"Careful, little sparrow. This school doesn't just open doors... it opens appetites."
~Unknown
Wren's POV.
The boy's voice lingered in my ears like a half-remembered dream. He's warning slithered under my skin like a living thing.
"Don't go there... Go to the Third Corridor. Knock twice, then once more. He prefers it that way."
I didn't know why he had said it, why his words felt heavier than the others'. But there was something in the way he held my gaze, something that made the air between us hum like a plucked string. A warning. A secret.
And so, against all reason, I listened.
The Third Corridor was darker than the rest of the school, it yawned before us, its shadows thicker than they had any right to be, the walls lined with peeling wallpaper that whispered under my fingertips. At the end of it stood the door.
God, the door.
Deep brown, ancient, its surface carved with symbols that twisted like living things, The carvings weren't mere decorations; they moved. Tiny figures inked in what looked like dried blood danced along the panels... Victorian children playing hopscotch on graves, a fox with a pocket watch leading a procession of skeletal scholars, runes I didn't recognize, sketches of creatures that shouldn't exist. And then, just as my knuckles hovered over the wood... No the door at the end wasn't wood... it was a being,
It pulsed.
A slow, rhythmic throb, like a heartbeat. A faint red glow seeped from the cracks, curling around the frame like veins.
I whipped around to face my mother, her manicured nails dug into my wrist.
Her face was bloodless, her lips pressed into a tight, trembling line. Richard, the man who'd bragged about wrestling bears in Alaska... was hyperventilating into his collar, looking like he was about to vomit.
Good, I thought savagely. Let him choke.
This is my fault, though.
If I had just kept my head down, if I hadn't let the darkness in me rise...
But it was too late for regrets.
My knuckles grazed the door. The moment flesh met pulsating grain, three weird things happened to me, the temperature dropped twenty degrees, the fox in the carving winked at me. I almost gasped then a whisper slithered from the keyhole: "Late, late, late."
Then... silence.
I knocked.
Twice. Then once more.
Silence.
A full minute stretched, thick and suffocating. My mother's fingers twitched toward my arm, ready to drag me away.
Then...
THUMP.
The door screamed on its hinges. A hundred locks clicked open in a cascading symphony, metal groaning like the bones of the dead. Like something alive being forced open against its will. The door creaked inward, slow, deliberate, as if it hadn't been opened in centuries.
Light spilled out, warm and golden, revealing a room that defied logic.
Books lined the shelves, their spines gleaming with titles in languages I didn't know. A desk, polished to a mirror shine, held a cup of pens, and a steaming white teacup of coffee. There were also a large number of trophies each labeled with dates going back to 1673.
Two suits of armor stood sentinel, their hollow gazes fixed on nothing. A fireplace crackled, its flames too blue, too bright, casting shadows that moved when I wasn't looking. Above it hung a painting, an old cottage swallowed by dark, grasping trees.
And the crow.
Perched on a stand, It was also missing one eye, the socket a gaping black void that seemed to track our every move. I wondered if it was alive.
No one was there though, no sight of the principal. I couldn't help but whisper, "Hello?"
"Herro?" The crow croaked, its voice wet, like it had something caught in its throat.
I nearly screamed. Well that answered my question.
"Oh my my, Guests?" The voice came from everywhere and nowhere.
"I was unaware. Miss Daisy didn't inform me of your presence. Did I keep you waiting long?"
It sounded like honey and smoke, curling around me like a spell.
I turned...
And the world tilted.
A staircase had appeared where there hadn't been one before, winding up into shadows. And descending it, the air itself seemed to part for...
Her.
Tall, flawless, her dark skin glowing like polished onyx beneath the flickering firelight. A carousel hat perched atop waves of long, luscious green hair, spilling down her back like spilled absinthe.
Her dress was red. Too red. Liquid, shifting, as if stitched from the fabric of dying stars. A golden rib-cage corset cinched her waist, its bones pressing into her like gilded claws.
And her eyes...
Pale blue, glacial, framed by silver glasses that caught the light in impossible ways.
But it was her heels that stole my breath.
Black and gold, shaped like hourglasses, sand trickling slowly from the soles.
Where does the sand go?
She smiled, sipping from the same teacup that had just been on the desk.
"Welcome," she said, her voice a blade wrapped in silk. "To Vermont Academy."
Wasn't the principal supposed to be a man?
Mother made a sound like a dying rabbit.
