The Last Prefect

Saint Helier Academy, Present Day

The school gates looked like they’d been built to keep monsters out. Or to keep them in.

Ava Quinn tugged her suitcase behind her, breath fogging in the cold air as she stared up at the towering iron bars. Ivy crawled along them like green veins wrapping a skeleton. Beyond the gate, Saint Helier Academy stretched out in a maze of stone buildings and looming archways. It was prestigious. Legendary. Supposedly safe.

Supposedly.

A guard scanned her ID and handed her a laminated rule sheet.

“Curfew is strict. The North Wing is restricted. Prefects enforce discipline.”

The way he said prefects made it sound like a warning.

Campus speakers crackled overhead:

All students must report to their dorms before nightfall.

Ava swallowed. Nightfall?

She found Dorm Rowan after getting lost twice. The hall smelled like polished wood and secrets too old to scrub away. Her new roommate, Miri, was perched on her bed with a glossy magazine and a hurricane of lip gloss scents.

“You must be Ava!” Miri chirped. “You came late. Orientation tea was a war. Someone threw a scone.”

Ava tried to smile. “Sounds… fun?”

“Oh, it was tragic. But hey—” Miri leaned in, eyes wide with gossip. “Did anyone warn you about him?”

Ava blinked. “Him who?”

Miri dropped her voice to a reverent whisper.

“Silas Holt. The last prefect.”

A chill kissed Ava’s spine.

“He doesn’t talk to anyone anymore,” Miri continued, “Not since the accident. People say he—”

The door creaked open.

A boy stepped inside like the shadows opened a door for him.

Jet-black hair fell over storm-grey eyes, framed by a perfectly pressed honor-prefect jacket — black with silver embroidery. A silver badge glinted at his collarbone like a warning sign no one dared remove.

His gaze landed on Ava. Not curious. Not friendly.

Assessing.

“New,” he said. His voice was quiet, but the hall itself seemed to listen.

Ava nodded.

“Don’t break curfew,” he added, flat. “Don’t ask questions. Don’t wander the North Wing.”

His eyes darkened. “And don’t trust anyone wearing a prefect badge.”

Miri squeaked. “But… you’re a prefect.”

Silas didn’t blink.

“Exactly.”

He stepped closer, passing Ava with barely a sound. The air prickled. Her pulse stuttered.

His voice brushed her ear like a dare:

“Saint Helier eats the naive first.”

Then he was gone, the door snapping shut behind him like the last word in a threat.

Ava looked at Miri.

Miri looked like she wanted to pack her bags.

Ava forced a shaky laugh. “He seems charming.”

Miri shook her head rapidly. “Stay away from Silas Holt. Whatever you do.”

Ava would’ve promised—

If her heart wasn’t already racing toward the danger.

Because if there was one thing Ava Quinn couldn’t resist…

it was the mystery everyone else feared.