5. Casandra
The massive auditorium hums with the nervous energy of hundreds of students.
Up on the main stage, the standard lecture podium is pushed aside to accommodate everyone who showed up for Introduction Day.
Three figures stand shoulder-to-shoulder at the front, their commanding presence easily holding the room’s fractured attention.
“Welcome, first-years,” one of the professors says. His deep, rumbling voice carries the unmistakable, commanding resonance of an experienced Alpha. “And welcome back to our returning second- and third-years.”
He steps forward, his sharp eyes sweeping over the tiered seats like a predator evaluating a herd.
“For those who skipped the orientation packet or simply didn’t bother to read the faculty briefing, I am Professor Gideon Graves. I spent the better part of my life running the largest pack here in the United Kingdom, before my son took over.”
He gestures with a scarred hand toward his colleagues.
“Beside me are Professor Arthur Pendelton and Professor Alistair Hawthorne.”
My breath hitches, my fingers instantly digging into the splintered wood of my desk.
I don’t need an introduction to know who Alistair Hawthorne is.
I’ve never met him personally but I know enough to know I should stay as far away from him as humanly possible.
He is one of the former High Elders, a vampire who looks like he’s in his thirties but has lived for centuries.
More importantly, he is a vampire that stood firmly, brutally on the wrong side of the Great War.
A sudden, icy chill runs down my spine, rendering the crowded, warm auditorium completely freezing.
Do my parents even know he’s teaching here? I wonder, a spike of panic piercing through my chest. How could the academy administration possibly let him near students? Especially near wolves..
Right on cue, just as the gravity of their presence settles over the room, the doors of the auditorium creak open. Every single head turns.
Ilinca stands frozen in the doorway, breathless, her cheeks flushed a bright, anxious pink.
Her hands tightly clutch the canvas strap of her bag as if it is a lifeline, and she offers a tiny, apologetic bow.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she whispers, her voice carrying just enough to echo in the sudden silence.
Graves offers a curt nod, waving her inside with a flick of his wrist.
Ilinca’s eyes scan the crowd like a cornered animal looking for an escape route.
For a devastating second, her gaze locks onto Magnus, who is sitting in the very front row.
His shoulders instantly stiffen, his head turning so fast I think I hear the joints click, his eyes wide and pleading as he stares up at her.
Ilinca visibly pales, her breath hitching in her throat.
She forcefully tears her eyes away, spots me sitting in the far back corner, and practically runs up the stairs.
She slides into the empty seat next to me, opposite to Lukas, and uses me as a human shield against the rest of the room.
“You okay?” I whisper, leaning in so only she can hear.
“Yeah,” she breathes back, though her chest is heaving and her hands are still trembling as she sets her bag down.
Up front, Graves reclaims the room. “This academy does not coddle based on seniority. In the real world, a crisis does not care about the year stamped on your academic transcript, nor does it care about what species you happen to belong to. Therefore, your entire trajectory, your grading,
and your survival relies heavily on group work.”
A collective, quiet groan ripples through the massive room. No one likes group work, least of all prideful supernaturals.
“Save it,” Graves counters smoothly, his tone dry and unyielding.
“I have personally curated these groups to maximize diversification. Groups will include students of different species, distinct backgrounds, and varying academic years. Throughout the term, you will face assignments, theoretical exams,
and practical survival challenges that you must complete together. You will pass or fail as a group. If one of you slips up, the whole group suffers. You need to learn to rely on each other, break past your historical biases, and use each other’s strengths for the group’s ultimate benefit.
If you cannot cooperate, you will fail together.”
Graves taps a button on the keyboard of his laptop, the screen glowing faintly against his rugged face.
“You are receiving an email right now with your designated group number and names. Find your group mates before you leave this hall. I highly recommend getting to know each other well; you will be spending a staggering amount of time collaborating over the coming months.”
A synchronized, digital wave of smartphone and tablet pings echoes through the room like a swarm of mechanical crickets. Slowly, students stand up and start mingling. Beside me, Ilinca pulls up her device with a shaking hand, and I quickly tap open my own student portal.
Group 4:
Casandra C. Elias R. Miranda A. Tate O. Olivia B.
I blink at the screen. Elias R. That must be Elias Rantanen, the heir to the Finnish territory and the only name on the list I recognize.
“Cassie...”
I look over. Ilinca is staring at her screen, her face completely drained of whatever color it has left. She frantically turns the tablet toward me, her knuckles white.
