4. Alex
Chapter 4
Alex
T he rest of the evening goes by in a blur.
I am vaguely aware of the halfhearted congratulations and pats on the back from strangers and acquaintances alike.
Just a few days ago, most of these students wanted nothing to do with me, but now, some of them seem more open to accepting me.
However, the majority still give me questioning looks.
The dinner that followed the rankings was incredibly uncomfortable, especially being seated at the Legacy table after outranking those who wanted nothing to do with my family.
However, my father and I managed to make it through, and this long evening was finally coming to an end.
Thank fuck.
My dad manages to make his way through the crowd, enveloping me in a tight hug.
“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers again, his voice thick with emotion.
“I knew you had it in you.”
I open my mouth to speak just as he says, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
We both let out a short, awkward laugh, and he motions for me to go first.
“What were you about to tell me? Before the ceremony started… at the table?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he looks past me—at something I can’t see—like he’s standing on the edge of saying something that still feels too raw, too new to put into words.
“There’s... something happening between Elle and me, something I’ve been trying to figure out how to say. It’s going to affect things. Us. I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else.”
He stops himself.
The words hover, unsaid.
Elle? His girlfriend?
What about her?
Then his gaze shifts back to me, and I see the change—the retreat.
“When Sutton was with us in the hospital…” he begins again, his voice faltering as regret slips through.
“I know you were trying to tell me the truth about what happened. But I—” He breaks off for a moment, eyes dark with memory.
“I took her side because I know how this place works. And I thought it would protect you. I thought if I played along, it might keep you safe. Buy you some time instead of causing a scene.”
His words hit me like a punch to the stomach.
For a moment, I can’t speak.
He knows what this place is like.
He’d been here, lived it.
And yet, I was sent to this school unprepared and clueless.
It wasn’t just that he didn’t believe me.
He didn’t stand up for me because he thought, in his own way, that playing along with them was the smarter move—just like he had when he was here.
But that wasn’t the kind of protection I needed.
It wasn’t strength. It was selfishness.
His impulse to follow the same path he had walked when he was my age, thinking it was the right way, just left me alone to face everything that came after.
“But, Alex,” he continues, as if trying to hold his ground, “what you need to understand is that this university, for all its flaws…it’s still the best option for you. It’s the one place where you have a chance to stand on your own, to carve out your own path—one not influenced by your mother.” He shoots me a sharp look, one that makes me feel like he knows more about our dynamic than he ever let on.
He exhales slowly, his voice thick with an emotion I haven’t heard from him in a long time.
“And I thought… maybe, maybe Altair could grow with you.”
A beat passes.
Then he shifts slightly, reaching into his coat pocket.
“I have something for you,” he adds, almost like an afterthought—like it’s easier to offer a gift than sit in the weight of what he just said.
I swallow hard, his words still ringing in my ears.
You think this place can change?
That it’s worth changing?
Did he even know what I’d been through since I got here?
How much damage was already done because he didn’t back me up when it mattered?
I open my mouth, trying to find my footing.
Instead, my voice comes out flat.
“You said you have something for me?”
He hesitates, then pulls out a small paper box, its corners slightly bent.
“Clara would’ve had my head if I forgot. Your sister made me promise to give it to you before I left.”
For a second, the anger roiling in my chest fades, replaced by something unfamiliar—an unexpected sense of curiosity.
I stare at the box in his hand, distracted from the whirlwind of thoughts that had been flooding my mind just moments ago.
I carefully lift the lid, and my breath catches in my throat.
Inside is a gold charm necklace, its delicate design resembling vines, adorned with tiny golden flowers—roses, daisies, and other blossoms, so detailed, they almost seem alive.
I gasp softly, my fingers gently tracing the intricate flowers.
It’s beautiful. Clara’s craftsmanship is there in every detail.
For a moment, I’m not thinking about the weight of my father’s words or how betrayed I feel.
Instead, I’m swallowed by the warmth of her thoughtfulness.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.
I look up at him, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“Thank you.”
He smiles, but it’s soft, almost apologetic.
