3. Alex
Chapter 3
Alex
I had been cleared, which I was still questioning, even after the nurses removed the bandage from my head, managed to wash off most of whatever that leftover red stuff was on my hands, and helped me change back into the clothes I’d been wearing and not that drafty, awful hospital gown.
Although my back was still sore from the fall, they assured me that I was otherwise unharmed, except for some bruising that would heal within the next week or so.
Dr. Rodriguez advised rest, minimal stimulation, and no intense mental activity for the next few days—standard concussion protocol, he said, though it felt more like house arrest.
It seemed a bit contradictory to me, since everyone, including him, had agreed that it was acceptable for me to attend this reception ceremony, despite throwing away the flag.
Not that my father was aware of that yet.
I let him keep the stars in his eyes for a smidge longer.
“Ready to go?” he asks, helping me to my feet.
I nod, trying to ignore the dull ache in my head.
As we walk out of the hospital, the bite in the chilly night air makes me wince.
“You’re up for this right?” my father asks, concern etching his features.
A flash of confusion crosses my mind.
He was the one who insisted I come, the one who reminded me we were Prescott’s, that we were built different.
So why was he questioning it now?
Shouldn't he just be telling me to suck it up and keep moving?
“I’m fine, Dad,” I lie, forcing a smile. “It’s just a little ceremony, right?”
He acknowledges me with a nod, but I detect a flicker of something in his expression I wasn’t sure how to interpret. Caution? Understanding? I’m unsure how to respond to it, but he speaks first. “I never imagined spending parents’ weekend in the hospital,” he says, with a small chuckle.
“I was taken aback when I saw you,” I agree, my voice catching. Especially given the circumstances.
He seems to tense at my words. “Did you really not expect me to show up?”
I hesitate, unsure how to answer. The truth is, I hadn’t expected him—or anyone from our family—to come. Though, a small part of me had hoped he would, which was why I’d gone to the natatorium. Maybe Mom had been right when she said I wanted my father to protect me, to defend me.
Hadn’t he already failed me? Just yesterday, he’d sided with Sutton, who was obviously lying, instead of trusting me. And yet, here I am, standing beside him, not saying a word. No confrontation. No explosion of anger. I don’t ask why he sent me to Altair with no preparation, no mention of the games, the ranking system, none of it. He just dropped me off and expected me to figure it out. That’s the way it always goes, though, isn’t it?
I could be angry. I should be angry. But what would it do? I was still here at Altair.
Maybe I’m just used to it by now. This is how he deals with everything—no preparation, no support, and no recognition of how it affects me.
With Vera though? I’d always blamed her for everything—the way she treated me, how she left me alone to deal with my pain. She was the one who made me feel unworthy. And yet, here I am, trying to make excuses for him, for the man who lets me down too. Is it because, deep down, his betrayals never felt as devastating as hers? Because I expected worse from Vera? Or am I just so used to disappointment that even a little support from my dad feels like enough?
“I wasn’t sure what to expect.” I admit finally, my voice jaded. Guarded.
He sighs, running a hand through his brown hair which is starting to show some gray. “Look, I know things have been…difficult between us. But you’re my daughter. Of course I’d be here.”
We walk in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging between us. As we approach the main Altair building in all its castle-like gothic glory, I gather my courage.
“Dad, about the golden flag…” I begin, but before I can finish, he speaks up at the same time.
“I’ve been meaning to—”
We both stop, realizing we’ve started talking at once. We share a brief, awkward chuckle. Then, just as quickly, the same bell-like ringing noise from the pre-trial games cuts through the air, echoing across the courtyard.
My father’s face hardens, and he sighs, glancing at me. “Let’s not talk about it now,” he says, brushing it off with a practiced air. “We’re here for the ceremony. I want to see how my daughter is ranked. We can talk about other matters later.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. The golden flag feels like a ticking time bomb between us, and I’m not sure how much longer I can keep it from exploding.
As we enter the building, the grandeur of the interior of the great hall takes my breath away. Stone columns stretch toward a vaulted ceiling, and intricate tapestries line the walls. Students and parents mill about, their voices a soft murmur against the backdrop of classical music. Tables form rows down the center of the room, some occupied with people, others not.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” my father whispers, a hint of pride in his voice.
I incline my head in agreement, unable to form words. The opulence of it all makes me feel small, out of place, more than I already was at Altair. I was a fraud.
I spot Bishop and the other Legacies on the far side of the room, gathered around a table set apart from the others. A separate group encircles them, exuding an air of quiet exclusivity. They were older, well-dressed individuals I didn’t recognize, but their subtle arrogance—the way they carried themselves—told me they were likely their parents.
