Adrian Stone's entrance into Senior Honors Cohort ignited muffled laughter. Students pretended to focus on SAT prep books, but shoulders shook with suppressed mirth.
"Quite the declaration, Stone!" called a lacrosse player near the window.
"Planning to answer the lady?" teased a debate captain.
"Wildcat's got claws," snickered the class clown.
Normally, the Cohort maintained monastic focus. These were Eldenwood's future Ivy League legacies—young titans grinding toward early admission deadlines. Yet today's spectacle had cracked their veneer. The Crown Prince's icy armor had been publicly challenged.
Adrian moved through the gauntlet of whispers unscathed. Since freshman year, he'd been Eldenwood's golden paradox: valedictorian with three national math Olympiads under his belt, concert cellist who rebuilt car engines, and possessor of a face that launched a thousand yearbook doodles. Girls slipped sonnets into his locker between calculus periods. Teachers excused his tardiness with reverent smiles.
Until today, no one dared shout conquest through a megaphone.
"Coach is at regionals." Adrian's voice cut through the chatter like a scalpel. "Free period. Use it wisely."
Groans erupted. "But preseason drills—"
"Textbook Chapter 9. Due tomorrow." He slid into his window seat—a throne granted by faculty who knew genius required light. Outside, autumn maples burned crimson against slate-gray buildings.
Scarlett Vaughn watched his profile from her front-row desk. Not a muscle twitched as he opened a differential equations workbook. His hands—pale, precise—flipped pages with surgical focus.
Untouchable as winter frost, she thought.
"Worried?" Anya Song whispered, nudging Scarlett's elbow. "Don't be. Stone wouldn't glance at trash like her."
Scarlett stiffened. "I don't know what you mean." She buried herself in Plath's poetry, ignoring Anya's smirk.
Silence reclaimed the room, broken only by the whisper of turning pages and the scratch of Montblanc pens. Until—
Tap. Tap-tap.
Vivian Vaughn's face appeared at the leaded-glass window, grinning like a Cheshire cat. She held a push-broom like a scepter, miming a crown atop her messy pixie cut.
Laughter detonated across the room.
Adrian's pencil tip snapped. Without looking up, he pulled a fresh graphite lead from his case.
Crash!
The broom handle slammed against the pane. Vivian pressed her nose to the glass, blowing until her cheeks bulged grotesquely.
Adrian's jawline hardened, a marble fissure. Still, he didn't turn.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over Vivian. Mr. MacAllister—tweed jacket straining over his linebacker frame—loomed behind her, a stack of placement exams trembling in his grip. "Explain yourself, Miss Vaughn!"
Vivian spun, broom clattering. "Detention detail, sir! Dean Thorne's orders!"
MacAllister's gaze swept the snickering Cohort. "Does Thorne require performance art? Inside. Now."
"But the leaves—"
"Now!" His roar rattled the windowpanes.
Vivian saluted, shooting Adrian's rigid back a parting smirk.
Bryce slouched against Classroom 7's back wall, twirling his broom. "Mac's gonna blow a gasket."
Vivian snorted, drawing smiley faces in dust motes. "Worth it. Stone almost cracked! Did you see his neck veins?"
Zane adjusted his glasses, deadpan. "He turned page 17. Thrilling reaction."
"Shut up, Z!" Vivian lobbed an eraser at him.
Dylan Rhodes hugged his broom like a teddy bear. "Dude, I'm sweating. Mac looks ready to commit murder."
MacAllister slammed the exams onto his podium. "SILENCE!" The class jumped. "While these clowns"—he glared at the back wall—"turn my corridor into circus grounds, let's discuss your dismal placement scores!"
He flipped open the grade ledger with ominous slowness. "Bottom scorer: Penelope Crumbly."
Snickers rippled.
"This is funny?" MacAllister's face purpled. "Eldenwood's first ever sub-600 SAT composite? In my honors track?" He wheeled on Dylan. "Care to explain your joke, Rhodes?"
Dylan threw up his hands. "Why yell at me? Crumbly's the dunce!"
"FRONT! NOW!"
As Dylan trudged forward, Vivian caught Bryce's eye. She pantomimed playing a tiny violin. Bryce bit his lip, shoulders shaking.
Zane leaned close. "Keep it up, Vixen. They'll demote us to remedial."
Vivian waved her broom like a royal scepter. "Worth every demotion." Her eyes drifted to the window, where Adrian's silhouette bent over equations like a monk at prayer.
MacAllister's voice droned through score rankings—a grim procession confirming Honors Track 7's status as Eldenwood's "misfit legacy" cohort. Vivian tuned out the numbers, tracing Adrian's shadow with her gaze.
He sat perfectly centered in the window frame, maple leaves flaring behind him like a crown of fire. Every line of his body screamed distance. When Vivian had blown against the glass, his knuckles had whitened—just for a heartbeat—before relaxation reclaimed them.
Got to you, she thought triumphantly.
Bryce nudged her. "Quit staring. Mac's watching."
Vivian snapped to attention, clasping her broom like a soldier at parade rest. Inside, fireworks burst.
This war had just begun.