I stepped out of the carriage and was immediately hit by the blinding, arrogant sight of the Walser Royal Institute—a gilded white-marble fortress trimmed in gold leaf that practically screamed, “Look how obscenely rich our parents are!”
Under the spring sun, snobby nobles in high-fashion uniforms swarmed the courtyard alongside sweaty merchants’ kids, future politicians, and undoubtedly, future corpses.
My assassin brain instantly hijacked my vision. Scan:
Entrances: Six main.
Guards: Four rent-a-cops.
Sniper Towers: Two bell towers (prime real estate).
Security Rating: F-minus. Walls don't stop bullets, blades, or a well-placed explosive.
I was busy calculating wind resistance for a hypothetical crossbow shot when a maroon carriage rolled through the gates. The courtyard went dead silent. The door swung open, and a girl stepped out.
I nearly choked on my own spit.
It was me.
Or rather, the original Tiara Carter. Cascading black hair, piercing ruby eyes, and posture so perfect it made my spine hurt.
Except she was walking like a black-ops operative clearing a kill zone. Her eyes whipped across the crowd in milliseconds—exits, guards, threat density. She wasn't admiring the architecture; she was mentally murdering everyone within a fifty-foot radius.
A flunky servant rushed to help, but she waved him off and casually heaved her massive, iron-reinforced trunk like it was a bag of feathers. Terrifying.
Suddenly, a smug little punk in the back cocked his arm, throwing a jagged brick straight at her head.
The original Tiara didn't even flinch. Her hand snapped up, plucking the rock out of the air. She gave the idiot the cold, dead-eyed stare of a serial killer reviewing a grocery list, and hurled it right back.
SMACK.
The guy flew backward like he’d been hit by a truck. Nobody laughed. You don't laugh at someone who treats masonry like a dodgeball.
A frazzled dormitory mistress hyperventilated behind her clipboard. “Lady Carter!”
Original Tiara stepped up, voice flat and dripping with menace. “Here.”
The mistress checked the list, glanced at me, and visibly swallowed her tongue. “...Miss Tiara?”
I stepped forward with a killer smile. “Present.”
The poor woman looked like she was staring into an open grave. “...Room 115.”
As I melted into the sea of traumatized teenagers, a heavy, predatory gaze locked onto the back of my neck. I whipped around.
The original Tiara was staring straight at me.
Our eyes locked. She was dissecting me; I was calculating her weak points. This was going to be wildly entertaining.
Then, right on cue, the academy's massive iron bell chimed—and something ancient, hungry, and deeply illegal rumbled beneath the floorboards.