“I meant to give this to you earlier, but with everything that happened—well, you know,” he says, referencing my concussion and hospital stay.
The smile deepens in his eyes.
“Clara wanted me to give this to you for luck.”
He opens the clasp and steps forward.
“Here—let me.”
I hold my hair back without a word, and he gently drapes the necklace around my neck, before fastening it.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
I wonder if this is what he’s been meaning to talk to me about, the thing he said would “affect things.” The thought flickers in my mind before I dismiss it.
No, this isn’t it. He’d said he had something bigger to share, something about him and Elle.
This… this feels like something else.
Something softer. But still, the weight of his words hangs in the air.
I nod, the reality of the necklace’s meaning settling in.
It’s not just a piece of jewelry; it’s a connection—a reminder that despite everything, despite the tension between me and my father, I still have my sister’s love.
And for now, that’s enough to quiet the storm inside me.
I clasp the necklace tightly in my hand.
“She made this herself, didn’t she?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
My father nods, his eyes twinkling with pride.
“She worked on it every night after you left. Said it had to be perfect for her big sister’s new adventure.”
I feel a sudden pang of homesickness.
“I miss her,” I admit.
“She misses you too,” my father says, his voice warm.
Just as the moment settles, something—or rather, someone—ruins it.
Alfie appears before us out of nowhere, his ever-present toothy grin wide and gleaming.
“Mr. Prescott, I just wanted to personally thank your daughter for her gesture during the pre-trial games. It’s rare for someone to give up their win like that.”
He pauses, looking thoughtful for a moment, then adds with a casual shrug.
“Not that I needed the help, of course. But I’ll admit, handing over the golden flag didn’t exactly hurt my score. In fact, I think it might’ve given me just the boost I needed.” He winks, his grin widening.
“So, yeah. Thanks for that.”
I couldn’t help but snort, quickly stifling it, my face betraying nothing.
Giving Alfie the flag probably bumped him up from 'disastrous' to 'barely acceptable.' I’d seen his score — and let’s be real, he barely cracked the halfway point.
If that was because of my flag, I wouldn’t be bragging about it.
But then again, I’m not him.
My father’s brow furrows in confusion.
“What do you mean? Alex found the golden flag and won,” he says, eyes flicking between Alfie and me, clearly trying to make sense of what’s happening.
I feel the heat rush to my face, but it’s not embarrassment that has me tightening my grip on the necklace.
It’s the frustration of yet another thing I haven’t been able to explain, another piece of my life here at Altair being dragged into the light when I’d rather keep it buried.
I hadn’t gotten the chance to tell him about the game yet—about what I’d done, about the mess it turned into.
Alfie, completely oblivious to the tension in the air, continues.
“It was quite remarkable,” he says, clearly enjoying himself.
“Your daughter had the golden flag in her possession—a guaranteed win—but she chose to hand it over to me. Quite the display of sportsmanship, I must say.”
My father’s gaze snaps to me, his expression shifting.
A mix of surprise, confusion…
and disappointment? “Is this true? You intentionally gave up your win?”
I meet his gaze head-on, swallowing down my frustration.
“Yeah. It wasn’t a big deal.”
But Alfie’s big mouth isn’t done yet.
“Not a big deal?” He beams, oblivious to the storm he’s stirring.
“She had the audacity to publicly refuse further participation in the games, even with everything at stake. It was a foolish move, but somehow it paid off, since she miraculously rose to first in the ranking.”
I feel the walls close in around me.
I don’t need Alfie to spell it out for everyone.
My father’s eyes narrow slightly, and I can see the judgment settling in.
“Alfie, weren’t you telling me about some new magic trick last week?” I blurt out, desperate for anything to divert my father’s attention.
It’s a weak distraction, but it’s better than sitting here while my dad has time to ponder what I did.
Alfie blinks, momentarily thrown off.
“Nooo, not that one,” he says, waving his hand dismissively.
“But I have this fancy new one I’ve been perfecting since the other night. You’re going to love it! Both of you. I thought it would be perfect considering the evening.”
I roll my eyes internally but mask it with a groan.
