26. Sylvester
It’s the day we’ve all been waiting for—the day when the Legacies get to choose our teammates for the Altair Games.
The day we’ve spent our entire lives preparing for.
Once we make our selections, we’ll be one step closer to the ultimate goal: competing in, and conquering, the games we’ve dreamed of since birth.
I can’t help but bounce on the balls of my feet, my excitement practically radiating off my every pore as we wait backstage.
My smile is wide, but my nerves are just as palpable, like I can’t decide if I’m about to burst from adrenaline or if the weight of what’s about to happen is finally hitting me.
“Can you believe it’s here?” I say, my voice cracking slightly with nerves.
“Feels like we’ve been waiting forever.”
Sutton offers me a half-smile, but it’s clear her thoughts are elsewhere.
“Yeah, it’s here,” she agrees, though her tone lacks the same fire.
Her expression faltering just for a second.
“You’ve been quiet since yesterday,” I observe, glancing sideways at her.
“You good?”
“Yeah. Just…you know, the fire and everything. It’s been heavy.”
I nod, my excitement dimming just a touch as I remember.
We’re all still feeling it in our own way—what happened yesterday.
The fire, the panic, the students still recovering from the trauma, the weight of everything unresolved.
But today was supposed to be different.
Today was supposed to be about us.
About the games. And the whole Legacy thing we were raised to embody.
Before I can say anything else, Chancellor Maxwell steps onto the stage, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.
The lights in the auditorium dim, and the crowd goes silent.
My stomach flutters—part nerves, part anticipation.
This was it.
Chancellor Maxwell’s voice booms over the speakers, clear and authoritative.
“Good morning, students,” she begins.
“Today marks the start of a milestone for all of you. Today is the day we begin choosing our teams for this year’s Altair Games. However, before we move forward, some of you may notice that one of your peers is missing today. Rest assured, they are receiving top care and round-the-clock medical attention. There is no need to worry.”
A heavy silence follows her words.
Despite the usual excitement that accompanies the start of this event, the room still feels weighted.
The absence of that missing student—along with the lingering memories of the fire—is enough to pull the energy down, even in the face of the grand tradition we’re about to continue.
I nudge Cam, my excitement slowly creeping back.
“Here we go.”
Bishop, who’ll be the first one called to the stage, stands across from us with his usual poise, but there’s a subtle tension in his posture.
His sharp glances toward the curtains are quick, almost imperceptible, and his eyes scan the packed auditorium with a deliberate focus.
“Who’s he looking for?” Cam asks under his breath, as he observes Bishop’s behavior.
I glance at him, unsure if he’s asking me or if he’s talking to himself.
“I don’t know,” I reply, my voice low.
“His parents? No, they wouldn’t be here. We all know the ceremony’s a no-go for family members.”
Cam frowns, as he watches Bishop shift.
“Maybe he’s looking for Alex,” he suggests, though it sounds more like a question than a statement.
I nod slowly, understanding exactly where he’s going with this.
Alex. The person Bishop’s been fixated on since she stepped foot at Altair University.
Everyone expected her to be here today, to be part of the selection process, especially since she’d somehow managed to manipulate her way into the top spot in our class, a position practically handed to her by Chancellor Maxwell.
But that was before she made it perfectly clear she wanted no part of it.
If she had wanted to be here, she would’ve shown up by now.
She’d said from the start that she wasn’t interested, that she wouldn’t take part in the ceremony or the games.
If Alex had truly wanted to, she would’ve been here with us today.
But she wasn’t, and I wasn’t surprised.
She had made her choice.
“Guess that means Bishop’s going to have to play a different game now,” he mutters.
I can sense it, Bishop’s control slipping, even if just a little.
He’s always been one to crave power and dominance, but Alex’s absence is a reminder that his grip might not be as tight as he thinks.
It’s a strange thing to see him vulnerable, even if just for a moment.
As part of the top scorers, we’re given the privilege of choosing our teams for the Altair Games.
The rest of the students, those who ranked lower, will be randomly assigned partners, but that hardly matters.
We all know the strongest will choose us, and there’s an unspoken agreement that whoever scores highest gets first pick.
Being part of the Legacy group, the formality of it all is just that—a formality.
Tradition must be upheld, but none of us dare break the long-standing custom.
I glance at Bishop one last time.
He’s scanning the crowd again, his eyes darting across the faces of the students, still searching.
But for what? I wonder if he’s really expecting Alex to show up, or if he’s just trying to hold onto some semblance of control in a situation that’s slipping away from him.
I think about Alex for a moment—how she wasn’t actively avoiding me anymore.
She’d even smiled the other night, something so small, yet it felt like a breakthrough.
Maybe I was getting to her.
Maybe she was letting me in, even just a little.
As the room falls into silence, the Chancellor’s voice rings out over the speakers, clear and firm.
“Alexandra Prescott,” she calls, pausing for a moment as if waiting for a response.
But there’s nothing.
