23. Alex
Chapter 23
Alex
I stand frozen for a moment, overwhelmed by the sudden burst of activity around me. The room spins as bodies push past, elbows jabbing into my sides. This is madness.
But as the crowd thins, a strange calm washes over me. I didn’t want this, but I’m here now. And I’ll be damned if I let the Legacies win again, especially knowing they already have an advantage.
With newfound determination, I sprint toward the nearest exit, my eyes scanning for any hint of red. The campus, usually so familiar, now feels alien and foreboding in the darkness.
Students are scattering in every direction, their silhouettes barely visible in the dim night. Some are already scaling walls, or trees, while others disappear into shadowy corners. The evening is alive with whispers, footsteps, and the occasional shout of triumph or frustration.
A flash of crimson catches my eye. Without hesitation, I dash toward it, my feet pounding against the path. Just as I’m about to grab it, Ophelia swoops in and snatches the fabric from the thin branch. She ties it around her neck like a scarf and gives me a sly smile before running off to find another flag.
“Sucks to be you, mudslide,” she mocks in passing.
Cursing under my breath, I pivot and sprint in the opposite direction. There are plenty more flags to find, and I’m determined to claim at least a few.
As I round the corner of a building, I spot another flash of red dangling from a second-story window. I assess the situation. The stone facade offers some handholds, but it’s a risky climb. Do I dare?
Before I can decide, a figure emerges from the shadows. It’s a student I don’t recognize. Our eyes meet, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of understanding. We’re both underdogs in this game, fighting against a stacked deck.
But sympathy has no place in the trials. We lunge for the wall simultaneously, scrambling for purchase on the rough exterior. I grit my teeth but he’s faster. These stupid heels are slowing me down.
I kick off my shoes, feeling the solid stone beneath my bare feet. The other student is already halfway up, his fingers grasping for the windowsill. I propel myself upward, my muscles straining as I find tiny crevices between the stone. The rough surface scrapes my palms, but I ignore the pain.
I reach the window just as the boy’s hand closes around the flag. Without hesitation, he grabs my shoulder and gives it a shove. I yelp in surprise, losing my grip. For a heart-stopping moment, we both teeter on the edge as he loses his footing from pushing me. Then we both fall, tumbling to the ground with a thud.
He quickly grabs the flag from where it fell in between us and jumps up to his feet without even giving me a second glance. Then he sprints off toward another flag.
This is what the trials are about—doing whatever it takes to win?
I lay there for a moment, the wind knocked out of me, staring up at the night sky. The stars seem to mock me, twinkling serenely above this chaos.
The fall knocked the breath out of me, but I’m more stunned by the other student’s callousness. Is this really what they are encouraging? Pushing each other off buildings for a ranking system?
But I can’t afford to dwell on it. Every second counts. Grimacing, I force myself to my feet, ignoring the throb in my shoulder and the sting of my scraped palms. I scan the area, desperate for another flag.
There—a glint of red near the fountain that divides the dormitories. I take off running, my bare feet slapping against the cold cobblestone. As I approach, I see it’s not just one flag, but three, tied to the top of the fountain.
My heart leaps. This could be my chance to make up for lost time. But I’m not the only one who’s spotted them. Two other students are converging on the fountain from different directions. I push myself harder, my legs burning with the effort.
I reach the fountain first, but only by a fraction of a second. Without hesitation, I plunge into the waist-deep water, gasping at the sudden cold. The other students splash in behind me, and suddenly we’re all grappling, reaching for the flags.
Water sloshes around us as we struggle. I manage to grab one flag, clutching it tightly to my chest as I try to fend off the others with my free arm. A hand grabs my hair, yanking my head back. I cry out in pain but refused to let go of my prize.
In the chaos, I lose track of who’s who. We’re just a tangle of limbs and desperation. I feel someone’s elbow connect with my jaw, sending a burst of pain through my skull. Stars dance in my vision, but I cling to consciousness and to my flag. With a surge of adrenaline, I push off from the bottom of the fountain, using the momentum to break free from the chaos.
