The gates of Regalia Academy were so tall, so polished, and so laced with gold that Elena half-expected a security guard to stop her and say, "Sorry, sweetheart. Deliveries go around back."
But no one stopped her.
No one even looked at her.
And somehow, that was worse.
She stepped forward, each stride echoing like a whisper on marble. Her sneakers—cheap, comfortable, and slightly scuffed—squeaked against the pristine stone path. Around her, the world shimmered. Literally. There were crystal fountains. Sculpted hedges. Trees imported from somewhere expensive. The main building looked like the Louvre and a tech lab had a baby and dressed it in diamonds.
This wasn't a school.
It was a statement.
And that statement was clear: You don't belong here.
Elena clutched her bag tighter, heart hammering against her ribcage like it wanted to escape before the first bell rang.
Breathe. Just breathe.
She'd earned this.
Top of her class. National essay winner. Four scholarships, three academic trophies, two dead laptops, and a part-time job later—she was here. The only student in the country accepted into Regalia on a full ride without family backing, legacy status, or a last name worth Googling.
You weren't invited. You invaded.
That was what her mother had said when she opened the acceptance letter.
"You'll never survive that place," her mom had muttered, staring at the gold foil crest like it was an insult. "They don't want your kind."
She didn't ask what your kind meant.
She already knew.
And maybe her mother was right.
Because as Elena crossed the courtyard, eyes didn't meet hers. They slid over her, past her, through her. Invisible. Uncoded. Unranked.
Regalia's students wore their privilege like perfume—subtle for the Classy, loud for the Newly Rich, and nonexistent for the Socials. She hadn't even found her locker yet, and she already knew where she stood.
She passed a group of girls in matching sunglasses and heels that probably cost more than her tuition. They glanced her way, one whispering behind a manicured hand. Elena didn't flinch. She'd been stared at before. Judged. Laughed at. She didn't come here to be liked.
She came here to rise.
And Regalia?
It was just another system.
She just had to learn the rules.
Find your locker. Find your class. Don't speak unless spoken to.
Her locker was in the lowest row. Figures. No fingerprint scan, just a chipped dial and a dent that looked suspiciously like it had been kicked.
She opened it, stuffed her bag inside, and checked her schedule.
Period One: Modern Power Structures – Room 401.
Perfect. Start the day with a class on power.
Elena rolled her eyes and started down the hallway, eyes on the map glowing on her phone. She passed velvet-curtained study alcoves, glass conference rooms, and students who looked like they were born in blazers and private jets.
A boy in a leather coat bumped her shoulder without looking back.
Another one snorted. "Did she get lost on a public school tour?"
She ignored them.
She was almost at the stairs when—
Wham.
Her shoulder crashed into something solid. She stumbled, papers shooting out of her binder like confetti. Her balance wobbled. Her knees scraped marble.
"Oh my God—" she started, reaching for the nearest page. "I'm so—"
Her voice died.
Because the person she collided with wasn't just anyone.
He was a statue come to life.
Tall. Straight-backed. Expression blank. Hair dark, swept back like it hadn't moved in a storm. His uniform was black, sharply pressed. His shoes—mirror-shined. But it was his eyes that froze her.
Ice-blue.
The kind that didn't just look at you—they judged you. Measured you.
Dismissed you.
"Watch where you're going," he said.
His voice was low. Refined. Each syllable clipped like glass.
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You weren't looking."
"I said I was sorry," she snapped, grabbing another paper. "Try listening."
His gaze moved down to her chest. Her badge. His lips curved—barely.
"Elena Hart," he said, voice cool. "Scholarship, right?"
So he knew. Of course he did. He was probably one of them—Future Owner, Crest Board, or worse. She hadn't read the entire list of student bios yet, but her gut said danger.
And her gut was never wrong.
"You say that like it's a disease," she said, standing up.
"It is," he replied, adjusting his cuff. "To them, at least."
She stared. "And what about you?"
"I don't deal in sympathy."
"Well, lucky for both of us, I don't need it."
She turned to leave, but a voice called from behind.
"Well, well. Someone's already sparring with Regalia's crown prince."
She froze.
Julius Sterling leaned against the wall like a painting—half-smirk, full swagger, watching her with amused interest. Sunlight hit his hair just right, highlighting the golden streaks like he had a personal lighting crew.
"And who might you be?" he asked, stepping closer.
"Elena," she said flatly.
"Elena…" He trailed off, eyes flicking to her badge, then back up. "The scholarship girl."
"You say that like it's my brand."
Julius grinned. "It might be. But it's working for you."
Adrian exhaled softly and turned without another word. He vanished into the hallway like mist—cold, fast, and impossible to follow.
Julius watched him go, then turned back to her. "You just made an impression. That's dangerous."
"I wasn't trying to."
"But you did."
He leaned closer. Too close.
"And now they'll be watching."
"Who?"
"Everyone."
She stared back. "Then let them."
Julius laughed. "I think I like you."
Before she could reply, the bell rang.
He winked and strolled off like he hadn't just turned her world upside down in sixty seconds.
Elena was left surrounded by scattered papers, tingling nerves, and the sudden realization that her plan to stay invisible?
Dead on arrival.
---
Later — Modern Power Structures, Room 401
The classroom was built like a courtroom—ascending rows, a glass wall that overlooked the inner garden, and desks so sleek they probably had AI in them.
Elena slipped into the last row. Every seat was filled. Whispers swirled before the teacher even arrived.
She ignored them.
The instructor, Ms. Vellin, entered in heels that echoed authority. "This class is about understanding who holds the strings—and how to cut them."
She clicked a remote. The screen behind her lit up: "Power: Inherited, Manufactured, and Taken."
Elena wrote it down.
When the attendance rolled in, she caught the names.
Adrian Lancaster.
Julius Sterling.
Class royalty. War-ready.
And her?
She was the wildcard no one had bet on.
But as she glanced around—Adrian staring ahead like she didn't exist, Julius scribbling lazily in the margins of his pristine notes—Elena knew one thing.
She may not have power.
Not yet.
But she was already in their game.
And she wasn't planning to lose.