Chapter 1
The Boy Who Didn't Belong
Ethan Ivers had never believed in luck. Not really. Luck was what people with power called it when things went their way. For him, there had only ever been work—hard, grinding work, done late into the night under the dim light of a flickering bulb in a one-room apartment that smelled faintly of damp concrete.
And yet, two years ago, when he had stood before the iron-wrought gates of St. Helens Academy, he had almost let himself believe in miracles.
The school wasn't a place. It was a legend wrapped in stone and ivy. The walls rose high and proud, lined with marble that glowed faintly even under cloudy skies. The banners of the Academy—gold and emerald, stitched with the symbol of a roaring lion—fluttered in the crisp morning air. Each wing of the campus was vast enough to rival a city block. There were gardens trimmed so precisely that not a single leaf seemed out of place, fountains carved by artists whose names filled history books, and lecture halls that resembled miniature cathedrals.
Inside those gates walked the scions of power. Sons of ministers and governors. Daughters of oil magnates and media tycoons. Their shoes shone, their watches glimmered, and their laughter was sharp with arrogance.
And Ethan wearing a faded jacket, shoes scuffed at the toes, a secondhand backpack that sagged with patched seams was an intruder among lions.
The only reason he'd stepped inside was because of one word: scholarship.
His mother had cried when the acceptance letter came. She had clutched it to her chest as if it were a golden tablet handed down from the heavens. "This is it, Ethan," she had whispered, tears shining in her tired eyes. "This is your chance. Don't waste it. Show them you can be more than what the world expects."
He promised her he would. And for a while, he believed he could.
But brilliance, he was learning, wasn't always enough.
Now, just days before the critical winter examinations, Ethan sat in his dorm room with his head bowed over a textbook, the words blurring into nothing. The room was quiet save for the faint hum of the old radiator and the distant sounds of laughter echoing from the common hall.
He pressed his palms against his temples.
The formulas, once clear, slipped from his mind like water through cracked hands. Every page felt heavier than the last. He had never been afraid of study before burning nights at his desk back home were almost a comfort but lately something had changed. His mind was sluggish, his memory unreliable.
He would sit down to revise, and before he knew it, hours had vanished. Sometimes he woke with his head on the desk, the ink of his notes smudged by drool.
It wasn't laziness. It wasn't fatigue. It was something worse. It felt as though his very thoughts were being dulled, as if someone had reached into his skull and twisted the sharpness out of him.
And of course, others had noticed.
"Oi, Ivers!"
The mocking voice came from the corner of the common room as Ethan passed through, carrying his books. A group of boys lounged on the leather couches, their ties loosened, their posture relaxed in the careless way only the rich could manage.
Adrian Rutherford tall, blond, and smug, the heir to the Rutherford Shipping Empire sat in the center like a king among courtiers. His family controlled nearly half the trade routes of the western coast, and he never let anyone forget it.
"What's wrong?" Adrian drawled, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Brain finally short-circuited? Or maybe your peasant diet of instant noodles isn't enough to fuel that genius of yours anymore?"
The others laughed on cue. Polished, expensive laughter, the kind that filled halls with casual cruelty.
Ethan's grip on his books tightened. His knuckles whitened. He said nothing, walking past them. Silence was his shield—it always had been.
But their laughter followed him like knives in the dark.
Meanwhile.
Vice Principal Roland Halstrom was a man who wore power like a tailored suit. His hair was slicked back with precision, his cufflinks gleamed, and his smile was a practiced weapon. To the public, he was the guardian of the Academy's "values," a paragon of integrity who ensured only the best and brightest remained within St. Helens' hallowed halls.
To the students, however, he was something else entirely.
Everyone whispered it—how scholarships could be "reconsidered" if certain envelopes didn't make their way into his hands. How students from less affluent families mysteriously dropped out mid-semester, their places quietly taken by those who "donated generously."
And Ethan, the boy who had slipped through the gates without paying tribute, was a thorn in Halstrom's side.
Three days before the exam, Ethan was called to Halstrom's office.
The room smelled of leather and cigar smoke. The shelves were lined with thick volumes of law and finance, though their pages looked untouched. A polished oak desk stood between them, its surface spotless, except for a crystal ashtray and a single golden pen.
Halstrom sat behind the desk, fingers steepled, eyes glinting like cold steel.
"Mr. Ivers," he said smoothly. "Sit."
Ethan sat.
Halstrom regarded him for a long moment before speaking again. "I hear you've been struggling. Falling asleep in class. Forgetting simple formulas. That won't do."
Ethan forced his voice steady. "I've been unwell, sir. But I'll be ready for the exams."
"Unwell." Halstrom repeated the word as if savoring its weakness. "You do realize, of course, that the committee will not tolerate mediocrity? St. Helens is not a charity. We invest in excellence."
"I won't fail," Ethan said, fists clenched in his lap.
Halstrom leaned back, his smile widening, but it carried no warmth. "Then perhaps you should consider a… gesture. A donation let's say. Something to assure the Academy of your… commitment."
Ethan froze. "I don't have money, sir. You know that."
"Indeed," Halstrom murmured, his voice silk over steel. "Then perhaps it is time you faced the truth. St. Helens is not the place for everyone. Better to step aside gracefully than embarrass yourself."
Ethan stood, jaw tight. "With respect, Vice Principal… I'm not stepping aside."
Halstrom's eyes narrowed, his smile thinning. "We shall see."
The next morning, everyone seemed to know Ethan had been called into Halstrom's office.
Adrian's smirk was sharper than ever as he leaned across the dining hall table. "So, the charity case is about to be sent packing, huh? Shame. I was looking forward to watching you crash and burn."
The laughter that followed was merciless. Even the clink of silverware against porcelain seemed to mock him.
Ethan kept his head down, his tray shaking slightly in his grip. He forced himself to swallow every bite, though the food tasted like ash.
He would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him break.
Later at night, the library was silent, the tall windows letting in pale slivers of moonlight. Ethan sat hunched over a desk, the lamplight staining his pages yellow.
But the words refused to stick. His pen slipped from his fingers, clattering against the wood. He pressed his palms into his eyes, chest heavy with the weight of failure.
What's happening to me? Why now, of all times?
His mother's face rose in his memory. Her hands rough from labor, her smile weary but proud. "You're our future, Ethan. Don't let anyone take this chance from you."
But what if he already had?
The thought was unbearable.
"Ethan?"
The soft voice cut through his spiral. He looked up to see Clara Whitmore, her hair tied back neatly, a stack of books cradled in her arms.
She frowned. "You look terrible."
"Thanks," Ethan muttered, forcing a weak smile.
Clara set her books down and leaned closer. "You've been pushing too hard. Maybe you should see the infirmary."
"I can't," he whispered. "If I miss a day now, they'll say I gave up. They already think I don't belong."
Her eyes softened, but her jaw tightened. "This is Halstrom, isn't it? He doesn't want you here."
"I know." His voice cracked. "But what choice do I have? If I fail, I'm finished. If I quit, I'm finished. Either way…"
Clara hesitated, then placed a hand lightly on his arm. "Then fight. Don't let them take this from you."
For the first time that week, something inside Ethan eased. A fragile spark, but a spark, nonetheless.