I stumble out of the water, soaked and shivering, but triumphant. One flag secured. I don’t waste time looking back to see who got the other two. Instead, I scan the courtyard for my next target.
The night air is alive with shouts and the sound of running feet. In the distance, I see flashes of movement as other students clash over flags. It’s like a war zone, with alliances forming and breaking in seconds.
My thoughts spiral as I run. One flag isn’t enough. I need more if I want to stay in the running. But where?
A flicker of movement catches my eye. Another student is scooting down the smooth glass of the dining hall, a flag clutched between her teeth. I have no idea how they got up there, but without thinking, I sprint to the base of the building. My pulse stutters as I watch the climber descend, their movements quick and practiced. I know I can’t match their skill, but maybe I can catch them off guard when they reach the ground.
I press myself against the cool glass, waiting. The climber is only a few feet above me now. I can hear their labored breathing, see the strain in their arms as they cling to nearly invisible handholds. The climber is almost at ground level when they spot me. Their eyes widen in panic, and they lose their grip, tumbling the last few feet.
I seize my chance, diving for the flag as it falls from their mouth. We collide in a tangle of limbs, both grabbing for the precious scrap of fabric. I feel it brush my fingertips, but the other student is quicker, snatching it and rolling away before springing to her feet with catlike grace.
I’m slower to rise, my earlier injuries making themselves known again. The other student—a lithe girl with close-cropped hair—hesitates for just a moment, her eyes darting between me and the flag in her hand. I can see the calculation in her gaze, weighing whether I’m worth helping up or if she should run. Her eyes flick from the flag in her hand to the one I’m still clutching. For a split second, I think she might try to take mine too.
But then she turns and sprints away, disappearing into the shadows between buildings. I let out a shaky breath, realizing how close I came to losing everything. My dress is soaked, my body aches, and I only have one flag to show for it.
Who was actually having fun with this?
I force myself to focus, pushing aside the pain and exhaustion, remembering I was only doing this because the Legacies have an advantage. My pride outweighing my sense of shame. There have to be more flags out there, hidden in less obvious places. The fountain and the dining hall were too exposed, too obvious. Where would I hide a flag if I wanted it to be a real challenge?
As I ponder this, a muffled boom echoes across the campus, followed by a flash of light from the direction of the science building. I instinctively duck, scanning the area for threats. What was that? An explosion? Part of the game, or something gone horribly wrong?
I hesitate for a moment, torn between investigating or finding a safer spot to regroup. Curiosity wins out, and I find myself jogging toward the science building, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. As I get closer, I can smell something acrid in the air, like burning chemicals.
Rounding the corner, I see a small crowd gathered outside the building’s entrance. Smoke is billowing from a shattered window, and I can hear shouting from inside. A few students are coughing, their faces streaked with soot.
“What happened?” I ask, approaching a girl I vaguely recognize from Atlas’s Oceanic Reflection class.
She turns to me, her eyes wide with a mix of excitement and fear. “Someone set off some kind of chemical reaction in one of the labs,” she whispers. “I think they were trying to create a diversion to get a flag.”
I scan the crowd, looking for any sign of turmoil. Who could have done this? It seems extreme, even for this twisted game.
Suddenly, two figures burst out of the building’s front doors, coughing and waving away smoke. Well, Sylvester is coughing and waving, Bishop just moves with purpose. Astute in the same way he is with any other calculation.
I notice Sylvester has at least eight flags tied around his wrist, and Bishop has so many that one bicep is covered with them and he’s starting on the other. How many does that make? At least a dozen, maybe more. Probably more.
He’s ditched the suit jacket he had on earlier, his dark button-down rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned forearms corded with muscle. His hair is disheveled, a few strands falling across his forehead, and there’s a smudge of soot on his cheek. Despite the chaos, he looks exhilarated, his eyes bright, and utterly in control.
