Isla's POV
The alarm buzzed before the sun finished rising. I opened my eyes to shadows stretching across the ceiling like spiderwebs—sharp, dark, and unfamiliar. This wasn't home. This wasn't Russia. This was St. Arthelios.
And I was officially trapped in it.
My roommate hadn't shown up yet, which meant I had the space to myself. The silence didn't comfort me—it echoed. I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and brushing back strands of golden hair that had curled during the night. The scent of cedar still clung to the sheets. Clean, too clean. Like they were trying to hide how rotten this place really was.
I slid out of bed and padded across the room. My uniform hung on the door. Dark. Polished. A little too stiff for comfort. I put it on anyway.
At least I looked like I belonged here.
I stared at my reflection—calm face, cold eyes. My amber irises looked warmer than I felt.
You're not here to make friends, Isla. You're here to survive them.
Outside the window, the courtyard was already alive with movement. Expensive coats, secret looks, power disguised as posture. Everyone here carried a name that could crush cities. Mine didn't just carry weight—it carried history. Violence. Legacy.
The Durova girl.
I walked down to the dining hall, eyes following me. A few nodded. Most didn't bother hiding their stares.
And then there was him.
Arthur Gray sat three tables away, posture perfect, attention half on his plate and half somewhere far more dangerous. He didn't look at me—but I felt it.
The tension from yesterday hadn't faded. If anything, it settled deeper in the air. Like gunpowder waiting on a spark.
He didn't say much, I thought. But he didn't have to.
He watched without watching. Observed without reacting. Every movement calculated—like chess with real blood on the board.
I didn't give him the satisfaction of a second glance.
Let him wonder.
The halls of St. Arthelios didn't creak—they whispered.
Every step echoed with reputation. Family. Threats buried under marble floors and chandelier light.
I kept walking.
My schedule told me where to go, but my instincts told me who to avoid. Most of them watched me like I was an intruder. Some watched me like prey.
And then there was her.
She didn't need to say her name. Her heels did the talking first—clicking sharply against polished tiles like she expected the ground to bow.
Black hair. Glass-cut cheekbones. Lips curled in a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Sophia.
She stood directly in my path, arms crossed. Her uniform fit too perfectly, like it had been tailored to make her look untouchable.
"Isla Durova," she said, voice honeyed with something sharper underneath. "Didn't think you'd actually show."
I tilted my head. "Sorry to disappoint."
She smirked. "You must be very brave… or very stupid."
"And you must be very bored."
Her expression didn't change, but I saw it—the flicker in her eyes. She wasn't used to people biting back. She was used to people stepping aside.
"Let me guess," I added casually, stepping around her, "You're the welcoming committee?"
She didn't follow. Just stood there, spine straight, pride clinging to her like perfume.
"I'll see you around, Durova," she said.
I didn't turn back. "Not if I see you first."