Stella Monroe - First Person POV
I wake up in a gilded cage with a countdown echoing in my skull: four days.
The bed is too soft. Egyptian cotton sheets. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, bare November trees stretching into gray sky. This isn't my Brooklyn studio with its broken radiator and sirens at night.
This is a prison that looks like a palace.
My left palm throbs. I lift it, expecting the deep gash from last night's binding. Instead, there's only a thin red line. Almost healed. Too fast to be natural.
The binding worked.
I try to speak. Test if my voice survived.
My mouth moves. Nothing comes out. Not even a whisper.
My heart slams against my ribs.
The door opens without knocking. Asher walks in, coffee cup in one hand, paper bag in the other. His fingers are wrapped in white gauze. Proof that last night was real. That I didn't hallucinate the whole nightmare.
He sees my face. Sets the coffee down fast.
"Side effect. Don't panic." He pulls out his phone. Types one-handed. Shows me. "Binding steals your voice temporarily. 24 hours. You'll survive."
I grab his wrist. Point frantically at my throat. Try to make sound. Any sound.
"I know." He gently pulls free. "It's terrifying. But it's temporary." He pushes the coffee toward me. "Drink. You need fluids. And get dressed. Classes start in forty minutes."
I snatch the phone from his hand. Type fast. "CLASSES???"
"You're enrolled. Crimson Hall student as of six AM this morning." He opens the closet. Designer clothes hang in neat rows. All my size. All expensive. "Someone delivered these while you were out. Probably Elijah. He's weirdly particular about appearances."
My fingers fly across the screen. "I didn't agree to this."
"You agreed when you accepted the binding." Asher tosses me black pants and a white shirt. "Everything else is just logistics. Housing, tuition, schedule, the whole deal." He pauses. Looks at me directly. "Also, you can't leave campus alone. Binding side effect. You have to stay within range of at least one of us or the connection weakens."
I type so hard the phone nearly slips. "You made me a PRISONER."
"Yeah." He doesn't flinch from the word. "But you're breathing. That's more than you'd be if you'd left last night."
I want to throw the phone at his head. Want to scream. Settle for drinking the coffee with shaking hands.
It tastes perfect. Of course it does. Even the coffee here probably costs more than my old subway earnings.
"Get dressed. Meet me outside." Asher heads for the door. "Professor Krane teaches first period. Advanced Theory. He's brutal, but if you survive him, the rest of the day is easy."
The door closes.
I stand in the middle of this expensive room, voiceless and trapped, wearing clothes that cost more than everything I owned yesterday.
My violin case sits on the mahogany desk. I check inside, needing something familiar. The instrument has been cleaned. Restrung. Fresh rosin on the bow. Someone took care of it while I was unconscious.
The case also contains my mother's photograph. The one with the bloodstained piano keys. Someone put it here deliberately. Reminder or warning, I don't know.
I get dressed. The clothes fit like they were tailored for me. I look in the mirror and barely recognize myself.
I look like I belong here.
That's the most disturbing part.
I grab my violin and leave.
The hallways are full of students. They all look the same. Expensive haircuts, designer clothes, instrument cases worth more than cars. They move with the confidence of people who've never worried about rent or food or whether they'll have a future.
They stare when I pass. Whisper.
"That's her. The scholarship."
"Callum sponsored her personally."
"Must be talented. Or something else."
The implication in "something else" is clear.
I keep walking. Keep my eyes forward.
Asher leads me to a tiered lecture hall. Forty students already seated. A Steinway grand piano sits center stage beside a podium. Professor Krane stands there, silver hair pulled back severely, examining sheet music.
The talking stops when I enter.
Krane looks up. His expression is pure disdain.
"You must be Miss Monroe. The scholarship case." He says "scholarship" like it's a disease. "Sit. Try not to disrupt my class with your presence."
Laughter. Quiet, but there.
I take a seat in the back row. Asher sits beside me, which makes everything worse. Now they're all wondering why one of the heirs is sitting with the charity student.
A blonde woman in the front row turns around. She's beautiful in that effortless way rich people are. Perfect hair, perfect skin, perfect dress that probably costs more than my mother earned in a month.
Her smile is pure poison.
"You must be Stella." Her voice carries. Everyone listens. "I'm Charlotte Fairfax. Callum's fiancée."
The word hits like cold water.
Fiancée.
Of course he has a fiancée. Of course she looks like this.