The woman... if she even was one, took another slow sip from her teacup, those blood-red lips curling in amusement. I was the only one who seemed to notice the cup had teleported from the desk into her hands without her moving an inch. I made a mental note to check the school's water supply for hallucinogens.
She glided toward us, hips swaying like a pendulum, each step deliberate, hypnotic. Divine and deadly. Standing there in my baggy jeans and choker, I suddenly felt like a street urchin who'd stumbled into a royal court. My mom's ever the composed socialite, smile was strained, especially as Richard's gaze lingered just a little too long on the principal's... everything.
Good. Maybe they'll break up by dessert.
"No, not at all," I lied smoothly when she asked if we'd been waiting long. "We just got here."
The woman... Principal Whoever-She-Was, placed her teacup back on the desk without walking over to it and clapped her hands.
A snow-white owl soared through an open window, a rolled parchment clutched in its talons. It landed gracefully on her shoulder, staring at us with unblinking golden eyes.
Note to self: Avoid the school owls. Especially the judgmental ones. Even though they looked extremely cute.
What kind of school was this? Was this real life?
"Please, sit," she purred, unfurling the scroll. "Ah. Wren Whitaker. I've been expecting you for.... oh, about a week now."
I blinked. "For… a week? My parents only decided to ship me off yesterday."
"Mmm, yes." She peered at me over the rim of her glasses, eyes glinting like frost under moonlight. "Your father wrote to me last autumn about your potential arrival. We had a lovely chat right after your first mishap."
My stomach dropped.
Last autumn. When I'd been expelled from my first school.
Which meant Dad had seen this coming. He'd planned for me to fail. He had been planning my exile for months,waiting for me to fall into his trap. The betrayal stung worse than the time I'd accidentally glued my hand to a desk in art class.
My hands clenched in my lap.
The principal continued, voice smooth as poisoned silk, dripping with amusement. "Two expulsions. Progressively worse behavior. And yet…" She tapped the parchment. "...state wrestling champion, track star, and… oh dear, was that a fire in the chem lab?"
I stayed silent, jaw locked, sinking lower in my chair.
"Normally, such enthusiasm would disqualify... you wouldn't be admitted to Vermont Academy because you're simply not worthy. " she said bluntly.
I expected that.
Then she smiled.
"But your grandmother, Mallory Whitaker, was one of our finest students. So for her sake, we'll make an exception… Welcome."
My mom finally found her voice. "Umm wait Miss?... My ex-husband's mother went here?!"
I stared. My sweet, cookie-baking, knitting-obsessed grandmother had attended this gothic horror show? Had she also made friends with the living furniture? Taken tea with the talking taxidermy?
The principal's grin widened. "Oh, I haven't introduced myself properly. I am Principal Raven."
Silence.
Then...
"Raven?" Mom repeated, eyes narrowing. "Like… the bird?"
The principal's owl hooted as if offended.
I, meanwhile, was too busy staring at the way the light caught her jawline. There was something… sharp about it now that I looked closer.
"Yes," the principal said smoothly. "Though I suppose you're more curious about the other name I go by."
A beat.
"Mister Atlas. "
The room froze.
Mom made a sound like a deflating balloon. Richard's face went through seven emotions at once.
I choked on air.
"You're a man?!" Mom shrieked. I, meanwhile, was doing mental gymnastics trying to reconcile that body with that title.
"Yes," Mr. Raven said, utterly unbothered.
Principal Raven... Mr. Raven?... just smiled, sipping his tea like this was a normal Tuesday.
Mom's eyes dropped to his chest, then hips, then back up. Her filter disintegrated "But you're... I mean... With those hips?! Plastic surgery? How?!"
"MOM!" I lunged to cover her mouth before she could dig our grave deeper.
Mr. Raven laughed, his pale eyes twinkling. "All natural, Ms. Holloway. Except the hair, that's dyed."
"Jesus," Mom wheezed, still staring. "Are you gay?"
"No," he said, leaning forward slightly. "Perfectly straight."
Mom's brain short-circuited.
"Wait, so you're saying you've got a d**k under that... "
"MOM!" I tackled her again, this time with both hands.
Mr. Raven's smirk turned lethal. "Would you like me to prove it?"
"NO," Richard and I shouted in unison.
Mom made a sound like a teakettle left on too long. Something told me that if I and Richard wasn't here with her, she would have agreed. Mr. Raven winked. The owl sighed like it had seen this exact scenario play out a hundred times before.
Richard looked like he was about to either faint or commit murder.
And me?
I was living for this chaos.
"Welcome to Vermont Academy, Wren. Try not to set anything on fire."