The air hung heavy, saturated with the earthy perfume of churned mud and damp grass, a scent intensified by the lingering warmth of the late afternoon sun. Rugby boots pounded a relentless rhythm against the worn turf of the school field. Lucien twisted, pivoted, and broke into a sprint as the ball was tossed in his direction. He caught it effortlessly—but his gaze had already drifted elsewhere.
Just beyond the weathered fence marking the field's boundary, the crisp echo of sneakers against concrete punctuated the air in a rhythmic staccato. It was Arleigh. Her distinctive red-and-blue hair, a vibrant splash of colour, was unmistakable even from this distance as she moved with breath-taking grace. She darted across the basketball court, a study in fluid motion, her arms slicing through the air with precision as she leapt, intercepting a pass with elegant form and unnerving accuracy. Even in the midst of the game's frenetic energy, she possessed an almost ethereal quality, as if she belonged framed within the brushstrokes of a canvas, sharp, controlled, and untouchable.
Lucien barely noticed the tackle coming.
One moment, he was staring, utterly entranced by her magnetic presence. The next, his shoulder slammed brutally against the unforgiving earth. The wind rushed from his lungs in a painful gasp as one of the forwards barrelled into him mid-run, shattering his reverie with bone-jarring force.
"Pay attention, Delaunay!" his teammate barked, his voice gruff as he hauled Lucien unceremoniously to his feet.
He offered a lopsided grin, attempting to laugh off the jarring impact. But his hazel-gold eyes, drawn by an invisible thread, trailed once again to the basketball court, lingering on Arleigh's form.
She hadn't noticed his momentary lapse. And even if she had, a sobering thought echoed within him, she wouldn't have cared in the slightest.
⋯
The sky had surrendered to a muted, ash-grey by the time the final whistles blew, signalling the end of practices. Lucien slouched against the cool, clean lines of the brick wall outside the girls' changing room, the collar of his school polo clinging to his skin with lingering sweat. In his grasp, he held two water bottles: one nearly empty, its contents reduced to less than half, while the other sparkled, still full and pristine.
Rich, dark brown strands of damp hair jutted out from his scalp, creating a wild halo that had formed after his shower and was further tousled by the constant draft of the air conditioning. A soft, aimless hum resonated in his chest as he scanned the dwindling flow of students leaving the sports corridor, like a predator in quiet anticipation. And then, he spotted her.
Arleigh emerged, a dark bag slung effortlessly over her shoulder, her freckled cheeks still glowing a gentle pink from her earlier exertions. Delicate strands of hair clung tenaciously to the flawless curve of her temple. Her porcelain skin seemed to absorb the waning daylight, bestowing upon her an ethereal glow, while her face held an enigmatic expression—serene, detached, and remarkably distant.
Lucien lit up immediately. "Well, well, well. If it isn't the elusive Princess Arles. Working hard or hardly working?"
Her lips thinned into a tight, disapproving line. "Don't call me that."
He followed closely, like a relentless shadow or a dog eager for its owner's attention, the condensation on the water bottle glistening in his hand as he extended it. "Here," he purred, voice a low hum. "You look parched, darling."
Her lips remained stubbornly dry. "I'm not."
"Oh, but you are~," he countered, a playful glint in his eyes. "Besides, don't you know? Hydration is the ultimate aphrodisiac."
"I'm leaving."
Lucien's lower lip jutted out, a picture of mock devastation. "You wound me, Arles."
The name stopped her dead, a sudden stillness in the air. She whipped around, fury sharpening her features.
"Never. Call me that. Again."
He feigned innocence, hands raised in surrender, but the devil danced in his grin. "It suits you though," he murmured, voice like velvet. "A little rough around the edges. Like a lost kitten waiting to be tamed."
Her eyes narrowed, a dangerous challenge flickering within. "Try it."
"Tempting," he breathed, the water bottle a subtle prop in his suggestive game. "But perhaps you should make the first move?"
Arleigh rolled her eyes, a brief flash of irritation appearing on her face before she turned away. Lucien, on the other hand, remained undeterred.
"You know," he said thoughtfully, "people usually give nicknames to their close friends or family. Which category do I fall into?"
"Neither," she clipped out, her voice sharp.
"Ouch. Okay, tough crowd. But what about your family? Do you have one of those cringeworthy nicknames your mom just can't let go of? Or maybe a sweet little pet name that only your family is allowed to use?" His voice was dripping with playful malice.
Arleigh's shoulder ticked, a betraying twitch. "They don't call me anything."
