Chapter 1

Every year, a club president died.

Every year, whispers ran through the halls.

Every year, fear settled over Ashthorne like a dark cloud.

This year was no different.

The academy’s grand halls were alive with chaos. Screams bounced off marble walls, doors slammed against polished floors, and students tripped over each other in panic. Blood glistened like dark jewels on the steps leading to the music hall, where the latest club president had been found. His body… mutilated beyond recognition, a grotesque smile carved across his face.

And pinned to his chest, a note written in the same dark red, dripping with menace:

"Next time, it could be you."

The scene was a nightmare painted in every student’s memory. Panic rippled across the academy like a violent wave. Teachers scrambled to regain control, but voices shook with fear. Guards dashed to lock doors and cordon off the area, their footsteps echoing in the vast emptiness of Ashthorne’s halls.

The dean appeared as if summoned by the chaos. His expression was pale but controlled, every movement precise. Orders fell from his lips like thunder: no one leaves, no one speaks, no word escapes these walls. Not a single detail is to reach the media. The academy’s image—perfect, untouchable—was paramount.

Meanwhile, miles away from the frenzy, a girl stared at her computer screen.

Nyra.

The email blinked at her like a lighthouse cutting through fog:

“Congratulations, Nyra. You have been awarded a full scholarship to Ashthorne Imperial Academy.”

Her hands trembled slightly, and she read the line again, as if doing so would make it sink in. She had earned it—hard. Late nights, endless exams, and a determination no setback could erase had finally paid off. Ashthorne. India’s most powerful academy. A place whispered about in society magazines, coveted by heirs and heiresses, and feared by anyone who dared to dream beyond their own wealth.

Nyra’s heart raced, a mixture of excitement and fear tangling in her chest. She didn’t yet know the dangers lurking within the walls, the twisted games that were already in motion, or the elite students whose beauty masked the sharpest teeth.

Back at Ashthorne, the academy’s elite were already gathering. The surviving club presidents and members stood in stunned silence, eyes darting toward the bloody note. None of them had ever seen such cruelty, not even in the rumors that circulated in whispers.

“They say it’s tradition,” one student muttered, voice shaking. “Every year… someone dies. And every year… it gets worse.”

Reyansh Raguvanshi , one of the academy’s most feared students, appeared in the hall moments later. His presence silenced the room without a word. Black hair falling over a stormy eye, his gaze scanning the chaos with lethal precision. Azael didn’t smile, didn’t offer comfort. Yet everyone instinctively stepped aside, sensing the danger he carried simply by standing there.

Ira Rathore lingered near the fountain, calm but unreadable. Onlookers saw softness in her eyes, innocence perhaps—but beneath it, something dangerous flickered, a storm waiting to break free. No one dared approach. No one dared test the quiet fire in her gaze.

Kian Singhania , the academy’s flirt and charmer, leaned casually against a marble pillar. His grin was disarming, almost ridiculous in the face of the horror surrounding him. Yet the amusement in his eyes made the others uneasy. Even in chaos, he seemed untouchable, as if danger and destruction followed him like a shadow he controlled.

Aria Seagal , the trendsetter, moved through the hall like royalty. Every step precise, every strand of hair perfect, every glance commanding obedience. The students bowed their heads slightly as she passed, not out of fear—but because power radiated from her like sunlight, impossible to resist. She surveyed the scene, her face a mask of controlled disgust.

Meanwhile, Nyra had already packed her bag, imagining herself walking through the enormous gates of Ashthorne. She didn’t yet know that while she counted herself fortunate, the academy was alive in ways she couldn’t comprehend. Walls held whispers. Floors remembered footsteps. Shadows hid secrets no light could touch.

Somewhere within that grand palace-school, someone—or something—was always watching. Always waiting. Always hungry.

Nyra pressed a hand to her chest, heart hammering. The scholarship was her escape, her chance to belong somewhere prestigious, somewhere extraordinary. But deep down, a tiny, nagging voice whispered that Ashthorne was not a place for innocence. Not for dreamers. Not for the naïve.

And perhaps… not even for her.

The academy’s gates loomed ahead in her imagination, colossal and foreboding. Marble floors, towering pillars, glittering chandeliers—but all of it masked the darkness beneath. Nyra didn’t know yet that stepping through those gates meant stepping into a game that had been running for decades. A game of power, obsession, secrets… and death.

The blood that had already soaked Ashthorne’s halls this year was only the beginning.

And Nyra… Nyra was about to enter the arena.

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