Were those the same people my father had allegedly betrayed during his own Altair games, by choosing my mother instead of them?
As if reading my thoughts, my father’s hand tightened on my arm as he followed my gaze. “Come on,” he says, guiding me away from the Legacy group. “Let’s find our seats.”
We weave through the crowd, my father nodding politely to a few people who seem to recognize him. I catch snippets of whispered conversations as we pass.
“Isn’t that…”
“…thought he’d never show his face here again…”
“I bet his daughter is just like him…”
I try to ignore the stares and hushed voices, focusing instead on putting one foot in front of the other. The dull ache in my head has intensified, and I’m starting to regret agreeing to attend this ceremony. But had I really agreed? Capitulated would be a more accurate word.
Finally, we reached our assigned table at the very front of the room. As we sat, I noticed the place cards adorned with the Altair crest—a golden eagle in flight. The irony wasn’t lost on me, considering what I had done with the golden flag. Setting it free in my own twisted way.
I took a quick glance at the list of names. They all belonged to other founding families—Ashbourne, Oliveri, Whitlock. This was the Legacy table. The one where my father and I were clearly outcasts.
Great. Just great.
I shot a glance at my father. He looked calm and composed, like nothing was bothering him. But I knew him better than that. His eyes flickered for a moment, a hint of uncertainty beneath his practiced smile, before he settled into his seat. Me? I was already bracing myself for whatever was about to come.
“Prescott,” a deep voice called out, slicing through the tension in the air. I turned to see Bishop approaching our table with an older woman following behind him. His usual coldness was there, but there was something else too—something in his eyes that made me uneasy. “I see you managed to crawl out of your hospital bed long enough to grace us with your presence.”
I clenched my jaw, barely holding it together. His words felt like a mockery, and my pulse quickened with the urge to lash out at him. But I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. Instead, I kept my gaze steady, though it took everything in me not to let my fury show. He had no right to speak to me like that after everything he’d done.
The woman with him, hair the same shade of brown as Bishop’s, but longer and styled, greeted my father. “Magnus,” she said, taking a sip of her champagne. “It’s been quite some time.”
“Fran,” my father replied briskly, his tone giving nothing away. But I noticed the slight twitch in her expression at the sound of his voice—like there was some unspoken history between them.
I watched the interaction unfold, Bishop’s eyes flicking between my father and me. His smirk grew, his usual indifference hiding whatever game he was playing.
“Back already?” he said, tilting his head slightly. “The Prescott’s do have a history of making a swift exit—nice to see tradition’s still going strong.”
I forced myself to meet his gaze, the weight of his stare almost suffocating. “I’m sure I’m nothing short of glowing,” I said, my tone sweet but sharp, the words laced with sarcasm.
Bishop’s eyes narrowed, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He looked like he was enjoying the spectacle.
“Funny,” he murmured, “how it’s always the pretty ones who think they can get away with everything—until they don’t.”
I felt my father’s hand stiffen on the back of my chair.
I didn’t look away. “Then I’ll enjoy it while it lasts,” I said, calm, unbothered. “You should try it sometime.”
Bishop’s smirk deepened, his gaze flicking to my father for a moment before returning to me. “How do you know I’m not already?” he said softly, voice laced with something just shy of a threat. “You’d be surprised what you can enjoy... when the right moment comes.”
Before I could say anything more, another man approached and casually wrapped his arm around Bishop’s mother. “Francesca, dear, they’re calling us back for pictures.”
“Right.” She nodded, before turning to my father. “This is my husband.”
The man extended his hand, and my father took it firmly. “Ronan Ashbourne,” he introduced himself, his tone warm and polite, not quite as sharp as his family members. There was a softness in his demeanor that set him apart from the rest.
I could tell he wasn’t the same type of cold, calculating figure as the others, but there was still something restrained about him.
“Nice to meet you,” my father said, his voice steady but a bit distant.
Ronan’s gaze gentled as he looked at me, a genuine warmth in his expression. “And you must be the one who has everyone around here all frantic. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Alex.”
There was something reassuring in his tone, a kind of sincerity that I wasn’t used to from people like them.
“Ashbourne?” My father said, his brows knitting together in surprise. “You took your wife’s last name?” His voice held disbelief, as if he hadn’t quite expected that.
Ronan’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “Yes, that’s right. Francesca made it clear before we married that the Ashbourne legacy was too important to let die out.” He shrugged, as if the decision was just a matter of practicality. “So I changed it.”