"Is that so?" Lucien leaned in, his demeanour reminiscent of a predator relishing its prey. "Not even your older brother? I've heard he has a talent for tagging everyone with a unique label. Surprised you managed to escape his…affection."
A beat of silence stretched, thick with unspoken tension.
The muscles in her jaw clenched, betraying her carefully constructed indifference. "Only he does."
Lucien's eyebrow shot up, a silent "bingo" flashing in his eyes.
"So, tell me, what endearing pet name does he use?" he purred, his voice suddenly laced with a dangerous curiosity.
Arleigh's lips tightened into a thin, stubborn line. She kept her gaze fixed firmly ahead, refusing to give him the satisfaction of eye contact. "He calls me Léa," she spat out, the name sounding like a bitter confession.
Lucien's grin widened, practically sparkling with wicked amusement. "Léa~? How precious! Didn't peg him for such a softie. Suits you, though. Hmm, I could definitely see myself using that~."
"Don't. You. Dare."
He batted his eyelashes, feigning wide-eyed innocence. "Alright, alright, how about this for a compromise, Princess Arles? You let me call you that ridiculous title, and I promise not to use 'Léa'."
Arleigh stopped dead in her tracks, pure, unadulterated irritation blazing in her eyes. He had her cornered, and they both knew it.
"Fine," she hissed, the word dripping with venom. "Call me whatever stupid thing you want. Just... don't use that one. I can't stand it..."
Lucien's face lit up with a triumphant, almost sickeningly sweet smile. "Pleasure doing business with you~."
They wandered through the school grounds, with the sun dipping low in the sky, creating elongated shadows that stretched behind the newly renovated buildings and the stark branches of the trees. Lucien made idle conversation—most of which Arleigh ignored. But he couldn't help but revel in the tiny wins—the way her brow would twitch ever so slightly or how her jaw would tighten just enough to let him know he was getting under her skin.
With a playful glint in his eye, he slyly slipped the unopened water bottle into the side pocket of her sleek black backpack, doing so without asking for permission, of course.
"You'll thank me later," he cooed with a knowing smirk.
"I won't," she shot back, her voice laced with annoyance.
"Sure you will, Arles," he teased, unable to resist a jab at her undeniable stubbornness.
The pick-up bay was almost serene, save for the faint hum of traffic in the background. His eyes landed on a glossy black car, and he noticed Arleigh's pace falter ever so slightly at the sight of it.
Lucien gave her a lazy smile. "So, see ya tomorrow? We are meant to work together rather than work solo—council reps and all."
"I'll manage just fine without your interference," she retorted, her tone sharp enough to cut.
She was already turning tail when Lucian's voice, dripping with amusement, snagged her. "Until next time, Princess."
Without even a glance over her shoulder, she tossed back, "Do me a favour and choke."
"By your hands? Happily." The faint echo of his laughter was the last thing she heard before diving into the car.
From the backseat window, Arleigh's posture stiffened. She didn't greet the other figure seated across from her. She didn't need to. Her brother's presence filled the car like smoke—silent, dense, impossible to ignore.
The tension clung thickly, unspoken.
Outside, Lucian observed the fading taillights as they disappeared down the road, his confident grin beginning to falter.
The picture of cocky arrogance from just seconds ago was gone, giving way to a sense of exhaustion.
It was as if all the vitality had been drained from him...
The sudden blare of a car horn shattered the moment, jolting him back to reality.
"Oi, Luce! Get that perky little ass of yours over here now!"
Every muscle in Lucien's body tensed. His hands clenched into tight fists, knuckles turning pale as he turned in fear toward a battered silver car parked nearby. The driver, a man with a flushed face who seemed on the verge of exploding, shot him a menacing glare. Meanwhile, the passenger, a smirking guy in his late twenties with a face that radiated mischief, leaned out of the window as if he had just struck gold. "Get a move on," he spat, a wicked sparkle dancing in his striking eyes.
Lucien's expression soured.
He didn't bother with a response. Just walked, stiff-legged, to face whatever fresh hell awaited him. Each step was a testament to his resignation.
⋯
The pale morning sun, a diluted gold, seeped through the gap in the curtains, painting long, muted stripes across the scuffed floorboards of Ivy's bedroom. A hushed stillness clung to the air, the surreal quiet of predawn hours offering a fragile, temporary peace.