Group 1:
Nikolai H. Julian V. Ilinca M. Magnus L. Arya O.
My eyes widen in genuine sympathy. Students are already starting to mingle and find their group mates.
Down in the front rows, I can see the back of Magnus’s head.
He has been glancing over his shoulder, trying to catch another glimpse of Ilinca all day, but since he doesn’t actually know her name yet, he clearly hasn’t realized that Graves just put them in the same group.
“I can’t do this..” Ilinca whispers, a note of pure, unadulterated panic fracturing her voice.
Before I can even attempt to calm her down or offer a shred of comfort, she shoves her tablet violently into her bag, stands up so fast her chair rattles, and bolts out of the auditorium doors, vanishing into the hallway.
“Ilinca, wait—” I start, shifting in my seat to follow her, but a shadow suddenly falls over my desk.
A girl with sleek, dark hair and the impeccably poised, elegant posture has made a direct, intentional beeline toward me from a few rows down. As our eyes lock, she dips her chin, bowing her head to me in a silent, deeply reverent greeting that makes my stomach drop.
“Your Highness,” she murmurs, her voice a quiet, respectful whisper meant only for my ears.
My jaw clenches slightly. I didn’t expect my identity to stay a secret, but I was hoping to keep it under wraps for at least a week, wanting to spot friends from enemies before they realize they are technically supposed to bow to me.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, keeping my voice carefully level and low. “But please, just call me Cassie. We’re classmates here.”
The girl blinks, momentarily caught off guard by my lack of formality, but she quickly recovers and offers a smooth, compliant nod. “Of course. If that is what you prefer. I’m Miranda, also in group four.”
Looking across the bustling room, I spot Elias standing near the center of the room.
He is a stabilizing presence amidst the chaos, looking entirely unbothered by the noise.
There are two other students standing right beside him—a girl with a neat stack of books and a guy who is practically vibrating with restless energy.
I assume they have to be Olivia and Tate.
“Come on,” I tell Miranda, gesturing toward the trio. “Let’s go find the rest of our group.”
Miranda and I walk down the steps, weaving through the clusters of vampires, shifters, and witches who are awkwardly introducing themselves. As we approach the center aisle, Miranda looks at the energetic-looking guy and asks, “Group four?”
The boy nods enthusiastically, a massive, brilliant grin spreading across his face. “Yep! That’s us. I’m Tate,” he says, offering a hand that I politely shake. “Awesome to meet you guys. Looks like we’ve got a pretty solid lineup.”
Beside him, Elias gives a quiet, observant nod, his piercing eyes tracking my movements with a calculated intensity before he offers a polite, respectful inclination of his head. Olivia offers a warm, slightly relieved smile. “I’m Olivia,” she says.
It doesn’t take more than a few seconds of listening to Tate ramble about the potential challenges and Miranda nodding along with sharp, focused intensity to realize that the two of them are definitely going to be the most enthusiastic about this whole group dynamic.
“Before you are dismissed,” a cold, smooth voice cuts through the mounting chatter, echoing flawlessly from the stage.
The entire auditorium goes dead still. The ambient noise evaporates instantly.
Alistair Hawthorne steps forward, moving with a terrifying, fluid grace that only centuries of predatory existence can perfect.
He rests his hands lightly on the edge of the stage, his dark, bottomless eyes scanning the crowd.
A polite, practiced smile rests on his lips, but it is entirely hollow—a mask worn to mimic human warmth.
“I am looking forward to getting to know each and every one of you this year,” Alistair says, his voice carrying a silken, hypnotic quality that makes the hairs on my arms stand up.
“Blackwell Academy has a history of forging great leaders from the ashes of conflict. I expect nothing less from this new crop of talent.”
As his gaze sweeps across the upper tiers of the lecture hall, his eyes lock dead onto mine.
For a mere fraction of a second—a heartbeat so brief I almost miss it—his eyes narrow slightly. It was a micro-expression of intense, calculating scrutiny, a silent acknowledgement that felt like a physical weight pressing against my chest.
A cold alarm blares inside my head, a vicious reminder that I cannot afford a single moment of complacency on this island. Stay vigilant, my own voice commands in my head, its tone sharp and unyielding. You don’t know who the enemy is.
I blink, my heart hammering against my ribs, and just like that, the look is gone.
Alistair is already turning his head, his expression shifting back to one of perfectly pleasant, academic benevolence.
I swallow hard, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of my neck, desperately wondering if I just imagined the hostility.
“You are dismissed,” Alistair announces, waving a hand.