“I signed it,” I repeated.
Even saying the words out loud sent a shiver down my spine, but I refused to let it show.
“Good.” She turned immediately—no welcome, no explanation, just the fluid motion of someone born to command.
Her boots clicked against the stone courtyard, sharp and final, before she disappeared into the shadows of the academy halls, leaving a hollow echo in her wake.
I barely had time to register the space she left behind when a voice cut through the murmurs and shuffles of the recruits—a crisp, amplified tone that seemed to slice the air itself.
Smooth. Authoritative. Cold.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” it said, carrying across the open courtyard like steel through silk, “assemble. Four in a row, ten columns deep. Now.”
All of us froze, scanning.
No one was visible on the raised platform.
No figure in the windows of the surrounding buildings.
The sound came from everywhere and nowhere at once—speakers hidden in the eaves, microphones overhead, cameras probably observing our every twitch.
A subtle tension threaded through the air, the kind that made every inch of the courtyard feel tighter.
The formation began awkwardly.
Recruits jostled against each other, muttered curses under their breath, shuffled like pieces on an uneven chessboard.
A tall man with a jagged scar across his jaw collided with a shorter recruit, earning a sharp hissed, “Watch it, stronzo.”
Another dropped his bag, scrambling to retrieve it, delaying the line and earning a terse, clipped warning from someone behind him.
I barely moved, letting others bump and stumble around me.
I was patient.
Observation was part of survival.
Two minutes later, forty-four bodies—including mine—stood in something resembling order.
Rows and columns aligned on the gravel like soldiers on a parade ground.
Silence settled, a tangible thing pressing into my lungs.
The voice spoke again, smooth as polished steel but sharp enough to cut bone:
“Welcome to the Black Veil Society Academy.”
A pause.
“Of the forty-four standing before me, forty-two are Italian. Two are Spanish. Treat that as fact, not opinion.”
The words landed like hammers.
I felt the tension spike around me.
Some shoulders stiffened, some eyes darted toward the Spanish students.
Old hatreds die hard. But here, they would not survive.