Not a sound. Not a single shift in the crowd.
The sound of her name hanging in the air causes a small shift in the atmosphere, a subtle easing of whatever tension Bishop was carrying.
His shoulders relax just the slightest bit, and I swear, for a second, I catch the faintest flicker of relief in his eyes.
Whether it’s because he’s finally certain Alex won’t disrupt the process or because he knows he’s about to take back the control he so desperately craves, I’m not sure.
But it’s there, barely perceptible.
Chancellor Maxwell doesn’t hesitate.
“Bishop Ashbourne,” she announces, her voice commanding attention, and I can feel the room’s energy shift with his name.
Bishop steps forward without a hint of hesitation, his posture straight and his expression dripping with arrogance.
Confidence radiates off him like it always does, but there’s something sharper today—like he’s eager to seize the moment, to lock in his victory.
He makes his way to the center of the stage, his eyes glancing briefly over us before settling on the large button placed in the middle of the floor.
It’s a simple motion, but it’s one that signifies something monumental—he presses it, locking in his agreement to play, to take control of this process in the way only he knows how.
The click of the button reverberates in the room, and the audience watches, waiting for the next move.
It’s a formality, just like everything else about this day, but for Bishop, it’s a declaration.
This is his moment. And everyone here knows it.
The Chancellor’s voice rings out again, clear and authoritative, drawing every eye to the stage.
“As the top scorer, Bishop Ashbourne will now choose his remaining teammates. A reminder to all present that this process, while ceremonial, is not without meaning. The students who rank highest, as you well know, has the privilege of picking their team.” She pauses for a beat, eyes scanning the room, before adding, “This is an honor in itself, one that has always been upheld in our institution.”
Bishop stands tall, his posture proud and almost regal as he faces the audience.
A slight smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
The Chancellor’s words hang in the air, but for Bishop, they’re almost an afterthought.
He knows, as we all do, that the picking is a mere formality.
There’s no question about who will be chosen, no surprise in the selection process.
Everyone already knows who’s in line to join him.
But there’s something biting in the Chancellor’s tone when she reminds everyone of the honor in being chosen, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s a subtle jab—maybe she’s reminding Bishop that, in some way, this is his “reward” for being at the top.
I imagine it’s hard to feel truly honored when your position is almost guaranteed, especially when someone like Alex, ranked first, has refused to take her spot and publicly rejected what’s supposed to be a mark of prestige.
I glance at Bishop again, and I can almost see the thought swirling in his mind.
He’s one of the few who has ever had this power, and the tradition that comes with it makes his control over the situation feel like a birthright.
I wonder if anyone else in the history of Altair University has ever outright turned down their position.
Probably not. No one else would dare.
But Alex did.
It doesn’t matter, though.
Not now. The button has been pressed, the game is on, and Bishop’s grip on the process is secure.
He’ll pick his team, the others will fall into place, and that will be the end of it.
But for some reason, watching him stand there with his confidence on full display leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
The air feels heavy as Cam steps forward.
Sutton and I follow in his wake, the three of us stepping out onto the stage together.
A unified front.
No one’s surprised.
Not really. The room is alive with quiet murmurs, but the reality is simple: Bishop will pick us.
He stands there for a moment, taking it all in, his gaze sweeping across the crowd as though soaking in the power that’s all his.
“Camden Lín-Whitlock,” Bishop announces, his voice loud and authoritative, his gaze already locking with Cam’s.
Cam doesn’t hesitate, his eyes lighting up in a way that almost looks too eager.
The choice has always been obvious, and for the most part, it’s never felt like much of a choice.
But today, there’s an edge to it—a finality, almost as if confirming his place alongside Bishop in front of the room is a reaffirmation of something more.
With a grin, Cam steps forward, shaking off any lingering tension.
His movements are smooth and confident, but there’s a slight pulse of excitement in his veins.
He reaches the center of the stage, taking a moment to soak in the spotlight, and places his hand firmly on the button, locking his spot beside Bishop with a deliberate, confident gesture.
The button clicks in place, finalizing the decision.
The silence lingers for a moment before the weight of the moment finally sets in.
There’s no drama, no surprises.
Bishop Ashbourne has made his first pick.
And Cam, as expected, is now officially on his team.
The sound of the button clicking echoes in the auditorium, marking the moment.
Sutton and I stand beside him, waiting for our turns, but even I can’t help but feel the tension that comes with the next few seconds.
The doors of the auditorium slam open with a force that ripples through the room.
A collective gasp pulses through the crowd, and all eyes snap toward the entrance.
Alex.
She walks down the aisle with unshakable confidence, her presence commanding the entire room.
The air seems to shift around her as she moves, a ripple of energy pulsing through the atmosphere.
Her hair—once an ashy blonde—now streaked with bold, fiery strands of red, looks like embers in the wind.
It mirrors the blaze that had torn through the tent yesterday, as though the fire had left its mark on her, too.
