Golden hair.
Sky-blue eyes.
A face that looked like it had been crafted by angels who had too much free time.
The sunlight caught in his hair like spun gold, creating a halo effect that felt entirely too intentional for a mere mortal. My throat dried instantly, the words I had been practicing dying in my mouth. I had just come from a back-alley brawl with bullies, and here stood a boy who looked like he'd never even seen a speck of dust, let alone a dried leaf.
"… Uh." I blinked, my brain struggling to reboot.
He smiled, a soft, gentle smile that made my pulse flatline. It wasn't the mocking smirk of the bullies or the predatory grin of Dmitri Volkov. It was… kind.
"You're late," he said lightly. His voice was melodic, like a cello played in a quiet room.
"I… I know," I stuttered, clutching my bag so hard my knuckles turned white. "The map… and the bullies… and the directions… and the circles. I walked in a lot of circles."
He chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated in the air between us. He lifted a hand, waving away my apologies. "It's fine. You're new. St. Aurelia wasn't designed to be easy to navigate. It was designed to be impressive."
Before I could respond, he stepped forward and knocked on the massive cathedral door three times…a rhythmic, secret-sounding knock. From inside, a small side entrance groaned open, and an usher in a stiff navy suit peeked out, looking ready to scold whoever was interrupting.
"She's with me," the boy said.
The usher's stern expression vanished instantly, replaced by a respectful, almost submissive nod. He stepped aside, holding the door wide.
My mind raced.
Who was this boy that a single sentence could open locked doors?
The boy motioned for me to follow. "Come on," he said with another smile. "I'll show you where to sit. If we're quiet, the Dean won't even notice we were gone."
"Th-thank you," I whispered, stepping into the cool, incense-heavy air of the cathedral.
The interior was enormous, a cavern of white stone and soaring arches that made me feel like an ant. Sunlight poured through tall stained-glass windows, catching the dust in the air and turning it into tiny floating rainbows. Rows of polished wooden pews gleamed under the light, filled with hundreds of students in identical uniforms. The scent of beeswax, fresh lilies, and history filled my senses.
Julien guided me toward the center, moving with an effortless grace.
I noticed the way heads turned as he walked, not because he demanded attention like a tyrant, but because there was something in his presence that drew eyes naturally. He was a magnet of light.
Once seated, he gave me a brief nod. My heart was still thudding, but I felt a strange warmth settle around me. There was a quiet confidence about him, a kind of amused patience, as if he could see the entire world unfolding and find it quietly entertaining.
The assembly began with the deep, resonant tolling of a bell. Director Alexandre Rousseau stepped to the podium. The room hushed instantly.
"Welcome, students, to another promising year at St. Aurelia Academy," he began. His voice resonated through the rafters. "This academy is a place of excellence, creativity, and discipline. We nurture talent, we cultivate intellect, and we encourage every student to pursue their passions with dedication and honor."
I watched as his gaze swept the room. It landed briefly on Julien, and the resemblance struck me like a physical blow. The jawline, the poise... Julien was a Rousseau. He was the son of the man who had brought me here.
"As we begin this year," the Director continued, "I want to acknowledge students who have distinguished themselves. First, I would like to call Dmitri Volkov to the podium."
The air in the room changed. It didn't just get quiet; it got heavy.
Dmitri stepped forward. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and moved with a lethality that made the hair on my arms stand up. His dark uniform was immaculate, but he wore it like armor. His hair was jet-black, and his eyes... even from a distance, I felt the cold grey of his gaze.
As he walked, I felt a sudden, sharp prickle on the back of my neck. Dmitri didn't look at the Director. He didn't look at the crowd. His eyes scanned the center pews until they landed dead center on me.
My breath hitched. Beside me, Julien shifted, his expression turning uncharacteristically sober.
"Dmitri," Director Rousseau said, oblivious to the silent war of gazes, "your results in the practical examinations have been exceptional. You have demonstrated skill, perseverance, and intelligence. Congratulations."
Dmitri nodded once, a sharp, regal movement. He didn't smile. He looked like a king accepting a tribute he already knew he deserved. When he turned to leave the stage, his eyes flickered to Julien, then back to me, narrowing slightly. It wasn't a look of admiration; it was a warning.
"Next," the Director called, his voice warming up, "Julien Rousseau."
