She hesitated. “No. Your father wants you to focus on getting better and not—” She bit her lip, unable to finish.
Something inside me cracked, then hardened over.
“Right. Catch you around, then.” My voice came out clipped, cold.
She turned away, climbed into the car, and drove off.
She didn’t look back.
It would’ve meant something if she had.
“Don’t worry,” Lyra said, her grin sharp as glass. “Darkmoor has you now. And you’re never getting away.”
Chapter 2
Seph
I was led inside by Lyra, Ivan skulking behind me like he expected me to bolt.
Instinctively, I tugged my oversized sleeves down over my wrists, making sure every inch of skin was covered.
The building opened up like a museum — wide halls framed in dark wood and polished brass. The beams and staircases gleamed with the kind of sheen that only comes from age and money. Green carpet stretched down the centre of the hall, thick and lush, while antique tables held lamps and delicate ornaments that looked too fragile to touch.
Students moved through the corridors in neat uniforms: white shirts, navy skirts, pants, or shorts.
My stomach dropped.
A fucking uniform?
No way I was wearing that.
Lyra led me toward an old elevator — the kind with iron grates and a groaning pulley system. It was small and boxy, and with the three of us inside, the air felt tight.
I made a silent note to take the stairs from now on.
The office was on the top floor, at the end of a long corridor. Lyra knocked, and a voice — sharp, female — called, “Enter.”
I stepped inside.
The room was enormous, almost like a private library. Books lined every wall, thick spines and rolled parchments packed in tight. At the far end sat a massive mahogany desk, dark as dried blood, easily four metres wide. Behind it, a woman with meticulously styled black hair and matching lips watched me over the rim of her computer screen.
When she smiled, it didn’t reach her eyes.
“Persephone,” she said. “Welcome. We’re so pleased you could join us. That will be all, Lyra. Ivan.”
My chaperones nodded and slipped out, the heavy door closing behind them with a dullclick.
I swallowed as the woman stood and came toward me.
“Don’t worry,” she said smoothly. “They won’t go far. But this room is quite soundproofed.” Her eyes swept over me — assessing, dissecting. “Miss Persephone Quinn. You don’t look much like your mother.”
It was true.
Where my sister, Sable, had been golden — golden hair, golden eyes, peach-cream skin, the perfect echo of our mother Georgina — I was something else entirely. My hair was silver, true silver, almost white, and my eyes were dark midnight pools flecked with gold, like stars trying to break through.
I was not beautiful like Sable.
Mother reminded me of that every chance she could.
