Edenridge Academy

The glossy brochure that was mailed to my aunt did not resemble Edenridge Academy at all.

On paper, it appeared to be a prestigious location with three hundred acres of well-kept courtyards, sun-kissed marble halls, and a history spanning more than a century. But all I could feel as I dragged my lone suitcase across the courtyard was the weight of eyes.

Not students. Not teachers.

Edenridge itself.

The buildings towered like sentinels, windows too dark to be innocent. Security cameras blinked red as I passed — tiny mechanical heartbeats following my every step.

“Welcome to Edenridge,” Jada said, my assigned roommate-for-the-year. “Try not to look terrified. They can smell fear.”

She meant it as a joke, but her face stayed serious.

We joined the line of new students waiting to check in. Most of them arrived with luggage worth more than my aunt’s entire house. Girls with sleek hair and designer coats. Boys with tailored blazers and family crests etched onto their suitcases. I tried not to shrink into myself.

A few heads turned toward me, whispering.

Scholarship student. Outsider. No lineage.

Edenridge ranked its students the same way the world did — quietly, cruelly, and without apology.

And then I saw him.

Cassian Hale.

Even among heirs, he stood out — tall, poised, a jawline carved like a warning. His uniform blazer was perfect, untouched by wrinkles or reality. The Hale Foundation crest gleamed on his lapel, catching the light like a brand. People moved around him the way water moves around stone.

He shouldn’t have noticed me.

But he did.

Just a quick glance at first — sharp, assessing — before his eyes returned to the headmaster’s welcome speech. I told myself it was nothing. He probably looked at everyone like that. Evaluating. Calculating.

Still, a prickle crawled up my spine. My dorm was smaller than I expected — two beds, two desks, one window that refused to fully open. Jada threw herself onto her mattress with a sigh.

“You’ll get used to the quiet,” she said. “Eventually.”

But I didn’t get used to it.

That night, Edenridge felt suffocating. The lights hummed too brightly. The halls were too still, as if they were holding their breath. Every shadow had shape. Every noise had intention.

I lay awake long after lights-out, staring at the ceiling, counting the beats of my heart until they became too loud.

I slipped into my hoodie and stepped out.

The hallway lights flickered once — the first imperfection I’d seen in this place — then steadied, casting long white lines across the polished floor. Cameras blinked red above every door. I kept my head down, pretending I belonged.

Edenridge didn’t allow wandering. Not because it was dangerous.

Because it looked bad.

Headquarters didn’t like “bad.”

But then I heard it.

A hum — faint, pulsing, familiar in a way that made my skin crawl.

I froze outside the old wing.

The door was sealed, chained, and marked with a rusting sign:

MAINTENANCE ACCESS ONLY – DO NOT ENTER.

The air around it felt colder, heavier.

No one ever came here.

No one even mentioned it.

But the sound was coming from inside.

I leaned closer, breath shallow.

The hum sharpened.

Then — like a whisper rising from the bottom of a dark lake — a voice pushed through the air.

Not loud.

Not clear.

But real.

And it said my name.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I stumbled back, nearly slipping on the polished floor.

No one knew me here.

Not the faculty.

Not the students.

Definitely not the boy whose eyes had followed me earlier.

“Maybe you’re hearing things,” I whispered to myself. “New place. Stress. Lack of—”

The hum throbbed again, interrupting me.

I ran.

The next morning, sunlight did nothing to erase what happened.

“Are you okay?” Jada asked, eyeing the dark circles under my eyes.

“Did you ever hear something weird last night?” I asked. “Like… from the old wing?”

Her spoon froze halfway to her mouth.

“Don’t joke about that.”

“I’m not.”

She leaned in, voice barely a breath. “They monitor keywords.”

“Like what?”

“That one.”

Her eyes darted to the corners of the cafeteria like she expected someone to materialize.

I tried to laugh it off, but she didn’t return the smile.

I wasn’t the only one scared of the quiet.

After breakfast, I cut through the courtyard, hoping fresh air would clear my head. Students milled around in crisp uniforms, their conversations soft and restrained — curated, like everything else here.

And then I saw him again.

Cassian.

Black uniform, gold crest, unreadable expression.

He stood with a group of legacy families — heirs to old money and older power — but he wasn’t listening to them. His eyes were fixed somewhere else.

On me.

Heat rushed to my cheeks before I could stop it.

I looked away, pretending to study the fountain.

When I looked back, he was gone.

Or so I thought.

A shadow stepped into my path.

I swallowed hard.

Cassian Hale stood in front of me — too close, too calm, too impossibly collected.

For a second, neither of us spoke.

Then he said, quietly, like a secret:

“You shouldn’t go near the old wing.”

My breath caught in my throat.

“I… didn’t.”

A lie.

His gaze dropped, just briefly, to the ID badge clipped to my hoodie.

Then, slowly, back to my eyes.

“They hear everything at Edenridge,” he said softly. “Everything.”

A warning.

Or a threat.

I couldn’t tell.

Before I found my voice again, he turned and walked away — leaving me frozen in place, heart hammering, spine buzzing with the memory of the whisper in the dark.

And the unsettling thought that Cassian Hale knew far more than he should.

Especially about me.