I noticed the flicker of genuine surprise on my father’s face before he quickly masked it. It was the first time tonight that I’d seen him truly caught off guard.
“We should go,” Francesca said abruptly, tugging on her husband’s arm. “Bishop, come along.”
As they turned to leave, Bishop leaned in, his breath warm against my ear, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. “Be a good girl and try not to cause any more…incidents tonight, okay, troublemaker,” he said, then paused, the corner of his lips twitching upward. “But if you do, I’d prefer to be there—watching.”
He let the words hang in the air for a moment, as if savoring the effect, before he straightened, his confidence unwavering.
The taunt hit me like a slap. I froze, a mix of fury, disgust, and something darker stirring in me—something I hated to admit. My blood ran cold, not just from the casual cruelty in his voice, but from the way his proximity made everything feel like a dangerous game I couldn’t escape. His words hung in the air, promising consequences if I didn’t play along.
“Troublemaker,” I muttered under my breath, like it could undo everything he made me feel. I hated him. I wanted to scream. But all I could do was watch as he walked away, his smirk burning like an open wound on my skin.
My father’s eyes lingered on the retreating figures of the Ashbournes, the weight of unspoken things settling heavier on his shoulders with every step they took away. After a long silence, he finally turned to me. His voice was quiet—careful, like he was choosing his words from a place he hadn’t visited in a long time.
“Alex,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes, “there’s something... important I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. Something that’s going to change a lot—for me, for all of us.”
Was this it? Was he finally going to explain the tangled mess between our family and the others? The hidden motives, the fractures, the quiet betrayals that had defined so much of my life?
I didn’t breathe, waiting.
Maybe this was why, after everything, I still hoped he could be more than the man I remembered. Even when he stood with Sutton. Even when he stood against me. There was always that flicker—that stubborn part of me that believed he might surprise me.
But before he could give me any answers, the lights dim and a spotlight illuminates Chancellor Maxwell, who stands in front of the head table.
“Greetings, ladies and gentlemen, parents, and students,” she declares. “We are thrilled to have you all here tonight.”
As Chancellor Maxwell continues her speech, I can’t focus on her words, my thoughts consumed by what my father had begun to say. I steal a glance at him, but his face is now a mask of polite attention, giving nothing away.
The room buzzes with quiet excitement, but I feel isolated in a bubble of confusion and mounting dread. What things hasn’t he told me? What was I supposed to be protected from?
I scan the crowd, noting the tense postures and furtive glances of the other students. They all seem to know something I don’t, and it makes me feel even more like an outsider.
The parents of the other Legacies have joined us, surrounding our small section. Luckily, I’m spared from further interaction as Maxwell continues to speak. Sutton and Sylvester are seated between their parents, while Camden is only accompanied by a woman who I assume is his mother. The seats directly across from me remain empty, as the Ashbourne family haven’t yet returned from their photographs.
I hear Camden sigh in relief to his mother. “Finally.” He flicks at the place card in front of him. “I don’t know how many times I have to remind this school that my last name is hyphenated.”
As I glance at Camden’s card, I notice the hyphen he’s referring to. Camden Lín-Whitlock. My eyes widen slightly. Considering the power these founding families supposedly hold, and Bishop’s own father changing his last name to fit that agenda, I find the decision to combine last names interesting. Before I can ponder this further, Chancellor Maxwell’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
“The time has finally arrived. It’s the moment we’ve all been eagerly anticipating. Students, please stand up and make your way to the back of the room to begin lining up for the ranking ceremony.”
I rise from my seat. My movements are mechanical, falling into sync with everyone else.
The rest of the students head to the back of the room, their expressions a mix of excitement and anxiety. Aubrey spots me in the crowd and makes her way over, her smile as warm as her embrace. I flinch instinctively as she hugs me, the bruises on my back still sore. She quickly pulls away, apologizing profusely. “I’m so sorry, I totally forgot about your accident. How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay,” I pretend, the small grin on my face nothing more than a formality. “Just a bit sore. How are you holding up?” Unfortunately, we didn’t cross paths during the trial game. Between the incident with the flag on stage and my fall, I hadn’t had a moment to catch up with her since.
Aubrey’s smile falters slightly. “Nervous, to be honest. This ranking…it feels like it’s going to define everything from here on out.”
I give a nonchalant shrug, despite not fully understanding what was going on. “Can you explain to me how all of this works?”