As if sensing my stare, Bishop’s eyes lock onto mine. A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face, and I know he’s noticed the single flag I’m clutching. Sylvester follows Bishop’s line of sight and spots me too.
I freeze, caught between fight or flight instincts. Bishop’s intense gaze holds me in place, the same as it does every other time, like a rabbit hypnotized by a wolf. Sylvester’s expression shifts from surprise to determination, and I know I need to move.
Without thinking, I turn and sprint away from the science building. I hear shouts all around me from other students, but I don’t look back. I just run, dodging between buildings and leaping over low hedges, desperate to put distance between myself and the Legacies.
No one had bothered asking for my opinion on the unfairness of the dress code—guys in pants, girls in dresses and heels. But if I argued, I’d probably just get some bullshit lecture about adapting, like what Bishop had said to me on the balcony earlier.
My lungs burn as I push myself harder, the single flag clutched tightly in my fist. I refuse to let anyone catch me. No one can take this one small victory from me.
As I round another corner, I collide hard with someone, nearly knocking us both to the ground. I look up, ready to apologize and bolt, but the words die in my throat.
Alfie?
His mask is gone, revealing a freckled face flushed red with exertion. His eyes widen in recognition, then narrow as he takes in my disheveled state and the single flag in my white-knuckled grip. My gaze shifts to his jacket pocket, where a red flag is carelessly stuffed inside. He only has one flag, like me.
For a moment, we both freeze, unsure whether to fight or flee. The sounds of pursuit echo in the distance, reminding us of the danger at our heels. Alfie’s eyes dart between my face and the flag, his expression a mix of calculation and indecision.
“Truce?” I blurt out, surprising even myself. “We both only have one. We could help each other.” Was I actually saying those words out loud? To Alfie, of all people?
I wouldn’t say Alfie is exactly my friend, but we’re not enemies either. Not like Bishop and the other Legacies, who would gladly strip me of my flag without a second thought. Mostly, Bishop. Okay, definitely Bishop.
Alfie hesitates, then nods sharply. “Fine. But if you try anything—”
“I won’t,” I promise.
Without waiting for a response, I grab his wrist and pull him along. We sprint down a narrow path between two buildings, our footsteps in sync. The night air whips past us, carrying distant sounds of chaos and excitement.
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t know,” I pant, my mind racing as fast as my feet. “Somewhere others won’t think to look.”
Alfie yanks his wrist from my grip but keeps pace beside me. “The old boathouse,” he suggests between labored breaths. “On the far side of the shoreline. It’s been abandoned for years.”
I nod, too winded to speak. We veer left, ducking behind a row of hedges. As we make our way through the crowds, other students sprint past us. The easier-to-find flags have already been claimed, leaving only the more challenging ones for us to locate.
Alfie trips and stumbles. Instinctively, I reach out, catching his arm before he falls, but the flag, loosely shoved in his suit pocket, tumbles to the ground. Another student rushes from behind a tree and snatches his fallen flag before either of us can react. The student, a guy with hair to his shoulders, grins triumphantly and dashes away into the night.
Alfie’s face twists in a mix of frustration and despair as he shouts, “No!” He begins to run after the student. “You go ahead, Alex. I’ll catch up with you in a bit,” he says before he disappears. I hesitate for a moment, torn between following Alfie and continuing our original plan. But time is ticking, and I need more flags. I have no idea where the old boathouse was, so I take off in another direction, hoping to find something.
The night wears on, and I find myself growing weary. I lost my mask hours ago during an encounter with another student. I used it as a frisbee to protect myself. Since Alfie disappeared, chasing down the student, I’ve managed to collect five more flags.
Students filter out in small groups, their voices fading into the darkness. All of my flags are now tightly knotted around my ankle as I scan the thinning crowd for any sign of flags. My heart races, torn between the thrill of collecting flags and the gnawing worry about Alfie’s whereabouts. He never came back.