The change in the room was instant. The tension evaporated, replaced by a ripple of excitement. Julien rose smoothly. Each step was measured, confident, yet effortless. He was the sun to Dmitri's moon.
"Julien has recently won first place in a national piano competition," the Director said with visible pride. "Let us congratulate him."
Applause thundered. I clapped until my palms burned. Julien reached the podium and nodded politely. "Thank you, sir," he said softly. His voice was a balm compared to the silence Dmitri had left behind.
When Julien returned to his seat, his gaze met mine. There was a gentle acknowledgment in his eyes, a small smile that seemed to say, Don't worry about the shadows. I'm here.
Once the assembly concluded, the sea of students began to disperse. I tried to blend into the crowd, but Julien was already there, blocking my path with that angelic smile.
"You're Isabelle, right?" he asked.
"Yes," I said softly, clutching my bag like a shield. "How did you…?"
"My father hasn't stopped talking about the 'Violin Prodigy' from the Beaumont gala," he teased, a trace of amusement in his tone. "I'm Julien Rousseau. It's nice to meet you properly, Isabelle."
"I… I know," I stammered, feeling my cheeks heat up. "I mean, everyone knows."
"I saw you arrive late," he said, leaning slightly, his voice dropping. "And I saw you coming from the back of the South Wing. Did you run into Camille and her little group of harpies?"
I bit my lip. "Is it that obvious?"
"You have a leaf in your hair," he said gently. He reached out, his fingers grazing my hair for a second as he plucked a stray bit of debris away. My heart did a somersault. "Don't let them get to you. They're just bored and rich. A dangerous combination."
"I'll try," I said, still dazed by the contact.
"So, what year are you in? First year?"
"Yes. I'm… I'm a bit behind… I'm in my second year, I think."
"Nonsense," he said, starting to walk and gesturing for me to follow. "I'm in the third year. If you ever get lost, which you will, just find me. I'm usually in the music wing or the library."
"You play the piano," I said, trying to regain my composure. "The Director said you won a national competition."
"I play," he said modestly. "But the piano is a lonely instrument. It's better when accompanied by a violin. I can't wait to have you join us at the Music Club. You'll fit right in, Isabelle. We need some fire in that room."
He guided me through the corridors, pointing out the history etched into the walls. We passed portraits of alumni whose eyes seemed to judge my every step, but with Julien beside me, the judgment felt distant.
We finally arrived at the French classroom. He paused at the doorway.
"Good luck in your first class," he said. "And Isabelle? Don't let the ghosts of this place scare you. Some of us are actually glad you're here."
"Th-thank you, Julien."
I watched him walk away, his golden head disappearing into the crowd. I felt a strange warmth, but beneath it, a lingering chill. I looked down the hallway and saw a flash of black hair, Dmitri. He was standing by a pillar, watching us. He didn't move. He didn't wave. He just watched, his face a mask of cold fury.
The French classroom was a sanctuary of old wood and the scent of ink. Monsieur Leclerc, a man with a neatly trimmed beard, welcomed us. When it was my turn to introduce myself, I felt the weight of every pair of eyes.
"Bonjour, je m'appelle Isabelle Duval," I said, my voice steadying as I spoke. "Je viens de l'orphelinat et j'espère apprendre beaucoup cette année."
The silence that followed was heavy. I saw Camille, the ringleader from the morning, sitting in the back row. She whispered something to the girl next to her, a sneer twisting her face. Orphanage. The word felt like a stain in this room of silk and silver.
By midday, I had finished half of my classes. The initial awe was giving way to a weary excitement. I was learning. I was finally here.
When the bell rang for lunch, I headed toward the cafeteria. The space was a grand hall of marble and glass, filled with the clatter of silver against china. I found a table near the window, trying to calm my racing heart.
I looked up and spotted him again.
Julien was casually leaning against the counter, laughing with a group of students. He looked like the sun. But then, my gaze drifted to the far corner, to the "Dead Table" as the students called it.
Dmitri sat there alone. He wasn't eating. He was staring directly at me, his grey eyes piercing through the noise of the room.
I looked at the gold of Julien and the iron of Dmitri, and I knew. My life at St. Aurelia wasn't just about music anymore. It was a choice between the light that wanted to save me and the darkness that wanted to own me.
As I took my first bite of lunch, I realized the "angel" might have opened the door, but the "demon" was the one who held the key.