“Of course,” she interjects, always eager to assist. “You probably noticed that there are five chairs arranged at the head table. Four professors, and Chancellor Maxwell seated at the end. Each of them has a scorecard with rankings from one to ten, with ten being the highest. Our scores are based on our performance in the trial collecting flags, and any observations made so far this year.”
I listen intently as Aubrey explains, trying to process this new information. The ranking system seems unnecessarily complex, and I can’t help but wonder about its true purpose.
“Once we’re lined up,” she continues, “they’ll call us forward one by one. We’ll stand before the panel, and they’ll reveal our individual scores. Then they’ll announce our overall ranking.”
“So what happens after we’re ranked?” I ask, still confused.
Aubrey’s eyes dart around nervously before she leans in closer. “Well, that’s where things get…interesting. The rankings determine our teams for the real games. The top-ranked students get first pick of their teammates. Everyone else randomly gets assigned teams with no say in who they’re with.”
As we chat, a nearby student overhears and interjects, “I’ve heard that Chancellor Maxwell never gives anything above an eight. Something about striving for improvement rather than perfection.”
I nod, absorbing this information. But before I can ask any more questions, a hush falls over the room. Chancellor Maxwell has stood back up, her gaze sweeping over us.
“Students, the time has come,” she announces, her voice carrying a weight of authority that silences even the whispers. “You will be called in alphabetical order, please line up accordingly. When I call your name, please step forward to receive your ranking.”
Aubrey pulls me back when I try to move somewhere in the line. “You’ll go to the back,” she whispers.
I furrow my brow. “Why?”
She gives me a perplexed expression. “Because you’re a Legacy. They always go last.”
I must have looked confused, because she lets out a sigh and continues to explain.
“When there’s a Legacy—or in this case, multiple Legacies—they conclude the ceremony, because their scores are always the most highly anticipated. Now go!” she explains before shooing me away and finding her spot in line.
I head to the back as she instructed, just as the first name is called. A tall, willowy girl with deep red hair steps forward, her chin held high despite the obvious trembling in her hands. The professors confer briefly, then reveal their scorecards one by one. I watch as relief washes over the girl’s face—she’s received mostly sixes and sevens, with one eight from Atlas.
As the ceremony progresses, I observe patterns emerging. Most students receive scores ranging from five to seven, with the occasional eight causing excited murmurs among the crowd. The faces of those receiving fours or lower are etched with disappointment and shame.
Aubrey’s name is called, and I watch as she steps forward, her posture straight but her hands clasped tightly in front of her. The professors reveal their scores: two sevens, an eight, and a nine. Chancellor Maxwell pauses dramatically before revealing her card—a six. Aubrey’s shoulders relax visibly as she steps back into line, a small smile playing on her lips.
As the line dwindles, I find myself standing next to Camden and Bishop. Bishop’s face is a mask of cool confidence, while Camden fidgets with his hair.
“Whitlock, Camden,” Chancellor Maxwell’s voice rings out.
He mutters something about his last name under his breath, showing his frustration. I realize that they don’t bother announcing our last names in alphabetical order like everyone else, since he should be last among our small remaining group.
Camden steps forward, his posture perfect, chin lifted slightly. The professors reveal their scores: 8, 9, 8, 9. Chancellor Maxwell pauses dramatically before revealing her own card: 8. The room buzzes with impressed murmurs.
“Total score: 42. Rank: 1,” Chancellor Maxwell announces as he finds his seat beside his mother.
Sutton steps up next, and the crowd stays quiet in nervous anticipation. As the numbers are tallied, she gasps in disbelief as her total comes to 42. But her brother Sylvester follows, effortlessly surpassing her with a total of 43. Currently the final rankings stand with Sylvester placed first with Camden behind him and Sutton third, despite her tie with Camden.
Bishop is called next, and he strides forward with an air of casual confidence. The professors reveal their scores: 9, 10, 10, 9. Chancellor Maxwell’s card shows an 8. The room falls silent, waiting for the final tally.
“Total score: 46. Rank: 1,” Chancellor Maxwell declares.
Collective applause ripples through the room. Bishop’s score has surpassed everyone else’s, securing him the top spot. I watch as he returns to his place, a smug smile playing on his lips as his mother kisses him on the cheek. The tension in the air is palpable as all eyes turn to me.
I’m the last one standing, but I hardly care. The room falls silent again as Chancellor Maxwell calls my name, her voice tinged with an expectation that hadn’t been there for the others.
I step forward, acutely aware of every eye in the room upon me as I make my way toward the front. The professors exchange glances, and I immediately recognize Atlas in the first seat and Professor O’Donnelly in the second. The last two faces are unfamiliar until I reach Chancellor Maxwell at the end.
