The Road To Hawthorne
Country: Aurivelle
City: Cressford
Alavara
The taxi ride felt shorter than I expected.
Maybe it was because my mind kept wandering, or maybe it was because Isabella and I barely spoke the entire way.
The city moved past us quietly through the window, morning light stretching across the streets.
Before long, the taxi slowed down and stopped in front of the boutique.
I took a small breath.
We were here.
We stepped down, the driver helped us bring down our bags from the boot.
Isabella grabbed her smaller bag while I reached for mine, adjusting the strap over my shoulder.
Isabella and I turned toward the boutique entrance together.
The door was already open.
Inside, a few familiar faces were waiting.
Helena stood near one of the display racks, arms folded, looking as composed as ever.
Sylvie was sitting on the edge of a chair, scrolling through her phone, while Elowen stood beside the glass wall quietly observing the street outside.
For a brief moment, none of us spoke.
Then Isabella leaned slightly toward me and whispered, “Well… this just got real.”
I let out a small breath.
It really had.
Clara appeared from the upstairs not long after we arrived.
She looked at the five of us standing there and smiled faintly, the kind of smile that carried quiet pride.
“Good. Everyone is here,” she said.
She gave us a quick glance over, probably making sure no one had forgotten anything important.
“The institute bus should be arriving shortly,” she continued. “Once it does, you’ll load your luggage and head straight to Hawthorne Luxury and Fashion Institute.”
My stomach fluttered again at the name.
Hawthorne.
It still felt unreal.
Clara folded her arms lightly. “From this moment on, remember that you’re not just representing yourselves. You’re representing this boutique as well.”
We all nodded.
No one joked this time.
The weight of her words settled quietly over us.
A few minutes later, the low rumble of a large engine sounded from outside.
Sylvie moved first, stepping closer to the glass wall.
“I think that’s it,” she said.
All five of us instinctively turned toward the door.
Outside, a sleek black bus slowly pulled up in front of the boutique.
The words Hawthorne Luxury and Fashion Institute were printed boldly along the side.
For a second, none of us moved.
Then Isabella grabbed my arm suddenly.
“Alvara…” she whispered.
I could hear the excitement in her voice.
I swallowed softly.
“That’s our ride.”
Clara cleared her throat lightly, drawing our attention back to her.
“So always remember to adhere to the rules and regulations,” she said calmly. “You’re not kids anymore anyway.”
A few small smiles appeared across our faces.
She looked at each of us one more time before giving a short nod.
“That will be all.”
One by one, the others began moving toward the door, heading outside to the bus.
Sylvie picked up her bag first, Elowen followed quietly, and Helena walked out without saying a word.
But I didn’t move immediately.
Instead, I stepped forward.
Before Clara could say anything, I wrapped my arms around her in a tight hug.
“Thank you,” I said softly. “Thank you for this opportunity.”
For a moment she seemed surprised, but then she gently hugged me back.
Isabella quickly joined us, wrapping her arms around both of us.
Clara laughed quietly.
“I know you two will make me proud,” she said warmly.
That simple sentence made my chest grow with emotion.
After a moment we finally pulled away, grabbed our bags, and walked outside to join the others.
The bus looked even bigger up close.
Its glossy black surface reflected the morning sun, and the words Hawthorne Luxury and Fashion Institute stretched boldly across the side.
Just seeing the name again made my stomach flutter.
A tall man stood beside the bus door with a tablet in his hand.
One by one, he checked our names.
“Helena Voss.”
She nodded and stepped forward.
“Sylvie Laurent.”
Another nod.
“Elowen Hart.”
Then his eyes moved to us.
“Isabella Soren.”
“Here,” Isabella replied, stepping forward.
Finally, he looked up at me.
“Alvara Dane.”
“Yes,” I said.
He gave a small nod and gestured toward the bus door.
“Welcome. You may board.”
We climbed in one after the other.
The moment I stepped inside, I paused for a second.
The interior was nothing like the regular buses we were used to.
Soft leather seats lined both sides, wide and comfortable, with enough space between them that you didn’t feel cramped. The windows were large, letting in streams of morning light, and the air inside smelled faintly clean and new.
Small overhead lights ran neatly along the ceiling, and there were even charging ports beside each seat.
I blinked slowly.
Okay.
This was definitely not a normal bus.
Behind me, Isabella let out a quiet whistle.
“Well,” she murmured.
“I guess The Hawthornes don't do anything halfway.”
As the last of us settled into our seats, the bus doors closed with a quiet hiss.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then the chatter started, by the other designers who were already inside, I guess our boutique was the last one.
It began softly, like everyone was still trying to warm up to each other, but soon the bus filled with low conversations.
“I heard Hawthorne’s workshops are massive,” Someone said from a few seats ahead. “Like… actual professional studios.”
“My cousin once visited the campus. She said their fabric library alone is bigger than some boutiques.”
“Seriously?” someone asked.
“Yes. Apparently they have rare textiles from different parts of the world.”
Another voice chimed in from the back. “I read that some of the best designers in the country studied there.”