She moves with the same relentless force, as if nothing can stand in her way.
As she strides toward the stage without hesitation, I notice the way she holds herself.
There’s no fear, no uncertainty.
Just…power.
Bishop is watching her, his gaze fixed on Alex since the moment she stepped into view.
His sharp, calculating eyes follow her every movement as she walks toward him, and I can see the subtle tension in his shoulders again, a tightness forming around his jaw.
When she reaches the stage, it’s like the air around him shifts.
He stiffens, his gaze narrowing, and in that moment, the room seems to hold its breath.
Without a word, Alex marches up to him, her steps purposeful, like she’s walking straight into the lion’s den.
She stops right in front of him, her eyes thinning as she thrusts something hard into his chest—a small, rectangular object, charred at the edges, its form unmistakably familiar, but somehow altered.
I can’t tell exactly what it is, but I can feel its weight, its significance.
Bishop doesn’t move, his nostrils flaring slightly—an involuntary response.
There’s something about the way he reacts, the tension is thick enough to cut through the air.
He doesn’t say a word, but I can see the flicker of recognition in his eyes.
Whatever this is, it means something.
And whatever it means, it’s enough to rattle him, just for a second.
The way she holds it, it’s almost like it’s a weapon.
A small but undeniable act of defiance.
“You wanted me front row, Bishop,” Alex says, her voice smooth and mocking, yet dripping with confidence, “but I think I’ll like this view so much better.”
Without waiting for a reaction, she turns away from him, and the object slips from her grasp, falling with a forgotten thud between them.
Bishop doesn’t flinch.
He doesn’t reach for it, doesn’t move at all.
He just stands there, his jaw tight.
Alex faces the crowd now, standing straight, her expression unreadable, yet unmistakably empowered.
She looks out at the students in the audience, her gaze sharp and fierce.
“I hadn’t planned on coming today,” she admits, cutting through the thick silence.
“In fact, it was the furthest thing from my mind. But here I am.”
She pauses, locking eyes with Bishop.
The intensity in her gaze is unmistakable.
“For a large majority of my life, I used to think that playing by the rules would get me ahead. I followed the expectations, did what I was supposed to do. I kept my head down, tried to fit in. But all it did was box me in, make me feel small and quiet. And when I came to Altair, I thought refusing to comply would be the answer. I made it clear where I stand. And you know what happened? I was still boxed in, still made to feel small, still told to keep quiet.”
Her voice hardens, each word weighted with growing certainty.
“I thought I had control when I refused to play your game. But what I realized is that I was wrong. Refusing to play only meant giving up my power. The truth is, by participating, I’m taking control back. Not just for me, but for everyone who’s ever been silenced.”
She turns slightly to address the room, her tone unapologetic.
“I still think these games are stupid. They don’t define me, and they don’t define anyone else. But being on the Legacy team? That’s where the power lies. This is how I take it. Not by standing on the sidelines, but by standing right here, making my own decisions.”
And with that, without a single ounce of hesitation, she slams her hand down on the button, sealing her place on our cherished Legacy team.
The click of the button echoes through the room like a declaration, a challenge thrown directly into the face of the entire auditorium.
The silence that follows is almost deafening, a heavy weight settling over everyone.
Alex has just overturned everything.
The room feels suspended in time, like the air itself is holding its breath, waiting for something—anything—to happen next.
Alex doesn’t say a word as she straightens up, her gaze flicking over in our general direction before a wicked grin curls across her lips.
“Teammates,” she says, her voice low and almost mocking, as if already sizing us each up.
She glances at Bishop, a smug look on her face as if she’s already won the game before it’s even started.
Without another word, she turns on her heel and strides back in the exact same direction she came from, her footsteps echoing through the silence she leaves behind.
The door slams shut behind her with a finality that rings louder than any applause.
The room is still. The chaos Alex has caused hangs in the air, thick with the tension of what just happened.
I glance at Sutton, catching her eye.
Her expression is unreadable, but I know she feels it too, this moment isn’t about tradition anymore.
Alex just snatched it from everyone in this room, leaving us all scrambling to figure out where we stand.
But there’s no time for that.
Not now. Because now, all eyes are on us.
There’s only one spot left.
One final pick. Bishop’s gaze shifts from Alex as she leaves, his eyes briefly lingering on her before moving to the two of us.
His focus narrows, but not just his.
I feel it too—every single person in the room now looks to Sutton and me.
The weight of their gazes is suffocating.
This was supposed to be a formality.
Two spots, one for each of us, like it’s always been planned.
Told to us. This was our moment, our turn.
But nothing feels the way it should.
Nothing feels safe.
Sutton’s hand brushes mine, a quiet, grounding touch.
We’ve known this moment would come, of course we have.
But we never imagined this moment would be anything but ours.
But now, that last spot?
It’s not for both of us.
It’s only for one.
And as we stand there, the room holding its breath, I know that whatever happens next, it won’t just change our lives.
It’ll change everything.