Chapter 2
Ashes of a Broken Day
The morning sun filtered weakly through the stained glass of St. Helens' dormitory windows, but it brought Ethan little warmth. He sat on the edge of his narrow bed, staring at the floor as if answers might be etched in the scuffed wood. The dorm around him was quiet; his roommates had already left for breakfast, their laughter echoing faintly down the corridor.
His own stomach growled, but he ignored it. He had grown used to hunger, both the physical kind and the kind that gnawed at the soul. He grabbed his books, forcing himself into motion. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though the building itself conspired to drag him down.
The halls of St. Helens glittered with wealth. Students in pressed uniforms carried tablets worth more than Ethan's entire family's yearly rent, their shoes clicking smartly against marble floors. They moved in clusters, voices filled with careless jokes and gossip, while Ethan walked alone, the invisible mark of poverty branded across his back.
Classes blurred by in a haze. Equations scrawled on chalkboards, pages of literature recited, lectures about political theory—he tried to absorb it all, but his mind refused to sharpen. His notes looked messy compared to the neat handwriting of his peers. His eyelids drooped halfway through a lesson, and a snicker from the back reminded him that even his smallest slip became entertainment.
When the final bell rang, releasing the lions of the Academy back into their gilded cages, Ethan remained behind in the classroom, packing his things with slow, deliberate care. It wasn't because he wanted to stay. It was because leaving meant braving the stares and whispers again.
He was still fastening his bag when a voice called his name.
"Ethan."
He froze, recognizing it immediately. He turned slowly, and there she was—Lena Marlowe.
Her chestnut hair shimmered in the afternoon light, her uniform perfectly tailored, every button aligned. She had always carried herself with an ease that Ethan envied, a kind of grace that came from being born into a family that never worried about tomorrow. And yet, for a time, she had chosen him.
He had never understood why. He had simply been grateful.
But the look on her face now made his chest tighten.
"Can we talk?" she asked softly.
They found a quiet corner in the courtyard, where the ivy climbed the stone walls and the fountain murmured gently. Ethan clutched his bag, sensing the storm in her voice before she even spoke.
"Ethan," she began, avoiding his eyes. "I… I don't think we can keep doing this."
The words landed like a blow. He blinked, unable to form a reply.
Lena bit her lip, her hands twisting nervously. "You're under so much pressure already. I see it every day—you're exhausted, stressed, drowning. And I…" She trailed off, her voice breaking. "I can't carry both your problems and mine. My family's been pressuring me nonstop. They don't understand why I'm with you, and I don't have the strength to fight them anymore."
"Lena…" Ethan's voice was raw, ragged. "I know things are hard, but I'm trying. I'll make it through the exams. I'll prove—"
She shook her head, tears brimming. "It's not about proving, Ethan. It's about survival. You're fighting battles I can't win with you. I'm sorry."
The silence stretched, filled only by the sound of the fountain. Ethan's heart hammered painfully, his throat closing.
Finally, she whispered, "Goodbye," and turned away.
He stood rooted to the spot long after she was gone, the cold wind biting at his face. His chest felt hollow, as if someone had carved out the one steady thing he had left.
But the world didn't pause for heartbreak.
As Ethan walked toward the gates that evening, head bowed, he heard footsteps behind him. Rough, uneven, not the polished stride of his classmates. He turned just in time to see three figures emerge from the alley beside the wall—men older than students, with ragged jackets and hungry eyes.
"Oi," one of them drawled, a scar running across his cheek. "You Ethan Ivers?"
Ethan's stomach dropped. "Who's asking?"
"Doesn't matter." The scarred man grinned, showing a chipped tooth. "Let's just say a friend of a friend doesn't like you sniffing around where you don't belong."
Before Ethan could reply, the first punch landed. His books scattered across the ground, pages fluttering like wounded birds. He stumbled, gasping, as the second man shoved him against the wall. A knee drove into his gut, stealing his breath.
He fought back instinctively, fists swinging, but he was outnumbered and outmatched. Each blow left him weaker, until he could barely stand. Their laughter echoed in his ears, cruel and sharp.
"Consider this a warning," the scarred man hissed, shoving him down onto the dirt. "Stay in your place."
Then they were gone, disappearing into the shadows, leaving Ethan crumpled and broken in the cold.
He lay there for a long time, the world spinning, his body aching with every breath. Somewhere deep inside, he knew who had sent them. Lena's new "boyfriend," the one her family approved of—the one who had everything Ethan didn't.
By the time Ethan dragged himself back to his apartment, the sky had gone dark. His steps were slow, each one sending pain shooting through his ribs. The building loomed before him, a crumbling structure with peeling paint and rusted stair rails. The kind of place people passed by without seeing, because they didn't want to.
Inside, the air was stale, carrying the faint scent of dust and old wood. He pushed open the door to his small unit, flicking on the light that buzzed weakly. The room was barely furnished: a single bed, a rickety table, shelves sagging under the weight of books his father had left behind.
He dropped his bag, every muscle screaming in protest. His reflection in the cracked mirror showed a face bruised and swollen, blood crusting at the corner of his mouth. For a moment, despair threatened to swallow him whole.
And then he saw it.
On the shelf, half-hidden beneath the worn spines of old volumes, lay something he hadn't noticed before. A small, weathered box, its edges frayed with age. He frowned, reaching out with trembling fingers.
Inside was a deck of cards.
Not ordinary playing cards. Their backs were etched with intricate patterns, symbols that seemed to shimmer faintly in the dim light. The air around them felt heavier, charged with something he couldn't name.
Ethan's breath caught. He remembered them faintly, from childhood. His father's cards. The only thing the old man had ever been protective of, locking them away whenever Ethan grew too curious. His father had died years ago, leaving little behind but debts and silence.
Yet here the cards were, waiting, as if they had been meant for him all along.
Ethan's bruised fingers hovered over them, his chest tightening with a feeling he couldn't explain. A strange mixture of dread… and hope.
The room was silent, the city outside distant and uncaring. But in that silence, Ethan felt the world shift ever so slightly, as though the shadows themselves were holding their breath.
He picked up the deck.
And the night seemed to lean closer.