“I saw you got a twenty-five. Way to go.” I offer the forced congratulations, trying to shift the focus off me.
Alfie beams at my words, his enthusiasm undimmed.
“Thank you! Now, for my latest trick…” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the golden flag of all things.
I stare at it for a moment, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
How is it that this is what Alfie decides to pull out right now?
“Mr. Prescott,” Alfie says, his voice somehow even more theatrical.
“Would you be so kind as to hold this for me?” He extends the silky golden cloth to my father.
My dad hesitates, clearly caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation.
He glances at me, his eyes still swimming with unspoken questions, before reluctantly taking the flag from Alfie.
“Now,” Alfie continues, stepping back with a flourish.
“I want you both to watch closely.” He waves his hands dramatically over the flag in my father’s grasp.
“On the count of three, this flag will transform into something entirely different. One…two…three!”
With a snap of his fingers, Alfie lifts the cloth in a swift motion, his hands moving so quickly I can barely follow.
When he lowers it again, the golden flag is gone, replaced by a small, intricately detailed golden eagle.
It rests in his hand, gleaming under the light, as though it had been there all along.
My father’s eyes widen in genuine surprise, his earlier concerns momentarily forgotten.
“Impressive,” he murmurs, turning the statuette over in his hands.
I can’t help but feel a twinge of admiration for Alfie’s skill, even as I mentally curse his loose lips.
“That…was actually pretty good,” I admit grudgingly.
Alfie’s grin widens, clearly basking in our approval.
“But wait, there’s more!” he exclaims. He leans in close to the statuette and whispers something I can’t quite catch—wait, was he turning some kind of knob?
To my astonishment, the golden eagle begins to glow, its wings slowly unfurling, as though it’s waking from a deep sleep.
Just like at the front gates to enter Altair.
The eagle stretches its wings fully and, with a sudden burst of light, lifts off from my father’s hands, hovering in mid-air for a moment.
I blink, surprised. This actually looks like something that could be magic.
The eagle hovers there, spinning slowly, like a model on display.
But then, as if the universe is determined to prove Alfie’s incompetence, the glow flickers and sputters.
The eagle’s wings flap wildly, like it’s struggling to stay airborne, before a puff of smoke bursts from its tail.
The gilded feathers suddenly start to crackle, and then— whoosh —flames burst out, licking along its wings.
“Not again!” Alfie yelps, scrambling to catch it, but the eagle is a lost cause.
The fire spreads, and the thing begins to disintegrate before our eyes, crumbling into ashes.
Within moments, what had been a shimmering golden eagle is nothing but a pile of charred remains, the last embers floating away like burnt confetti.
My father jumps back, eyes wide with alarm.
He grabs a pitcher of water from a nearby table and douses the remains.
The flames hiss, spluttering into oblivion.
The room falls into an awkward silence, except for the soft sound of steam escaping from the ruined eagle.
“Well,” Alfie says, his voice small, holding up the scorched remains of the flag.
“I guess like all good magic tricks, this one had a fire finale.”
I tilt my head, my mouth tugging into something between a smirk and a grimace.
Yeah… going down in history is one thing.
But fire finales? When have those ever actually worked out for anyone?
My dad, still holding the empty pitcher, looks utterly bewildered.
“What in the world just happened?” he demands, his earlier amazement completely wiped out by concern and confusion.
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Welcome to life with Alfie,” I mutter, shaking my head.
One minute it’s wonders beyond imagination, the next it’s nearly setting the place on fire.
“Being a member of Club Bedlam means embracing the chaos and wonder of our future,” Alfie beams, nudging my shoulder.
“What club?” my dad asks, raising a concerned brow in my direction.
“Bedlam,” Alfie replies, too proudly.
“Alex, are you part of this…Bedlam club?” my father asks, the lines in his forehead growing deep with concern.
I open my mouth to explain, but Alfie beats me to it.
“Your daughter is our newest recruit! We’re a select group dedicated to pushing the boundaries of magic and embracing the unexpected.”
I resist the urge to groan.
