Chapter 5 Riley's POV

Riley’s POV

By the time I stumbled out of the hall, my lungs burned like I’d run a mile. My fingers were locked so tight around my backpack strap that the rough canvas left angry grooves in my palm.

God. What was that?

Their faces clung to me like smoke. Cassian, circling me as if he’d already grown bored of the game. Jaxon, calm and merciless, like he’d already written my ending.

Lucien, quiet and watchful, the kind of boy who didn’t need to speak to gut you, and Damien Blackthorne—

Even thinking his name pressed on my chest. I’d heard the whispers before I ever got here, but whispers hadn’t prepared me for him.

His eyes had pinned me, cool and unyielding, until it felt like he could see straight through skin to bone, and worse, my shoulder still burned from brushing his, as if his stare had left a mark.

They weren’t just boys. They weren’t just students. They were predators dressed in silk and marble, and I, in my infinite brilliance, had walked right through them like I had something to prove.

Stupid. Absolutely, suicidally stupid.

“Don’t cry,” I whispered to myself as I pressed forward down the corridor. “Not here. Not ever.”

The walls gleamed with carved wood panels and chandeliers that belonged in magazines, not the start of my school year. I felt the weight of whispers sticking to me like burrs.

Scholarship girl. Trailer trash. Stray. One foot, then the other. I wasn’t going to break before the first bell.

The registrar’s office was tucked behind the grand stairwell, cramped and sterile, like a broom closet dressed in bureaucracy.

A woman in a gray dress sat behind the desk, her posture as stiff as her expression. She stamped papers with the efficiency of a machine, barely glancing at me when she said, “Name.”

“Riley Walker.”

Her gaze skimmed my sneakers, my damp hair, the threadbare strap of my bag. Disapproval flickered, quick and sharp, before she shoved a leather-bound ledger across the desk.

“Scholarship recipient. Sign. Then administration. Professor Graymark is waiting.”

Her tone wasn’t cruel, just clipped. Indifferent. I scrawled my name onto the cream paper, the letters dark and out of place, too loud against all that formality. Proof. I belonged here, even if no one else thought so.

“Second floor, west wing,” she said. “Knock before you enter. Professor Graymark does not tolerate tardiness or disruptions.”

The pause before disruptions made it clear she thought I’d bring both.

“Thank you,” I muttered, though she was already stamping the next form.

The west wing felt different, quieter, heavier. The voices and laughter of students thinned into hushes, replaced by the scent of parchment, dust, and something older. I stopped at a tall oak door, heart thudding.

I knocked.

“Enter.”

The word cut through the wood, deep and steady, commanding without effort.

The office inside was almost overwhelming. Books climbed the walls in precarious towers, scrolls and papers spilling across a massive desk.

Behind it sat Professor Elias Graymark. His hair was streaked silver at the temples, his coat sharp and precise, and his eyes, a weary steel that pinned me the same way Damien’s had. Only this time, there was no heat, just calculation.

“So.” His voice was low, deliberate. “Silverwood’s newest scholarship. Riley Walker.”

I swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

He leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Silverwood does not hand out charity. You are here because someone believes you may be worth the risk. My task is to test that belief.”

His words landed like a weight on my chest.

“Yes, sir.”

“Why should you be here?”

The question jolted me. My mouth opened, fumbling. “I—I’m hardworking. Diligent.”

“Everyone works.” His interruption was knife-sharp. “Hardworking is not the same as deserving.”

Heat crawled up my neck. My hands clenched around my bag. “I earned it. I didn’t cheat. I didn’t beg.

I worked three jobs, held my father together when he was falling apart, and I’m still standing. That has to count for something.”

One brow arched, but his gaze remained unyielding. “So you endured. Endurance is admirable, yes. But endurance without purpose? That makes you a punching bag. What do you intend to do with Silverwood, Miss Walker?”

My breath stuttered, but the answer rose hot in my throat. “I’m going to change my story. I won’t die in a trailer park.

I won’t let people decide I don’t belong before I even speak, and maybe—” I swallowed hard, “—maybe I’ll prove that people like me can be more than the labels stuck on us.”

Silence stretched. His eyes held mine like he was weighing the truth of my words.

At last, he exhaled, slow and deliberate. “Silverwood is not merciful. This academy belongs to wolves, and wolves tear at anything they perceive as weak. Some will test you. Some will try to break you. Many will hope you fail.”

My throat was dry, but I forced the words out. “Then they’ll be disappointed.”

A flicker crossed his face, not quite a smile, but close. “We shall see. Your roommate awaits in the east dormitory. Harper Quinn. She will show you the rules. Dismissed.”

I nodded, clutching my bag like armor, and escaped before my knees betrayed me.

The east dormitory was softer than I’d expected. Tall windows flooded the polished floors with late light, scattering shadows into golden pools.

My name was etched in elegant script on a door plaque, alongside another: Harper Quinn.

Inside, one bed was already claimed. Clothes neatly folded, novels stacked in careful piles. A girl stood at the window, strawberry-blonde hair pulled into a loose braid, her posture casual but alert. She turned as I entered, her smile immediate.

“You must be Riley.” Her voice was warm, her brown eyes startlingly human. “Harper Quinn. Roommate, partner in misery, occasional snack thief.”

Something in me loosened, just slightly. She was human. Like me.

“Yeah. Riley.” The word felt awkward on my tongue.

Her grin widened. “Don’t look so nervous. Silverwood may eat people alive, but at least we’ll face it together.”

For the first time that day, I laughed. Quiet, small, but real, and in that fragile sound, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t walking into this storm completely alone.