"How progressive of Crimson Hall." Charlotte's smile never wavers. "Accepting students from nontraditional backgrounds. Though I suppose Callum has always enjoyed difficult projects." She tilts her head. "Tell me, do you actually play, or is this some diversity initiative?"
I can't respond. Can't speak. Can only sit there while she destroys me in front of everyone.
Charlotte's eyes glitter. She knows I'm voiceless. She knows I can't fight back.
"No comment? How mysterious."
Asher leans forward. "Charlotte, maybe save the interrogation for after class."
"I'm just being welcoming." She turns back around, victorious.
Professor Krane begins lecturing. Chord progressions, harmonic structure, analysis of Baroque composition. I know this material. My mother taught me theory before I could read regular books. But Krane moves fast, assumes everyone has years of formal conservatory training.
Thirty minutes in, he stops mid-sentence. Points directly at me.
"Miss Monroe. Perhaps you can demonstrate your scholarship worthiness. Sight-reading. The piano."
It's not a request.
I stand. My legs feel disconnected from my body. Walk to the stage while forty pairs of eyes track my movement.
Krane places sheet music on the stand. Bach. Partita No. 2 in D Minor. Chaconne. One of the hardest pieces ever written.
I'm a violinist, not a pianist. But I can't explain that. Can't tell him I need my instrument. Can't speak at all.
So I sit. Place my fingers on the keys. Start playing.
The notes come easier than expected. My mother made me learn piano basics before specializing in violin. My fingers remember.
But something's wrong.
Other melodies appear in my mind. Death songs. Three of them. Three students in this room are going to die soon.
I try to ignore them. Keep playing Bach.
The death songs grow louder. Insistent. Demanding to be heard.
My fingers betray me. Start weaving the death songs into the Chaconne. Incorporating them into Bach's structure. Making them part of the composition.
The room goes completely silent.
I finish the piece. Lift my hands.
No one moves.
Professor Krane stares at me with an expression I can't decode. "That was highly irregular, Miss Monroe."
Charlotte's voice drips venom. "How creative. I've never heard Bach played like a funeral dirge before."
A few students laugh. Nervous, uncertain.
"Class dismissed." Krane waves us away. "Early. We'll resume Thursday."
Everyone files out quickly. I grab my violin case, trying to escape.
A student blocks my path. Asian guy, early twenties, viola case on his back.
"That melody." His voice shakes. "The one in the third section. I've been hearing it. In my head. For days." He grabs my sleeve. "What does it mean?"
Marcus Chen. I remember his name from roll call.
I point at my throat. Shake my head.
"Please." His grip tightens. "I need to know."
Before I can pull away, someone yanks Marcus backward.
Maverick.
He appeared from nowhere. Completely silent. His silver eyes are ice. He makes a sharp conducting gesture with one hand, precise and controlled.
Marcus's face goes blank. Empty. He blinks, looks around confused.
"Sorry. I don't know why I grabbed you." He walks away, dazed.
Maverick points down the hall. The command is clear.
I follow him through restricted corridors to a wing marked "Private Studios - Authorized Personnel Only." He opens a door without hesitation.
Inside, Callum sits at a Steinway, playing something complex and emotionless. He doesn't acknowledge us.
Maverick leaves. The door clicks shut.
Callum finishes his piece. Looks at me.
"You used your gift in front of fifty witnesses. Three death songs woven into a Bach partita." His voice is clinical. "That was careless."
I point at my throat.
"Your voice should return soon. The binding is processing faster than normal." He plays a single note. Perfect A440. "Open your mouth."
I do.
He plays the note again. Something unlocks in my throat. Painful. Sudden.
"I can't control it." My voice comes out hoarse. "The death songs. When I play, they just happen."
"Then don't play publicly until you learn control." He stands. Walks to a desk. Pulls out an old brass key. "My father's office. Third floor, east wing. There are journals there. Records from every Conduit since 1924."
He approaches. Takes my bandaged hand. Places the key in my palm.
"Find out how previous Conduits prevented deaths. What techniques worked. What failed." His eyes meet mine. Still cold, but something else underneath. Something desperate. "You have four days to save my life. Which means four days to save your own."
"What if I can't?" The words come out broken. "What if I fail?"
"Then the binding collapses." He returns to the piano. Sits. Places his fingers on the keys. "And everyone connected to it dies. Me, Elijah, Maverick, Asher."
He pauses.
"And you."
His fingers press down. Perfect chord. Perfect resonance.
"Four days, Stella. Starting now."