I slump against a nearby tree, catching my breath as I hide. The flags around my ankle move softly, a reminder of my success so far. But the victory feels hollow.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps approaching. I press myself flat against the tree. The footsteps grow louder, accompanied by hushed voices.
“I swear I saw someone come this way,” a voice whispers.
“We should split up,” another voice suggests.
I hold my breath, trying to make myself as small as possible. The voices are unfamiliar, but I can tell they belong to other students looking for easy prey.
“Fine,” the first voice says. “You go that way, I’ll check over here.”
The footsteps split, one set moving away while the other comes closer to my hiding spot. A drumbeat of my heart echoes in my ears as I deliberate. Should I make a run for it or stay put and hope they don’t find me?
Just as I’m about to bolt, a hand clamps around my waist. I stifle a scream, but their other hand clamps around my mouth before I can.
“I’ve been looking for you all evening,” a familiar voice whispers in my ear. Sylvester releases his hold on me, and I whip around to face him.
Anger floods through me, quickly followed by confusion and a hint of relief. “Leave me alone, Sylvester.” I whisper furiously. I’d done a fabulous job of avoiding the Legacies since my brief encounter with Bishop and him earlier, and I planned on continuing my lucky streak.
His blue eyes glint in the darkness, a mixture of amusement and something else I can’t quite place. “Now, now,” he says softly, “is that any way to greet your savior?”
I scoff, trying to keep my voice low. “Savior? You nearly gave me a heart attack!”
He chuckles, his tone smooth and teasing. “Would you rather I let those two find you? You were heading right toward where they ran.”
We stand in silence as I contemplate his words. My lungs squeeze as I consider what he just said. Was he correct? Did I really try to run toward them?
“I didn’t know,” I mutter.
“Of course you didn’t.” He takes a step closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Good thing for you, I’m very gracious when it comes to returning favors.”
His golden hair spills over the edge of his silver mask, catching the light just enough to make it shimmer. His gaze is fixed on me, intense and playful, with a hint of challenge that I can’t quite ignore. He reaches up, casually brushing a lock of hair away from my face. His touch is light, fleeting, just grazing my skin. I tense instinctively, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe he does, his grin widening slightly in response.
“So, what do you say, Alex?” he asks, voice soft but laced with something more.
I meet his gaze, offering nothing but an indifferent tilt of my head. “What exactly are you proposing?” I keep my tone even, uninterested.
His smirk doesn’t falter. He steps back just enough to look me over, sizing me up like I’m some sort of puzzle to solve. “An alliance, of sorts,” he murmurs, his voice smooth, almost coaxing. “You clearly need protection tonight. And I… well, let’s just say I have my own reasons for wanting to keep you close.”
An alliance with a Legacy? The idea makes my stomach twist. Everything I’ve been taught at Altair screams against it. I don’t trust him—not with the way he’s so closely tied to Bishop, and certainly not with the way his eyes never seem to leave me.
“And what exactly would this alliance entail?” I ask, my curiosity creeping in despite myself.
His smile deepens, and his voice lowers further, like he’s letting me in on some secret. “It’s simple. I protect you for the rest of the night, and in return, you help me with a... personal project I’ve got going.”
The cryptic nature of his words sparks a flicker of interest. But I quickly remind myself that curiosity doesn’t mean I trust him. Not for a second.
“What kind of project?” I ask, not able to stop myself from leaning in, just slightly.
Sylvester’s smile widens, and a mischievous glint dances in his eyes. “Now, now, Alex. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First, you need to decide if you’re in or out.”
I bite my lip, deliberating. His usual lighthearted eyes seem darker now, more intense, mirroring the night around us.
“What if I say no?” I ask, testing him, testing my own resolve.
His expression sharpens, a flicker of something dangerous passing through his gaze. The playful air is gone, replaced by something more serious, more threatening. “Then you’re on your own,” he says, his voice dropping to a rumble. “And trust me, Alex, you don’t want to be alone in this place. Not with what’s coming.”