Alfie’s enthusiasm is doing me no favors with my increasingly worried-looking father.
Alfie cupped his hand to the side of his mouth, even though he was on the wrong side and I could hear and see what he said.
He spoke in a hushed tone toward my father.
“Just between us, she’s technically still a pledge, but we at club Bedlam don’t discriminate.”
He swallows hard before speaking my name.
“Alex?”
I try to reassure him and quickly add, “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”
My dad’s expression tells me he’s not convinced.
“Mr. Prescott, Club Bedlam is all about embracing your inner illusion!” Alfie chirps, oblivious to the fresh wave of tension.
“We’re pushing the boundaries of magical theory and practice. Why, just last week, I managed to turn an entire classroom into a swirling vortex of rainbow-colored bubbles! Of course, the bubbles were filled with helium, so everyone’s voices went all squeaky for hours afterward. It was marvelous!”
I cringe inwardly, knowing Alfie’s enthusiastic description is only making things worse.
My father’s face has gone from concerned to outright alarmed.
“Alfie,” I hiss, trying to shut him up, but it’s too late.
My father’s face is pale, and I can practically see visions of property damage and lawsuits dancing in his head.
I shoot Alfie a glare, but he’s too caught up in his enthusiasm to notice.
“And that’s not all!” Alfie continues, his eyes sparkling with excitement.
“At Club Bedlam we’re working on a way to bend the very fabric of reality itself! Just imagine, Mr. Prescott, being able to step through a doorway and emerge anywhere in the world—or even beyond!”
My father’s jaw drops, actually drops.
“Alex,” he says slowly, his voice tight, “I think we need to have a serious talk about your decisions in extracurricular activities.”
“And did I mention how your daughter used a plant to communicate with a sentient fungus network last week? Absolutely brilliant, she is! The fungus shared some fascinating insights about the interconnectedness of all living things. It’s like some sort of organic internet. Revolutionary stuff!” Alfie continues.
I groan, my father looks like he’s about to faint.
Revolutionary is one word to describe it, but mostly, what Alfie was badly explaining is a system where plants and fungi communicate in ways we’re only beginning to understand.
“Alfie,” I say through gritted teeth, “I think that’s enough for now. Dad, it’s not as crazy as it sounds, I promise. It’s really quite a fascinating theory…”
But my father holds up a hand, silencing me.
“Is this young man telling me that you’ve been…talking to mushrooms?”
“Not just mushrooms! Alex has shown me how to make contact with all sorts of species. Why, just the other day, I had a rather enlightening conversation with a particularly chatty oak tree. It had some strong opinions about climate change, let me tell you.”
I shoot Alfie a look that could melt steel, but he remains oblivious, grinning from ear to ear.
My father, meanwhile, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.
“Alex,” he says, his tone stiff, “I think it’s time you walk me out. I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.”
I swiftly guide us toward the door and away from Alfie before he divulges anymore information that could make me seem even more insane in my father’s eyes.
“Yes, let’s get some fresh air,” I say, shooting Alfie a pointed look over my shoulder.
Alfie seems to take my expression as an invitation following along.
As we step outside, the evening air hits us, but it does little to dissipate the tension.
My father’s face is still a little flushed, but his expression is more bewildered now, like he’s trying to process everything.
He keeps glancing at me, as if searching for something to say, but the words aren’t coming.
I’m doing my best to think of a way to convince him that I haven’t completely lost my mind—though at this point, I’m not sure what I could say.
Alfie’s finger trembles as he points to one of the fountains.
His voice falters, “Is that... blood?” His eyes widen with horror, and before anyone can respond, his face goes pale, and with a soft yelp, he crumples to the ground, unconscious.
I exhale sharply through my nose and can’t help but feel a surge of annoyance.
Typical Alfie. I turn my attention to the fountains, scanning the area quickly.
All of them are spewing a dark red liquid instead of water.
Is it dye, or something more sinister?
The crowd around us murmurs, unsure how to process what they’re seeing.
The tension sharpens as someone’s voice cuts through the uneasy silence, followed by the sharp point of an accusatory finger.
