud, polished, a little too perfect. She caught fragments of conversations: vacations in Sicily, tutors from Geneva, someone complaining about their family yacht being "so last season."
A pair of girls brushed past her. One gave her a sideways glance-quick, assessing-then looked away, whispering something behind a pale hand.
Isadora's grip on her Skystream tightened.
"New?" someone asked beside her.
She turned. A boy, tall and wiry, with messy chestnut curls. He didn't look smug-just amused, like he knew how absurd all this was and was choosing to survive it anyway.
"Isadora," she said cautiously.
"I'm Elian," he replied. "You're in the wrong line, by the way. That one leads to the Legacy Row."
He pointed to a cluster of gleaming, overconfident students near the front. "Unless you have a title and a family crest, you might want to aim for the left. Near the second pillar.That's where the rest of us-humble mortals-usually start."
Before she could thank him, another voice piped up.
"She doesn't have to sit with you, Elian," said a girl walking over. "There's still space near the Scholars' Circle."
Her hair was in tight twists, pinned with silver clasps, and her uniform was perfectly pressed. Intelligent eyes flicked briefly over Isadora, not cold-but weighing.
"I'm Naëlle," the girl said. "Scholarship, like you."
There it was again. The word. She couldn't tell if it was a mark of camaraderie or a subtle reminder.
Still, she followed.
****
Slipping into an empty seat without much thought, one of a pair in the middle row. Nel claimed the seat to my right with a low sigh, already scanning the room with sharp eyes.
Elian settled into the one by my left, right at the edge of what was unmistakably the scholarship circle. The unspoken divide was there, whether anyone mentioned it or not.
"Right between the humble mortals and the scholarship elite," he says lightly, crossing one leg over the other. "Fits me best."
Nel leaned forward slightly, her brow rising. "Have you seen these chairs? Even the seats aren't ordinary."
That was when Isadora really looked, The design wasn't loud, but it was there-refined, deliberate. A quiet kind of elegance. The kind you didn't notice until you really looked. The intricate lines.
Elian leaned back slightly, arms crossed as he scanned the hall with a dry smile. "You can tell a lot about Creinsleigh just by where they make you sit," he said, tilting his chin toward the front rows.
"Those?" he nodded to the velvet-blue seats closest to the podium. "That's where the purebreds perch—the elites. Old money, ancient families. Their great-grandparents probably built half the west wing," he said with a shrug.
"They're basically the descendants of the founders. The Primax—born into their seats."
He pointed to the row behind them-Muted crimson, modest embroidery, still luxurious, but less so. "The Legacy stream," Elian said, leaning back, "their last names matter more than their grades. Not quite royalty, but they still have a seat at the high table. And the Legacy set? They're the ones who really run the social environment. You won't see the Primax much — when they're not around, the Legacy take over everything here."
His finger dropped slightly as he glanced toward the middle section, where students like us were being guided. dark leather seats with iron framing. Simple. Sturdy. No frills, but not without dignity. "That's us-scholarship kids. The earned lot. We're not handed seats; we're measured, tested, and if we pass, we get a sturdy chair. Iron legs. No cushions."
Then he lowered his voice just enough to sound conspiratorial and gestured toward the plain rows at the far back. "And them-the ones we call the Grounders. Humble folk or regulars . No titles, no scholarships. Just enough scores or favors to get in. The system doesn't expect much from them... but sometimes that's what makes them dangerous."
He grinned, not unkindly, and nudged Isadora gently with his elbow. "Lesson one at Creinsleigh: the floor is equal, but the chairs will always tell you who they think you are."
****
His words lingered, unsettling something in me. I'd known there were layers to this place-heritage, privilege-but not like this.
The sharp sound of boots clicking against the tiled floor pulled me from my thoughts. The hall fell instantly silent. The overhead lights dimmed just slightly.
A tall man in a double-breasted coat, silver piping tracing the sleeves, stepped onto the stage. His every step against the polished blackwood echoed with controlled authority. He moved with precision.
"Good morning, initiates," he said.
His voice was calm, but it carried. Elegant. The kind of poise that couldn't be faked-only inherited or painfully trained.