Violet stirred first. Her eyes fluttered open to the muffled creak of wood and the weight of a blanket barely clinging to her side. She blinked at the ceiling for a moment before scanning her surroundings, her gaze eventually landing on the makeshift barricade blocking the door. A soft sigh escaped her as she spotted Ivy, curled up on a rickety chair that was wedged tightly against the doorknob. Surrounding her were various pieces of heavy furniture—her dresser, a toppled nightstand, and even the bed frame she had yet to assemble—haphazardly arranged in a chaotic display born from a mix of fear and a fierce resolve to safeguard both herself and Violet.
Ivy was fast asleep. Her chin rested heavily on her chest, her neck bent at an unnatural angle, her body a tightly wound coil of tension. Her purple hair, duller in the morning light, fell messily across her face, a few strands caught in her lips. The bags under her eyes were darker today, her usual sharp features soft with exhaustion.
Violet's shoulders dropped slightly as she took it all in.
She rose with deliberate slowness, pushing the sleep-tousled strands of hair from her eyes and stifling a quiet yawn. She moved silently towards the closet, rooting for her school uniform. With practiced movements, she peeled off her pyjamas—Ivy's oversized graphic tee and shorts—before slipping into the sombre plaid skirt and crisp white shirt. Her tie hung undone around her neck as she faced the cracked mirror. Her fingers raked through her hair, shaping it into a semblance of order while her eyes, in the reflection, remained fixed on Ivy's peaceful form behind her.
Once she was satisfied, Violet stepped gently toward Ivy.
Her voice was soft. "Ivy… hey. Ivy."
All she received in response was a low groan—a deep, raspy noise that indicated Ivy was barely aware of her surroundings.
Violet sank to her knees, her face level with Ivy's. "Come on, you're going to wreck your back sleeping like that. Let's get you onto the mattress."
Ivy let out another mumble, a slurred and unclear noise that could have been her way of saying "I'm fine," or it could simply have been another unintelligible murmur.
Violet wrapped an arm around her and slowly coaxed Ivy up from the chair. She moved like a ragdoll—limp, pliant, and visibly exhausted. It was hard to imagine this was the same girl who'd been suspended for fighting just the day before.
Once Ivy's body slumped onto the mattress, Violet knelt beside her. Her fingers, hesitant at first, then tender, traced a path through the strands of dyed, plum-coloured hair, carefully working out a tangle near Ivy's neck. Ivy remained still, her breathing deep and even. A steady reassurance. Asleep and, for now, at peace.
The silence stretched, and Violet let it.
She leaned her elbow on the mattress, supporting her head with her hand as she observed Ivy intently. Asleep, Ivy seemed vulnerable, like the armour she wore during the day had been shrugged off in the night and replaced with something achingly human.
Violet's hand, acting on a will of its own. Her fingertips ghosted across the smooth expanse of Ivy's skin, mapping the delicate curve of her neck. They settled at the edge of her collar where the familiar black marking on her neck peeked out from under her unwashed school shirt. She traced the shape of the digits with a feather-light touch.
100.
She was definitely a Semi-Immortal but there's no denying she was special.
A breath-taking rarity, feared and relentlessly pursued for the crime of simply being. Like any other Semi-Immortal, except her additional abilities and rare status even amongst her own people; these traits would make her a prized possession for the "Crossed Clan" but the word "prized" can be interpreted in many different ways.
Violet had only encountered whispers of such unique Semi-Immortals, tales shrouded in conspiracy and rumour. And now, here she lay, nestled beside one. A saviour, a protector, shielding her from those who view their kind as objects, as savage creatures to be eradicated.
Violet's brow furrowed, the memory of Clive surfacing. The brutal grip on Ivy's hair, as if it were a mere tool. The chilling stillness of her body, not born of pain, but of a deep-seated, helpless terror. The fear of someone who had endured that moment too many times, silencing any instinct to cry out.
Violet's stomach twisted into a knot of nausea and resentment. She hated him. Hated that he had that kind of power over Ivy. That she'd seen it. That she'd done nothing.
Her fingertips glided downward, following the gentle contour of Ivy's collarbone, only to stop suddenly.
Chelsea and Tara.
Violet's jaw tightened.
Their mocking voices echoed in her mind, sharp and cruel. The disdainful sneers, lingering on the edges of her memory. They had treated Ivy's mark like a cheap spectacle, a source of whispered amusement to dissect over cafeteria lunches. Her torment and privacy, reduced to nothing more than gossip.
But hadn't she thought the same thing?
Hadn't those questions gnawed at her too?
"What kind of Semi-Immortal is she? Is she a Low rank like me? Or a High? How many lives did she get? Has she lost any?"