“Alex Prescott is the culprit!” The voice rings out with unwavering certainty, and a murmur runs through the crowd, growing louder.
“She didn’t want to play in the games! She did this!” The voice grows more insistent.
The words feel like a slap to the face, but there’s no denying that the logic, twisted as it is, holds a warped kind of weight.
I had refused to participate.
My gaze snaps to the fountains scattered across the campus, their once serene streams now turned into violent sprays of red, splattering the stone and soaking the air with an ominous hue.
It’s as though the very heart of the school has been stained, the liquid seeping into every corner of my reality.
A cold weight settles in my chest, and my heart sinks as the accusation settles like a stone at the bottom of my stomach.
The Legacies and the gathered onlookers all turn in unison, their eyes narrowing, a collective storm of suspicion brewing in the air.
It feels as if the entire campus has become an ocean of judgment, and I’m drowning in it.
I feel the weight of their gazes on me, but I refuse to shrink back.
I stand taller, locking eyes with the growing crowd of students and families.
“I didn’t do this!” I say firmly, my voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking in my veins.
“I’ve been with my father and Alfie the entire time!”
But my words fall flat as murmurs of “expulsion” and “criminal charges” swirl in the air, gaining volume.
Before I can protest further, a shrill voice cuts through the growing chaos.
“What in the world is going on here?” Chancellor Maxwell steps into the courtyard, her eyes immediately surveying the scene.
I spot Bishop among the Legacies, standing at the center of it all.
His face is a perfect mask of feigned concern, but there’s something in his eyes—something darker, almost triumphant.
His gaze flicks toward me, then back to the fountains, and I realize: this is his turn.
His opening move in this twisted game he’s cornered me into playing yet again.
“Chancellor,” Bishop steps forward, his voice smooth and dripping with insincerity.
“It appears someone has vandalized the fountains, and curiously, the one person we literally have standing before us red-handed, is none other than Prescott.” He gestures in my direction, his eyes glinting with satisfaction.
I glance down at my hands.
The faded traces of red staining my palms are undeniable.
I don’t even know how they got there, and despite the nurse’s best efforts, they’re still there—lingering like a confession of guilt.
Maxwell’s gaze sweeps over the red-spewing fountains, then lands on me.
Her gaze sharpens, chilling the air between us.
“Miss Prescott,” she says, her tone sharp and unforgiving.
“It seems you have some explaining to do.”
I open my mouth, but before I can speak, my father moves in front of me, his hand settling on my shoulder.
“Chancellor, I can assure you my daughter had nothing to do with this,” he says firmly, his voice filled with authority.
“She’s been with me all evening.”
Maxwell’s eyes flicker to him, considering his words.
I feel the heat of the moment rise as all attention shifts back to me.
Sutton speaks up from the back of the crowd, her voice casual but pointed.
“I’ve noticed Alex hanging around the art building for weeks now. Probably where she got the paint for all of this.” She sounds almost too sure of herself.
Anger flares inside me, but I keep my composure.
Sutton’s accusation isn’t entirely wrong—yes, I’ve spent time at the art building, but not for the reasons she’s insinuating.
The first time was to help her with supplies, and the second was to get back at her group for making my life miserable.
Red paint was never part of the plan, but it seems they’ve been waiting for the right moment to set me up.
Alfie stirs on the ground, groaning as he regains consciousness.
He blinks up at the sky, disoriented.
“Whoa,” he mutters, rubbing his temples.
“What happened?”
He sits up, still looking dazed.
The tension is thick enough to slice, and Chancellor Maxwell’s piercing gaze settles back on me.
“Is this true?” she asks, her voice laced with suspicion.
“Yes, I’ve been at the art building recently,” I say, my voice firm and unwavering.
“But not for the reasons Sutton is implying. I was there to help carry supplies weeks ago. Nothing more.”
Sutton’s expression falters for a second—a brief flicker of panic—and then she quickly masks it with a look of cool indifference.
I meet Chancellor Maxwell’s gaze.