Atlas flashes a reassuring smile at me from across the table, revealing his card: a 10. I hold my breath as Professor O’Donnelly flips over her card, showing a 9, despite the scowl on her face. The other two professors follow suit, each revealing a 9 and then another 10. I stand there, waiting for Chancellor Maxwell’s card to be shown. Could there really be a chance I could tie with Bishop, after everything that happened at the masquerade? After what I’d done?
She holds my gaze for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a deliberate motion, she turns her card: a 6.
I blink, trying to process what I’m seeing. A six? Not great, but not as bad as I thought it’d be. The room hums with whispers, but they barely reach me. Second place. Just behind Bishop. A mix of relief, surprise, and something like vindication stirs within me, all competing for attention.
I turn to head back to my seat, but Chancellor Maxwell’s voice cuts through the noise, drawing all eyes back to her.
“I’ve given you a score of six,” she begins, and I raise an eyebrow. Wait, what? No one else got an explanation. “However…” Her voice lingers on the word, almost theatrical.
However? What now?
“After much reflection,” she continues, the room falling silent as her tone takes on an unusual weight, “I find myself compelled to address a matter of utmost importance.”
Here it comes.
This is it—the moment she’s been waiting to bring up the flag and embarrass me. Great. How am I going to face my father after this?
My lungs tighten as I stand still, not sure whether to sit back down or just freeze where I am. Chancellor Maxwell’s gaze locks onto mine, pinning me in place.
“Miss Prescott,” she says, her tone colder than ever, almost as if she’s had enough of me. “Your performance throughout this evaluation has been nothing short of conflicting. Your blatant disregard for our rules. Your inability to read social cues. Your disrespect and constant mockery of authority have led my colleagues to question your place here. It’s clear you have no intention of conforming to Altair standards. You are a liability to everything we stand for.”
Her words hit me, but I don’t flinch. I just stand there, indifferent to the stares, the judgment in the air. I catch a glimpse of my father. His expression betrays nothing, but I can feel the tension radiating off him. This is his mess too.
Then, just as I start to feel the weight of all those eyes on me, Maxwell’s tone shifts.
“And yet,” she continues, the irritation fading to something oddly close to reluctant respect, “your ingenuity, resourcefulness, and sheer audacity to stand firm to your beliefs, even when it’s clear you’re going against the grain, I find irritating…and strangely admirable. While your methods are…unconventional, they’ve left an impression. One that can’t be ignored.”
She pauses for a moment, and I wonder if this is just the prelude to more punishment.
“It is with this in mind that I find myself compelled to do something I have never done before,” she says, and I stay perfectly still, unsure whether I should be bracing myself for a trap. “I will be adjusting my score.”
A collective gasp ripples through the room. The tension thickens, but I’m too distracted to really care.
Maxwell picks up her card, still showing the ‘6,’ and with deliberate slowness, she rotates it. My eyes flick from the card to her face.
“Nine,” she declares, her voice ringing out in the sudden silence. “An almost-perfect score, as there’s always room for improvement. I must say, I’m curious to see how the rest of your time here at Altair unfolds. Your final tally is 47. Congratulations, Miss Prescott. You’re officially in first place.”
She flashes me a subtle wink as she returns to her seat, and the room explodes into chaos. Whispers shift into shouts, faces go from shock, to outrage, to outright disbelief. But through the noise, I can barely hear anything—my own thoughts roar too loudly in my head.
First. I’m ranked first .
I glance across the room, taking in the flurry of reactions. My father’s face is a study in shock, his eyes wide with something I haven’t seen from him in years.
Bishop.
His gaze is burning, not with the detached apathy I’ve grown used to, but with something darker—fury, perhaps, or just the shadow of the game we’ve been playing. For a moment, I almost expect him to storm across the room and throw me against the wall.
But then, as always, he masks it. His lips curve into a smile that never quite reaches his eyes.
I stand taller, the chaos of the room fading into a background hum.
Sure, I’m everything Maxwell accused me of—defiant, disrespectful, unyielding—but what’s more important now is that I’m still standing.
Still defiant.
Still in control.
Still here.
Bishop thinks this is some twisted game, a tit for tat between us. What he doesn’t realize is that I’m not playing. I never wanted to be part of their world. But watching him lose, after everything he’s done to me—the bruises on my back, the concussion throbbing in my skull—it’s a kind of payback I didn’t have to plan. I didn’t want to be part of these games, but in this moment? It feels damn good to know he didn’t come out on top. Even if this is just the beginning.