Alyssa
"Okay, don't panic," Milla said, her voice a low, urgent hum as we were swept along in the flood of students leaving the Great Hall.
"A little late for that," I whispered back, my throat tight. "The entire school was staring at me."
"I know. I know. But seriously, what was that? Do you know him from somewhere? A past life where you stole his favorite toy, maybe?"
"Of course not. I've never seen him before today."
"He's never done that before," Milla insisted, her bright pink hair bobbing as she scanned the crowd nervously. "He usually ignores everyone with this magnificent, equal-opportunity contempt. To single someone out like that… it's like he was marking you."
My blood ran cold at the word. "Marking me for what? Execution?"
"Don't joke," she said, her usual cheerfulness completely gone. "With him, that's a genuine possibility. Just… you have to be so careful now, Alyssa. Phoebe saw him look at you. That's all it will take for her to declare war."
"I didn't do anything."
"You existed in his line of sight," Milla corrected grimly. "For Phoebe, that’s a capital offense."
We reached the door to our room, 21B. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my shaking hands. It was just a room. Just a girl. But it felt like I was about to walk into a cage with a very angry viper.
We pushed the door open. And there she was.
Phoebe was perched on her pristine black bed, filing her nails into sharp points. She didn't look up at first, acting as if we were nothing more than a draft.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in," she said, her voice bored and lethal. "The little dust bunny from the assembly."
Her cold eyes finally lifted and landed on me. A flicker of recognition, followed by pure, unadulterated loathing.
"You," she spat, as if the word tasted foul. "You're in my room?"
"She's our roommate, Phoebe," Milla said, stepping forward slightly, trying to put herself between us. "Her name is Alyssa."
Phoebe stood up, moving with a liquid grace that was both beautiful and menacing. "I don't care what its name is," she said, her gaze still fixed on me. "I care that the Prince actually wasted a single glance on… this."
She gestured vaguely in my direction, a flick of her wrist that dismissed my entire existence.
"He didn't waste anything," I said, my voice coming out stronger than I expected. "He just looked."
Her eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare speak about him. You are not worthy to even say his name."
"I didn't say his name," I pointed out, my own stubbornness surprising me.
"Let me give you some advice, little stray," she said, taking a step closer. She was holding a small, elegant bottle of dark, blood-red nail polish. "You don't belong here. You're a rounding error. A speck of dirt on a very, very expensive rug."
"I'm not looking for any trouble," I said, standing my ground.
"Too late," she hissed. "Trouble found you the second he looked at you. He sees weakness better than anyone. He was probably deciding which of your bones to break first."
She walked over to my side of the room, her movements slow and deliberate. She ran a perfectly manicured finger over my plain, thin blanket.
"This is your… bed?" she asked with a theatrical sigh. "It's as pathetic as your scent. Did you get this from a prison supply catalog?"
"Leave it alone, Phoebe," Milla warned.
Phoebe ignored her. She held up the bottle of polish to the light. "You know what I think?" she said, her voice a cruel purr. "I think this room needs a little more color. Your side is so depressingly bland."
Then she "stumbled."
It was the most fake, deliberate stumble I had ever seen. Her body barely lurched, but her hand opened at the perfect angle. The glass bottle flew through the air in a graceful arc, shattering on my simple white comforter.
Dark red polish exploded across the fabric, the stain spreading like a pool of fresh blood. The sharp, chemical smell of acetone filled the small room, stinging my nose.
Phoebe straightened up, a look of mock horror on her face. "Oh, my. How clumsy of me. It seems I've ruined it. What a shame."
She gave me a slow, triumphant smile. It was a smile that promised this was only the beginning.
"You did that on purpose!" Milla yelled, her fists clenched.
"Prove it," Phoebe challenged, turning to admire her reflection in her gothic mirror. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to meet people who actually matter. Try to air out the room. It reeks of charity and poor life choices."
With a flick of her golden hair, she swept out of the room, leaving a suffocating silence behind her.
I stared at the ruin of my bed. It was the only thing here that felt like mine, a cheap comforter my adoptive mother had packed for me. Now it was destroyed.
"That absolute witch!" Milla burst out, kicking at the leg of Phoebe's bed. "I'm going to report her!"
"And say what?" I asked, my voice hollow. "That she's clumsy? She was right. We can't prove it."
"I don't care! She can't just get away with this."
"She already did," I said, sinking onto Milla's colorful bed. I felt tears pricking my eyes and angrily blinked them back. I wouldn't cry. Not over this. Not because of her.
"No," Milla said, her jaw set. "No, she doesn't win. We fix this. Come on."
She disappeared into our small, shared bathroom and came back armed with a basin of water and a handful of towels. "Maybe we can get the stain out. Or some of it. We're not letting her beat you on your first day."
I looked at her, at the fierce loyalty burning in her eyes for a girl she'd met only hours ago. A small, warm feeling bloomed in my chest, fighting back the cold dread.
"Okay," I said, getting up. "Okay, let's try."
We blotted and scrubbed, the red polish smearing but refusing to disappear entirely. It was a hopeless task, but doing it together felt like an act of defiance.
"This isn't your fault, you know," Milla said as we worked. "Don't for a second think it is."
"It feels like it is. If he hadn't looked at me…"
"Then she'd find another reason to hate you," Milla said firmly. "Because you're not a sycophant who kisses the ground she walks on. People like Phoebe can't stand that. You've got me, alright? We'll get through this. First rule of surviving Obsidian Moon: find an ally. You're stuck with me now."
A real smile touched my lips for the first time since the assembly. "Thanks, Milla."
"Anytime. Now, let's see how bad the damage is underneath." She grabbed one side of the ruined comforter. "The mattress is probably stained too."
I grabbed the other side and we peeled the wet, smelly fabric back. Just as she'd predicted, a faint red stain had soaked through onto the thin mattress.
"We have to flip it," I sighed. "Maybe the other side is clean."
Grunting with effort, we heaved the flimsy mattress up and leaned it against the wall. And that's when I saw it.
Carved into the dark wooden slats of the bed frame, hidden from view, was a symbol.
It wasn't just a random doodle. It was deliberate. A smooth, continuous spiral with three jagged lines cutting through it like lightning bolts.
"What is that?" I breathed, reaching out to trace the marking with my finger. The wood felt strange, almost humming under my touch.
"Whoa," Milla said, leaning in for a closer look. "I have no idea. Looks old. Definitely not Academy property standard."
She looked around the room, a thoughtful frown on her face.
"You know," she said slowly, lowering her voice. "The girl who had this bed last year… she just disappeared. I was here for the summer session and saw it. One day she was in class, the next, her side of the room was empty."
A chill that had nothing to do with the wet comforter slid down my spine. "Disappeared? What do you mean?"
"Everyone said she dropped out. Couldn't handle the pressure. But it was weird. She left all her stuff behind. Books, clothes, everything. The administration just packed it all up. It was like she vanished overnight."
We both looked back at the strange sigil carved into the wood. It seemed to pulse in the dim light of the dorm room, a secret left behind. A warning.
"I wonder if this was hers," Milla whispered.