This isn’t the first time I’ve had to fight for my place here, and it won’t be the last. I’m too stubborn to back down.
To let Bishop win.
“It’s true,” Alfie says, slurring a bit as he stumbles to his feet.
“I saw them together at the art building. Sutton asked for help.” He comes to my defense, albeit in his own strange, roundabout way.
“I was out that night when I found this adorable little dented paper clip, just wedged between some dirt in the cobblestone. I thought it was so cute! Like a tiny treasure, you know?” he goes on, miming with his hands like he’s holding something precious, but by now, everyone’s attention has shifted elsewhere.
The Chancellor turns to Sutton, her gaze sharp.
“Is this information correct?”
Before Sutton can respond, Bishop interrupts, confident and measured.
“That merely suggests Prescott would be aware of where the paint was kept.”
Sutton nods, her confidence growing.
“The paints we use can stain easily. If Alex was the one responsible, there would be visible evidence on her clothes or skin. And you can already see the faint red tint on her hands. This isn’t some random project, it was deliberate.”
Alfie’s eyes suddenly widen as though a lightbulb has just flicked on above his head.
“Hey, your favorite hoodie also has a red stain on it!” he exclaims, as if he’s cracked the case wide open.
“That’s because—” I begin to explain, but Chancellor Maxwell cuts me off with a sharp raise of her hand.
“I think we’ve heard enough,” she says.
She just gives me that unblinking stare, the kind that makes you feel like you’re being measured for a coffin.
“Your presence at the art building, your knowledge of the supplies, and now this evidence on your clothing that an eyewitness claims to have seen, it’s all quite damning.”
My father steps forward, his voice rising in indignation.
“Now, wait just a minute—”
“Dad, please,” I interrupt, laying a hand on his arm, keeping him from charging in.
I turn back to the Chancellor.
“I understand how this looks, but I can explain everything if you’ll just give me the chance.”
Bishop, sensing a shift in the room, seizes the opportunity and adds another layer to the story.
“That’s why she was at the old natatorium before her fall,” he says, his voice insistent.
“She was experimenting with paints, testing their reactions with water. Sutton found the bottles she left behind when she discovered her yesterday morning. She mentioned it to the doctors—who I’m sure passed it along to you, Chancellor,” he adds smoothly, with a touch of smug assurance.
Chancellor Maxwell doesn’t respond, but the slight tilt of her head and the flicker of recognition in her eyes says enough—she had, in fact, been informed.
Shit. I felt the blood drain from my face.
If Sutton had really told them yesterday, then whatever chance I had of controlling the story was already gone.
I was so screwed.
“I bet if you check now, they’re still there,” Camden chimes in, eager to further cement the story.
“She probably stained the pool red too.”
“I’m not some criminal,” I snap, voice steady.
I glance at Bishop, who stands there with that familiar smug look on his face.
His expression is a perfect mask of innocence, but the satisfaction in his eyes is unmistakable.
He’s enjoying this. Every last second.
“Chancellor, you can’t possibly be serious,” I continue, my voice louder now, the anger rising with each word.
“This is a setup.”
Chancellor Maxwell’s expression remains composed, but there’s something else beneath it—regret, maybe, or calculation.
She holds my gaze a moment longer than necessary, then finally speaks, her voice calm but unwavering.
“At Altair, we deal in facts,” she says.
“And right now, the facts we have don’t support your claim. Without concrete evidence to back you up—paired with your recent trip to the hospital, the timing of the fall, and the red still on your hands—it paints a very different picture.”
Right.
Facts. Like the one she’d just accidentally confirmed without saying a word.
It’s like I’m trapped in a game where the rules are rigged, and the whole world is watching.
And Bishop watches it all with that goddamn grin still plastered on his face.
“You mean there could be more…blood?” Alfie suddenly chimes in, his voice shaky.
He looks at me with wide, innocent eyes before swallowing thickly.
His words hang in the air for a split second before he faintly shudders, his eyes roll back as if he’s about to faint again.
And then, just like that, he collapses— again —this time right onto my feet.
I wince as his weight crushes my toes.
This place is the absolute worst.