It had started as curiosity. The kind that sparked when you're drawn to someone. But that wasn't an excuse. That wasn't enough. It was the same self-centred urge as Chelsea and Tara's, only wrapped in a thin, deceptive veneer of good intentions.
She had felt so ashamed that night.
Even though she had quietly slipped through Ivy's window with a collection of snacks, and Ivy had fallen asleep before she could ask anything, the temptation remained. The urge to peek, to lift her collar, to take off the bandage from her neck, and discover the truth for herself. Yet, something held her back.
Ivy had looked so peaceful. So heartbreakingly still, like a fragile porcelain doll left untouched on a shelf.
That moment had silenced all the frantic, burning questions. Because in that hushed space, the truth mattered less than preserving that tranquillity, less than shattering a moment that felt so… delicate.
And now, bathed in the pale morning light, the memory pulsed within Violet, her heart drumming a nervous rhythm against her ribs.
She shook her head, a gentle blush colouring her cheeks as she quickly withdrew her hand and stood up. Clutching the straps of her backpack, she took a final glance at Ivy, who was resting soundly.
Still serene, undisturbed in slumber. Still tangibly present, real. Still igniting a chaotic dance of butterflies in her chest, emotions Violet couldn't bear to name, not yet.
She pivoted sharply, seeking the escape of the window, and carefully wriggled through, her bag bumping against the frame. Her boots met the grass with a muffled crunch, each step forward a desperate attempt to outrun the feelings bubbling within.
Her fingers flew to her mouth, a futile attempt to mask the flustered expression plastered across her face. "There's absolutely no way..."
"No, no, no. What in the world is wrong with me?" she muttered, her voice barely a whisper. "I barely know her - we only met a few weeks ago! This isn't love. It can't be love."
And yet, her heart raced wildly in her chest, beating incessantly like a trapped bird longing to break free. It didn't stop. Not when Ivy's voice reverberated in her mind. Not when she remembered the soothing warmth that emanated from her skin. Not when the vision of her sleeping, serene and vulnerable, flooded her thoughts.
Violet's ears burned with a heat that spread down her neck. Nope. Definitely not love.
…Right?
As Violet arrived at Whitewater Charter School, the pavements buzzed with energy. Students donned crisp uniforms and fashionable jackets, ideal for the brisk autumn weather, as they filled the streets like models parading on a casual runway. She had barely taken five steps past the school entrance when a familiar group of faces detached from the throng, rushed toward her.
"Violet! Hey!"
"Morning, Violet! You look so cute today!"
"Second day and you're practically glowing!"
A vibrant mix of boys and girls coalesced around her, drawn by an unseen magnetism, their voices a chorus of warm greetings. Their words blended into a sweet, chaotic harmony. Violet responded with her signature warm smile, her easy-going nature radiating outwards, her voice gentle and melodic, like a soothing breeze.
A soft smile graced her lips as she spoke, "Aww, thanks guys. Hope you all slept well," each word a gentle caress, her eyes meeting theirs in fleeting, but impactful exchanges.
It was almost absurd how swiftly her innate charisma bloomed, captivating the student body like a sudden spring. Nervous laughter bubbled up from a few as they basked in the fleeting warmth of her gaze, while others seemed almost stunned that she recalled their names from a mere day prior. They circled her, a loose constellation drawn in by her presence, hesitant to encroach too closely, yet equally unwilling to break free of her orbit.
Then, a shout pierced the comfortable atmosphere, a student near the gate announcing—
"Arleigh's here!"
The reaction was immediate, a tangible shift in the air.
The group moved as if driven by a shared impulse, the throng pushing ahead and dragging Violet along with them, swept up in their excitement as they approached the school entrance. She barely managed to voice a question about Arleigh's identity—a name she recognized as her tutor—before the sleek black car materialized, gliding to a halt with a polished arrogance, its presence both imposing and impressive. The vehicle looked more like something you would expect to see ferrying celebrities or diplomats, rather than two teenage students.
The rear door swung open, and Arleigh emerged—a vision of composed grace.
She was elegance personified, untouched by the chaos around her. The crispness of her uniform seemed custom-tailored to her form, while her expression exuded a calm detachment, a regal chill. Violet found herself entranced, drawn in by the quiet confidence that emanated from her. In Arleigh's gaze, there was no hint of arrogance, only a refined self-assurance that was both polished and understated. In that instant, Violet had an epiphany; this was the girl Lucien had been pursuing. She remembered the Vice Principal mentioning that her student tutor was a member of the student council and recalled that Lucien had joined the council to be closer to her. With all this evidence, Violet felt silly for not piecing it together sooner.