His salt-streaked hair was neatly combed back, his face clean-shaven, his insignia badge gleaming faintly on his chest.
I am Vice-Master Cyril Vaelen, High Advisor to the Chancellor.
"I apologize for the delay. Your original orator was late."
He adjusted the cuffs of his coat. "However, we do not delay knowledge. So, I will proceed."
He paused, letting his gaze sweep across the sea of new faces. Some students fidgeted in their seats, others sat stiffly, clutching their Skystream cards and polished brooches like anchors.
"You are seated here today because you were chosen. Whether by lineage, by effort, by circumstance, or by chance, you now walk the halls of Creisleigh. We are built on centuries of tradition. But we do not bow to tradition-we honor it, challenge it, and evolve through it."
As his voice gathered weight, the heavy back doors of the hall creaked open.
Every head turned.
Gasps followed.
I couldn't fault them-l gasped too, without realizing.
The man who entered wore his silence like a second skin. His ash-blonde hair fell in soft waves, tied neatly at the nape, revealing a face too precise to be ordinary. His eyes-pale, not quite green, not quite purple-were a strange, mutated jade laced with violet. They flickered, like they knew something we didn't.
His brows, arched and dark, gave him a constant air of quiet command. His jaw was sharp. His lips unsmiling. There was something ancient about him-cold, composed-like time hadn't touched him in the same way it had the rest of us.
His beige blazer was tailored to him alone, double-breasted with silver buttons that caught the light. The lapel framed his neck sharply, and thin silver cords draped across his chest like subtle indicators of rank or tradition. A crest shimmered faintly: three stars encircling a winged crown. A rank I didn't recognize.
Beneath the blazer, a black vest clung to his torso over a crisp white shirt. A black tie, tightly knotted. Sharp black trousers. Polished black loafers that barely made a sound as he walked straight down the center aisle toward the dais.
"And while Creisleigh opens its gates to all who dare enter," Vice-Master Cyril continued, eyes flicking-just once-toward the new arrival, "only those who understand its laws, customs, and demands shall remain standing at the end."
"And here," he said, voice tipping between formality and favor, "is Caelum Thorns. A third-year. He was in charge of the orientation that was delayed. He acknowledges us with a nod."
Caelum Thorns stepped forward, slow and sure, to the center of the stage. The microphone barely crackled before his voice slid through the speakers-a deep, husky baritone that blanketed the hall in reverent silence.
"This school," he began, "is not a place for the ordinary. You are here because something about you-your mind, your will, your potential-stood out."
The way he spoke, deliberate and calm, made people lean in. Or maybe they were just hypnotized by that voice. Husky. I didn't truly understand what that meant until now-low, rough-edged warmth that made everything sound twice as serious and ten times more important. A little baritone. A little thunder.
Hands shifted in laps. A few students exchanged glances. You could almost feel the unasked questions:
What exactly did he mean by "not ordinary"?
What kind of school was this, really?
But no one raised their hand.
Whether it was fear of standing out, or just the effect of that voice, the room stayed silent.
Caelum Thorns continued, unbothered.
"In here, we won't shape you into something you're not. We will sharpen what you already are.
And for those of you who think you understand how this world works..."
He paused, eyes scanning the crowd, slow and deliberate.
"You will find yourself unlearning everything. Fast."
The room went quieter.
"You will be challenged. You will be tested. Not just by your peers or your lecturers-but by this place itself. Not every lesson is on paper."
That one hit different. Even I felt my spine straighten, like my body understood what my mind hadn't caught up to yet.
"In the days to come, you may feel lost. Out of place. Even scared. That's good. That's part of the process. If you're comfortable, you're not growing."
Another hush fell. Goosebumps rippled across arms.
He gave a final, half-smile-not warm, not cold. Just... knowing.
"Welcome to Creisleigh."
He nodded once to the Vice-Master and stepped back. Cyril returned with a pleasant smile, wrapping up the ceremony.
But I wasn't listening anymore.
From the moment he stepped on stage, I'd felt it-that twist in my chest, sharp and unfamiliar. The sting of surprise at seeing someone that beautiful.
Not just attractive-otherworldly.
Malakai, my best friend, had always been one of the most beautiful people I'd known. Chaotic, charming, easy to look at in a boy-next-door way.