I feel the weight of his words, but my resolve doesn’t waver. Sylvester might think he’s got me cornered, but I’m not about to give him what he wants. Not yet.
“What’s coming?” I ask, my voice steady despite the unease building in my chest.
Sylvester’s expression hardens for a moment, a flash of something dark flickering in his eyes. But just as quickly, it’s gone—replaced by that signature, alluring smile. “Do we have a deal or not?”
Saying no is what I want to do. Turning my back on him and sprinting, or just pushing him away, is what I should do. But there's a pull inside me, a mixture of curiosity and fear, but mainly curiosity that urges me to take a deep breath. The space around us seems to shrink, and the choice feels more burdensome than it should be.
I steel myself. “Okay. I’m in.”
Sylvester’s eyes flash with triumph, and his smile widens, smug and knowing. “Excellent choice,” he purrs, his hand moving to cup my cheek in a way that feels more possessive than it should.
I keep my tone even, trying not to let his proximity throw me off. “So, what now?”
“Now,” Sylvester hums, tone thick with intent, “we seal the deal.”
Before I can process his words, his lips are on mine—soft, but insistent. For a split second, I’m too stunned to react, the shock freezing me in place. But then, I find myself kissing him back, though it’s more out of reflex than desire. My hands grip the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer, but it feels mechanical, like I’m simply going through the motions.
His kiss deepens, his hands moving with certainty. There's a brief flutter in my chest—quick, almost imperceptible—but it’s fleeting, nothing more than a passing thought.
Sylvester, on the other hand, seems to lose himself in the kiss, his intensity rising, as if this is everything he’s been waiting for. But me? I’m already thinking about what comes next, and how this—whatever this is—has nothing to do with what I really want. Who I really want.
When we finally break apart, I’m left breathless, but the feeling is hollow, distant. Sylvester’s eyes are dark with satisfaction, his lips still curled into a knowing grin.
He traces his thumb over my lower lip, his touch light yet possessive. “Consider it sealed,” he says, his voice rich with a quiet triumph.
I nod, not trusting myself to say anything. Was I stupid for making a deal like this with a Legacy?
As if reading my thoughts, Sylvester’s expression softens slightly. “Don’t overthink it,” he says, his tone oddly soothing. “You’ve made the right choice.”
Have I?
I don’t have a chance to ask the question that’s been on my mind before he bends down and effortlessly unties one of the flags wrapped around my ankle.
“For safekeeping,” he says with a wink, tucking the flag into his pocket. “A little memento of our new arrangement.”
“What exactly does this arrangement entail?” I ask, trying to regain some semblance of control.
Sylvester’s smile turns enigmatic. “I told you. Protection for the rest of the night.”
He creates a distraction by stepping out of our small hideaway and calling out to a group of passing students. “Hey, everyone! There’s a stash of flags hidden behind the old oak tree near the library. Better hurry if you want to claim them!”
The students’ eyes light up with excitement, and they dash off in the direction Sylvester indicated. I realize he’s creating a diversion, drawing attention away from us. From me.
Before I can respond, he’s gone, melting into the crowd of revelers as if he was never there. I stand there, my lips still faintly tingling from the kiss, but the sensation feels more like a reminder than anything else. The weight of the missing flag around my ankle somehow feels significant, but it was also a cheap shot. I only have five flags left.
The jerk.
I scan the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of his retreating figure, to cuss him out, but it’s useless. The sea of masked faces and elaborate outfits swirls around me, a kaleidoscope of black and white that makes my head spin. Or maybe that’s just the lingering effect from being kissed.
Shaking my head to clear it, I force myself to focus. This isn’t the time for distractions. I’m here to win, and I’ve just lost valuable ground. I need to regroup and come up with a new strategy.
I make my way to a quieter corner of the courtyard, my hand instinctively reaching down to brush against the remaining flags tied around my ankles. Five left. It’s not game over, but I’m definitely still on the back foot.
As I try to formulate a plan, I hear a commotion nearby. Peering around a hedge, I see a group of students surrounding someone. Their excited whispers reach my ears.