“That’s true,” another added calmly. “A lot of the big fashion houses recruit directly from Hawthorne.”
Someone else laughed softly. “No pressure then.”
The conversation continued like that…everyone sharing things they had heard about the institute.
Stories, rumors, bits of information gathered from magazines, blogs, and people who had once visited the place.
I listened quietly.
Beside me, Isabella did the same.
Neither of us joined the conversation. We just sat there, absorbing everything.
The bus finally pulled away from the boutique, slowly merging into the morning traffic.
Cressford began to pass by outside the window.
Familiar streets.
Small shops.
Old buildings.
But the farther we drove, the more everything began to change.
The roads widened.
The houses slowly became larger, cleaner, and newer.
The little roadside stalls disappeared, replaced by modern storefronts and glass buildings.
By the time we approached the outskirts of Auremont, even the air seemed different.
Tall buildings stretched toward the sky.
Luxury cars glided past the bus like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Everything looked polished.
Expensive.
Almost unreal.
I leaned slightly toward the window, watching the city unfold before my eyes.
No wonder the Hawthornes was located here.
Auremont was the capital of the country, the heart of fashion, business, and luxury. Compared to it, Cressford suddenly felt like a quiet countryside town.
Which… technically, it was.
Isabella shifted beside me, then leaned closer so only I could hear her.
“You know,” she whispered, glancing around the bus, “this finally feels like a competition.”
I turned to look at her.
For the first time since we left home, I noticed the spark in her eyes.
The excitement.
The challenge.
And slowly, I felt the same feeling settling inside my chest.
Because she was right.
This wasn’t just a dream anymore.
It had officially begun.
The bus ride eventually slowed.
The chatter inside faded little by little as everyone began looking out the windows.
We had arrived.
The bus turned through a tall black gate with the words Hawthorne Luxury Fashion Institute engraved in polished silver.
Beyond the gates, the campus stretched wide and elegant, the buildings standing tall and pristine under the morning light.
The institute looked… expensive.
Not just rich, but carefully designed.
Clean lines, glass walls reflecting the sky, perfectly trimmed greenery lining the walkways. Even the driveway curved smoothly toward the main building like something straight out of a fashion magazine spread.
The bus finally came to a stop.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then the door opened with a quiet hiss.
We stepped down one after another, the cool air brushing against my face as I held onto my travel bag.
A few ladies were already waiting outside.
They wore simple but elegant uniforms, their smiles polite and welcoming.
“Welcome to Hawthorne,” one of them said warmly.
Another gestured toward the building.
“Please follow us.”
We did.
Dragging our bags behind us, we followed them up the wide steps and through tall glass doors.
Inside, the space opened into what looked like a reception hall.
Minimalist furniture neatly arranged across the large space, and a long reception desk stretched across one side of the hall.
It was elegant without being overwhelming.
Refined.
The kind of place that silently reminded you that you were somewhere important.
We were guided to a section of long desks arranged neatly in rows. Each seat already had something placed on it.
Once everyone had settled down, the room slowly grew quiet.
A woman stood at the front of the hall, waiting for us.
She was tall, poised.
When she finally began speaking, the entire room fell completely silent.
“Congratulations, and welcome to the Hawthorne Luxury Fashion Institute, the pinnacle of fashion education in Aurivelle.”
Her voice was smooth and confident, filling the hall easily.
“By joining our prestigious institute, you are now part of a community that values creativity, precision, and professionalism.
Here, you will refine your craft, showcase your talent, and learn to express vision through design.”
“As a student of Hawthorne, you are not only here to learn…you are here to embody the essence of elegance, discipline, and artistry. The handbook will guide you through expectations, etiquette, and daily life at the institute.”
She gestured toward the desks in front of us.
“On the table before you is a small gift from the institute.”
I glanced down.
Sitting neatly in front of me was a sleek black lacquered box, tied with a thin silver ribbon.
“Most importantly,” she continued, “inside that box you will find a card key with a number. That number is your room number.”
“The card key issued to each student is linked to your biometric profile, which means only the registered student can access their assigned room.”
A quiet ripple of interest passed through the hall.
“There is also the institute’s handbook inside the box. It contains the rules and regulations, as well as your weekly timetable. You will find everything you need to know there…including the penalties for violating the institute’s standards.”
Then she smiled slightly.
“Welcome again to the Hawthorne Luxury Fashion Institute, where your talent will be nurtured, your vision will be sharpened, and your place in the world of fashion will be defined.”
She paused briefly.
“Here, elegance is more than appearance…it is your standard, your ethic, and your legacy.”
Her eyes moved slowly across all of us.
“Remember this: what you create, how you carry yourself, and the discipline you uphold will echo long after your time at Hawthorne.”
Silence filled the room again.
I looked down at the black box sitting in front of me.
My fingers hovered over the silver ribbon for a moment.
It still felt unreal.
Like I might wake up at any moment and find myself back in my small room in Cressford.
But this wasn’t a dream.
We were finally here.