But this guy?
He looked like he belonged in another realm. His skin caught the light like it wasn't real, and when his eyes swept the hall-not even pausing on me-I forgot how to breathe.
The Vice-Master's voice blurred into the background. My heart was thudding like it knew something I didn't.
The ceremony eventually closed, though most students were already mentally gone. The Vice-Master left the stage through the side doors.
Mr. Thorns followed-but he didn't look like a subordinate.
No. He moved like a leader. His presence too large, too steady to be hidden in anyone's shadow. Even from behind, he radiated something magnetic. Commanding. Heavy.
And as the two of them slipped out, whispers bloomed like wildfire.
"Did you see the crest on his blazer?"
"Must be from one of the founding families. Nobody wears that without weight."
"Is he military?"
"Board of Directors?"
"Nah, that's Upper Council material."
"Forget all that-did you see his face?"
"I don't think humans are supposed to look like that."
Beside me, Nell let out a dreamy sigh. "Wow... there's really nothing ordinary about this school."
Elian nodded, arms crossed like he was watching a puzzle unfold. "Mm. Nothing at all."
My mind, still flickering between unanswered questions and impossible beauty, struggled to focus.
"Okay, focus," Elian said, stretching. "We're supposed to register our courses and meet our professors."
Right. Focus.
"The madame said I can do mine on my SkyStream card," I replied, still a little dazed.
"Perfect," he grinned. "Let's get out of here."
We left the hall side by side, walking beneath the golden arches of the east wing. Our steps fell into rhythm as we compared course booklets. Elian had a more technical load
I'd been scrolling through SkyStream earlier, checking out the courses some professors had highlighted for first-years.
A few titles caught my eye—immersive art theory, neural storytelling, literary emotion mapping—but I wasn't entirely sure what they actually entailed. Still, it was enough to cobble together something for my notes.
Mine ended up a warm spread of art theory, creative writing, and English literature, though I knew even that was a little old-fashioned by Creisleigh standards.
Nell, thankfully, majored in Visual and Media Arts—close enough to mine that we shared a number of lectures together, at least until our major courses pulled us apart. Different departments, yes, but we still overlapped in Intro to Academic Writing (with its AI-assisted essay simulations) and the vaguely daunting Institutional Ethics, which now debated the moral ramifications of immersive tech. Enough to see each other. Enough to laugh about the oddities of lectures later.
"You're basically a walking planner," Elian teased after I helped him sort his electives.
"I'll take that as a compliment," I smiled.
Our laughter softened as we reached the academic square and had to part ways. Only after I turned did I realize-I hadn't asked Nell her room number.
Ugh.
Well, I'd figure it out later. Malakai wasn't in my department either, but with Elian and Nell around, I was bound to bump into someone familiar.
Eventually, after tracking down the departmental registrar and getting my schedule stamped, I made my way back to Argent Hall-the first-year hostel.
Too tired to think.
The hallway buzzed with quiet voices and creaking doors. When I finally reached my room and opened the door-
"Nel?"
She looked up from her bed, halfway through organizing her shelf. Her face lit up.
"No way! We're roommates?!"
I blinked. "You?!"
She jumped up and pulled me into a hug. "This place just got way better."
The exhaustion in my limbs lifted slightly.
Having a familiar face in a brand-new world felt like a small miracle. Nell immediately got to work, helping me unpack, showing me how the drawers worked, adjusting the SkyStream for light and temperature, and even offering me a neatly folded bedsheet.
"I resumed a little earlier than most," she said, casual as always. "So I figured some of you would need help."
"Thanks," I murmured, more grateful than I could express.
Once everything was in place, I sank into my bed, pulled out my phone, and texted my parents.
Hey. Settled in. Everything's okay. I'm okay. It's... a lot. But good.
My mom sent back a flurry of hearts.
Dad replied, Call when you can.
I smiled faintly, placed the phone beside my pillow, and let my thoughts drift back-to the stage, to the whispers, to the man who walked like he didn't belong to this world.
There was still so much about Creisleigh that didn't make sense.
I didn't eat dinner.
But I didn't really mind.
Sleep found me not long after.