“Did you see that? He just took three flags at once!”
“How did he move so fast?”
“I couldn’t even see his hands!”
I edge closer, careful to stay hidden. Through a gap in the crowd, I catch a glimpse of the center of attention. My pulse spikes, a sharp ache in my chest.
It’s Bishop.
He stands alone, tall and imposing, a triumphant smirk on his face as he twirls a handful of flags around his finger. His eyes, visible through his ornate mask, scan the crowd with predatory intensity.
I duck back behind the hedge and squeeze my back against the building. This is bad. If Bishop is actively hunting flags in this area, I stood no chance. Besides, I basically all but gave one of mine away to Sylvester when I didn’t fight him to keep it.
Crouching further to the ground, I feel something bump my back. I freeze. Slowly, I turn to look behind me, half-expecting to see Bishop looming over me. Instead, I find myself face-to-face with a small, ornate door I hadn’t noticed before. It’s set into the wall of Altair’s main building, partially hidden by overgrown ivy.
Hidden amidst the lush greenery, it was no larger than one of the suitcases I’d brought when I arrived. I’d missed it before, and I’m sure others have too. Without thinking, I reach out and give the handle a gentle tug.
It doesn’t open.
A pang of intuition strikes me as I remember the key Alfie gave me. A voice in my gut screams at me to use it, that it would unlock the unknown door that lies before me.
I glance back at the courtyard. The excitement around Bishop is still ongoing, providing me with the perfect cover. Making a split-second decision, I slip through the bushes and make a dash back to my dorm room.
My bare feet slap against the cold stone as I sprint through the dimly lit pathway. The sounds of the students fade behind me, replaced by the echo of my own ragged breathing. I reach my room in record time, fumbling with the lock before bursting inside.
I make a beeline for my desk, yanking open the top drawer where I’d stashed Alfie’s key. My fingers close around the cool metal, and I clutch it to my chest, allowing myself a moment of relief. Then I’m off again, retracing my steps back to the courtyard.
The game is still in full swing when I return, the air thick with competition. I slink along the edge of the building, keeping to the shadows. Bishop is still there, his predatory gaze sweeping the area. He’s moving with purpose now, stalking through the crowd like a lion among gazelles. Students scatter in his wake, clutching their flags protectively. But I don’t stay to watch. My focus is solely on that hidden door.
I crouch back down behind the hedge. I approach it cautiously, glancing around to ensure no one is watching. The key slides into the lock with surprising ease, and I hold my breath as I turn it. There’s a soft click, and the door swings open.
I hesitate for a moment, peering into the darkness beyond. A cool draft wafts out, carrying with it the musty scent of age and secrets. Whatever lies beyond this door, it has to be better than facing Bishop out here.
With one last glance over my shoulder, I squeeze through the tiny opening, barely managing to fit my shoulders through. The darkness envelops me as I crawl forward, the frigid stone scraping against my hands and knees. The door swings shut behind me with a soft click, plunging me into total blackness.
For a moment, panic seizes me. I’m trapped in an unknown space, with no idea what lies ahead. But I force myself to take a deep breath, willing my racing heart to slow. I’ve come too far to turn back now.
As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I realize I’m in some sort of narrow passageway. The ceiling is low, forcing me to stay on my hands and knees as I inch forward. The air is thick with dust, and I have to stifle a sneeze.
I crawl forward slowly, feeling my way along the rough stone walls. The passage seems to stretch on endlessly, twisting and turning through the bowels of the building. My knees ache from the hard floor, and cobwebs brush against my face, making me shudder.
Just as I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake, I see a faint glimmer of light ahead. Hope surges through me, and I quicken my pace, scrambling toward the source.
The passage widens slightly, allowing me to stand up. I find myself facing another door, this one larger and made of heavy wood. A thin line of light seeps out from underneath it. I press my ear against the door, listening intently, but hear nothing from the other side.
