Prologue: Colton
Westpointquad,Sundayacouple of hours before dusk. A meeting called at an hour reserved only for bad news. Only the Board would dress it up as tradition—a pageant of black robes and brittle smiles, the entire faculty lined up in ancient stone, faces half hidden by the dark. The quad is empty at three a.m. They want privacy. They want their announcement to sting.
I perch on the ledge of the fountain, boots dangling, cold wind flattening my hair to my skull. In front of me, the Board processes in two lines, ceremonial as a funeral. The rest of the Feral Boys lounge in the shadows near the main entrance: Bam hunched on a bench, fingers clenching and unclenching like he’s already choking someone; Rhett sprawled with his back to thewall, scanning for the fastest route out. Jules is standing, looking bored.
The Board halts at the new statue they erected during the rebuild. A big, ugly as sin thing meant to represent our forefathers. It came out looking more haunted than holy, but there it is, right in the quad’s center. Dean Marcus is the first to speak, hands folded over his robe like a priest about to offer last rites.
"Effective immediately," his voice rings out, "Westpoint Academy is expanding its recruitment to exceptional candidates outside traditional legacy bloodlines. While we have accepted the poor on occasion, we are opening a more… robust scholarship program, designed to keep Westpoint as a cutting edge Academy, where our reach is not tainted by past failures."
A wave of sound passes through the crowd. It’s not surprise, but anger, disgust, something closer to fear. The hierarchy here is simple: If your blood isn’t of money, your bones end up in the dirt. It’s not hyperbole. It's history.
I watch the reactions. Bam rolls his eyes and Rhett leans forward, clearly interested in the change. They must not have told him beforehand.
Dean Marcus keeps talking. "As part of this transition, our very first recipient Scholar will be introduced tonight. She is on campus already. You will all make her feel welcome."
My jaw ticks. I’ve heard rumors, but never expected they’d go through with it. Legacy is the only currency that matters here. If Westpoint is selling it to the highest bidder—or worse, giving it away—they’ve either lost their grip or want us to believe they have. I file that away for later.
I jump down, walking to join the Boys.
"The Board is rotting," I mutter to Rhett. His mouth curves, eyes still trained on the crowd. "Maybe they want to see who snaps first."
The quad hushes as Dean Marcus motions. A door opens at the far side of the courtyard, two instructors ushering a girl forward. She moves like she’s caught in the crosshairs: back too straight, fists white at her sides, chin set for execution. Her dress is plain, almost puritan—cheap fabric against expensive air.
The instructors release her and step back. She stands alone, spine refusing to curve, face angled down but not in surrender. Waiting to be dissected.
Dean Marcus calls her by name. "Eve Allen, Westpoint welcomes you."
Eve lifts her head. Her eyes don’t look for rescue. They scan the stones under her feet before her eyes lift to the faces watching her. I catch the line of her jaw, the tight set of her mouth. Defiance, but barely. A flicker, not a fire.
The Board offers no applause. This isn’t for her. It’s for the audience—proof that mercy is a privilege they can revoke. The flash of a camera blinds her for a moment and she blinks rapidly to clear her sight.
I track her as she moves to the front. Her gait is wrong for a scholarship kid. No shuffling, no false humility. I find myself leaning forward, needing a closer look, and immediately loathe the impulse. I don’t get caught off guard. Ever.
Bam elbows me, hard enough to mean it. "You believe this shit?" His whisper is too loud. Heads turn. Eve’s does not.
"She won’t last a week," Rhett says. “They’re doing this for a reason and I can’t see it being a good one.” He sounds bored, but his eyes are narrowed—like he’s watching a threat incubate in real time.
I can’t disagree. The vultures are already circling.
Dean Marcus gestures to the crowd. "Tomorrow, Miss Allen will begin orientation. I expect everyone to assist her acclimation." A warning, not a request.
The instructors move to usher her away, but Eve takes a step out of line. She speaks, voice small but clear: "Thank you, Dean Marcus. I’ll do my best."
A few snickers ripple through the rows. Rhett’s mouth opens, but I clamp a hand on his shoulder before he can say anything. He shoots me a look. I ignore it, eyes locked on Eve.
I study the slope of her shoulders, the slight tremor in her right hand. She’s never worn heels before. She hates being watched. She’s terrified, but too proud to show it.
I see everything.
I want to see more.
The Board dismisses us with a sweep of black sleeves. The funders melt into the background, faculty head to the parking lot, and we start moving towards our dorm.
Rhett shoves his hands in his pockets. "So, Colton, what do you think?"
I watch Eve as she’s led away—every step, every tilt of her head, every time she looks up only to force her gaze down again.
"I think she’s dead the second she walks into first period," I say.