Then, Aedilbert, her older brother, emerged.
He stood confidently, his strong frame and broad shoulders radiating a commanding presence. His facial features were remarkable, reminiscent of a sculpture, capturing the grace of Renaissance art. His dark auburn hair, bordering on brown, was stylishly tousled. As he looked over the gathered students, his eyes briefly conveyed a sense of mystery, a hint of aloofness—but then—.
"Edi!!" a voice boomed from the crowd.
The shift was instantaneous, like dawn breaking after a long night. A grin, wide and brimming with boisterous charm, bloomed on his face, chasing away his prior gloom. Laughter bubbled from his throat as he moved towards his friends at an easy jog, already bracing for the inevitable onslaught of friendly jabs.
"Dude, seriously? Why do you always look so gloomy in the morning?"
"Well, he is related to the ice queen. Maybe the frostiness is genetic?"
"Nah, it's the chauffeur's fault! They always blast the AC in those fancy cars."
Violet, a quiet observer, chuckled softly, the corners of her eyes crinkling with amusement. Arleigh, meanwhile, said a few courteous good mornings to nearby students with a gentle nod or smile before disappearing through the school's front entrance, unphased by the fanfare.
Violet snapped out of her reverie, suddenly aware that she had been completely entranced. It wasn't a typical attraction; rather, it was an enthrallment with the girl's elusive presence, her natural elegance a harmonious display of poise. She embodied flawless control, each gesture a meticulously crafted work of art.
Then a voice, laced with playful familiarity, invaded her thoughts. "You're staring~."
A feather-light touch grazed her shoulder, sending a jolt through her.
"—Though I can't say I'm surprised," Lucien breathed, his voice a silken whisper against her ear. "Quite the spectacle, wouldn't you agree?"
Violet turned to see him smirking at her, looking far too amused with himself. Her brows furrowed in confusion.
"Arleigh?" she asked.
Lucien chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Not just her, no. This whole charade." He swept his hand, encompassing the adoring crowd. "The way they treat her… like a queen holding court. I almost expected rose petals to pave her way."
Violet let out a small laugh, nodding in agreement. "Yeah… it must be tiring being that popular."
Lucien shot her a teasing glance. "Tiring for her? Please. You're also practically swimming in smiles here. I swear, you've only been here for a hot minute, and you're already everyone's favourite."
"I'm not popular," she protested, a subtle blush blooming on her cheeks. "The students here are just really welcoming… and super extroverted."
Lucien rolled his eyes playfully. "Sure, whatever you say, Ms. Unpopular. Just try not to get mobbed by your adoring fans, alright? I'd hate to see your favourite pen end up on some shrine... who knows what these freaks would do with such treasure after all~."
Violet playfully nudged him, the earlier tension easing as they walked towards the school, the casual teasing a welcome distraction.
⋯
Three girls gathered at the perimeter of the courtyard, propped against the fence as they passed a cigarette among themselves. Each sported a unique take on the school uniform—skirts pulled up beyond the allowed length and sleeves carelessly rolled.
Brielle boasted striking cheekbones and a flawlessly executed cat-eye wing, her dark locks featuring vibrant red tips. Kendra, on the other hand, was taller and curvier, sporting tightly coiled golden hair that she frequently styled into playful space buns. Tasha, the shortest of the trio, favoured bold eyeliner and often wore her bleach-blonde curls in a carefree messy bun. She also had a penchant for raspberry-flavoured lip balm, which left her lips with a glossy, slightly magenta tint.
All three of them watched Violet's entrance from afar with poorly concealed disdain.
"Look at her," Kendra mumbled, a plume of smoke puffing from her nostrils. "Smiling like she owns the damn place."
"Bet she thinks she's so special just 'cause she's got that 'mysterious new girl' vibe," Tasha snorted, snatching the cigarette from Brielle. "Ugh, makes me wanna puke."
"She's gonna crack," Brielle said coldly, blowing smoke into the air. "They always do."
Suddenly, a new voice cut through their venom.
"Not yet."
The trio turned to find Chelsea standing behind them, her usual sugary tone nowhere in sight. She looked composed, collected—her faux sweetness replaced by something cooler, more calculating. She snagged the cigarette from Tasha and took a long, deliberate drag.
"Stick to the digs and jabs for now," Chelsea said, her eyes fixed on the school building where Violet had just entered. "No need to jump the gun. Let her bask in the spotlight while it lasts."
Then, without another word, she dropped the cigarette to the pavement and crushed it beneath her heel.