The air in the marble corridor of Harrowglen Academy was thick with late-autumn chill and the ever-present silence that clung to places built for discipline. Lucien Vale Whitmore stood beside the tall stained-glass window overlooking the courtyard, his blazer pressed, his posture perfect. At seventeen, he carried himself like the building itself—still, controlled, untouchable.

Around him, a few of the other elite students lounged by the lockers, murmuring amongst themselves. Byron adjusted his cufflinks with performative boredom. Jules, ever the gleeful sadist of gossip, smirked as he spotted the new arrival.

“There she is,” Jules hissed, leaning closer to Byron. “Headmistress said she’d come today. Transferred from some international academy or something. Got herself wheeled all the way here, apparently.”

Lucien didn’t react. Not externally. But his eyes lifted, drawn to the sound of the soft, rhythmic click of wheels echoing down the polished floor.

She was… ethereal.

The girl’s auburn hair fell in soft waves, catching the overhead light with a warmth that didn’t belong in a place so cold. Her school blazer was crisp, a black ribbon tied neatly at her collar, and her dark skirt fell perfectly to her knees. She wore simple, elegant heels—despite the fact that she wouldn’t walk in them. Her hands rested delicately in her lap, fingers interlaced. She moved with a quiet grace as she wheeled herself down the corridor, her back perfectly straight, chin held high.

Not a trace of shame touched her features.

Lucien didn’t breathe.

Her eyes met his—briefly. Just a flicker. But it was enough. They were wide and bright, a soft, steady hazel that saw everything without needing to say a word. She wasn’t trying to disappear. She wasn’t hiding. She was present. In a place full of masks and legacies, she arrived as she was.

“Looks like someone took a wrong turn to the infirmary,” Byron muttered under his breath.

Jules chuckled, “Can’t believe they’re letting her stay here. Can she even take fencing? PE? What next, a swimming pool ramp?”

Lucien’s jaw tightened. Still, he said nothing.

They didn’t see it. They couldn’t. But he did.

She wasn’t a stain on the academy’s legacy. She was something else entirely—an intrusion of quiet rebellion. A new rule written in silence. In the strict lines and perfect symmetry of Harrowglen, she was the one element that didn’t belong—and somehow that made her the only real thing in the room.

She passed them. The wheels moved noiselessly now on the carpeted floor. She didn’t flinch at their stares, didn’t falter when Jules snorted. She simply nodded politely at a professor walking by, then turned into the main hall.

Lucien’s gaze followed her until she vanished from view.

“You’re staring,” Byron said lazily.

Lucien blinked, looked away. “No, I’m observing.”

Jules smirked. “Careful, Whitmore. She’s got wheels, not wings. I doubt she’s your type.”

Lucien ignored him, his mind elsewhere. The cadence of her movement. The strength in her composure. The softness in her expression. She was the opposite of everything they’d been taught to be—unapologetically different in a world that punished imperfection. And yet, in that brief moment, Lucien found a truth in her presence that he’d never seen in his own reflection.

They mocked what they feared. He admired what he couldn’t define.

For the first time in years, Lucien felt a shift inside him. A tremor.