Taking a deep breath, I grasp the iron handle and push. The door creaks open, revealing a circular room. In the middle sits a podium with a circular object sitting at the center.
As I get closer, the intricate sphere, about the size of a baseball, reflects even more light in the dim room with its polished, silver surface.
I pick up the sphere, marveling at its unexpected lightness. As my fingers brush across its surface, I feel a series of tiny indentations. Squinting in the dim light, I can just make out intricate patterns etched into the metal—swirling designs that seem to add to its beauty as I turn the object in my hands.
There appears to be a button in the center, and I push it. A soft click echoes through the room as the button depresses. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, the sphere splits open along a hidden seam. A gold flag unfurls from within.
I blink, wondering if it’s a trick of the light, but no—I found the gold flag. I won. I actually won. A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat, but I quickly stifle it.
The familiar, ominous sound of the clock that set the game in motion rings out overhead once again, just as it had before.
I quickly fold the gold flag and tuck it into my dress pocket, then snap the sphere closed and make my exit the same way I arrived.
As I crawl back through the narrow passageway, my thoughts spiral. I’ve won the game, but now what? The weight of the gold flag in my pocket feels both exhilarating and terrifying.
As I emerge from the hidden passageway, the courtyard is in chaos. The final chimes of the clock are fading, and students are milling about in confusion, some still clutching their flags, others looking dejected.
I slip into the crowd, trying to blend in, my breath shallow and fast. The weight of the flag feels like it might burn right through the fabric of my dress.
“Who won?” I hear someone nearby ask. “Did anyone actually find the gold flag?”
I keep my face neutral, fighting the urge to touch my pocket or look around suspiciously. I need to play this cool until I figure out what to do next.
Suddenly, Chancellor Maxwell’s commanding voice rings out. “Students, please head back to the ballroom! We need to determine the winner.”
The crowd shifts, forming a loose circle around the stage once everyone is back inside. I hang back, not wanting to draw attention to myself.
Chancellor Maxwell steps onto the stage, her eyes scanning the crowd. “The pre-trial game has concluded,” she announces, her voice echoing through the ballroom. “And now it’s time determine our winner, but before we do, let’s recognize the students who were both excelling and struggling in this competition.”
Bishop confidently storms onto the stage, his arms completely covered with a multitude of bold red flags. The crowd goes wild with excitement, while Alfie is pushed to the stage, his two flags looking small and unimpressive in comparison.
Is this really happening right now? Is the public ridicule at Alfie’s expense really necessary? My stomach churns. Is this some kind of psychological tactic? Why am I even doing this? This all seems so pointless and absurd. My gaze remains fixed on Alfie, and I can’t help but feel a blend of pity and anger as he stares down at his shoes.
The Chancellor’s eyes linger on Alfie for a moment, a flicker of disappointment crossing her face before she turns back to the crowd. “Now, as for our winner…”
The silence stretches, becoming uncomfortable. Students start to whisper among themselves, casting suspicious glances at their neighbors. I can see doubt creeping into Chancellor Maxwell’s expression.
My palms begin to sweat as I realize the implications. No one is stepping forward, claiming the win.
I can feel triumph weighing down on me, but I stay resolute, unwilling to move, reluctant to claim the victory.
This doesn’t feel right.
Chancellor Maxwell clears her throat, her voice taking on a sharp edge. “If the winner doesn’t come forward immediately, there will be…consequences.”
The crowd shifts uneasily, and I can feel the tension in the room ratcheting up, but I stay rooted in my spot, refusing to reveal myself as the winner.
I couldn’t, I wouldn’t . My stubbornness prevailing over everything else.
Suddenly, a student’s voice cuts through the air as they point to my pocket, exclaiming “It’s there! The golden flag is sticking out of her pocket!”
Their exclamation breaks the silence in the ballroom. It’s as if a mirror had been shattered, their announcement ricocheting off the walls and dancing through the air like shards of glass.
Every single pair of eyes in the room simultaneously falls on me.
Well fuck.