Copper And Cold Eyes

Fingers.

The word slammed into my consciousness like a physical blow. My stomach lurched violently, bile rising hot and acidic in my throat. I slapped a hand over my mouth, stumbling backwards, tripping over an exposed root. The impact jarred my teeth, but the pain was distant, overshadowed by the sheer, nauseating horror of what I'd seen.

No. No, I didn't see that. It was roots, twigs, weird fungus. Not… not fingers.

But the image was burned onto my retinas: pale, slightly curled, dirt clinging to the knuckles. Severed.

My breath came in ragged gasps. The manicured beauty of Blackthorn Academy suddenly felt grotesque, a painted mask over something rotting underneath. The gothic spires seemed like teeth against the darkening sky. The wind rustling the leaves sounded like whispers, dry and sinister.

I scrambled to my feet, legs trembling. The diary in my backpack felt heavy, colder now, a block of ice against my spine. Did it know? Did it show me this?

Run. The instinct screamed through me. Run back to the bus station, run back to the city, run anywhere but here. Forget the scholarship, forget the chance at a future. Nothing was worth this.

But then, a fleeting image surfaced: a small, hopeful face in a worn photograph tucked into my wallet. Maya. My foster sister, swallowed by the system years ago. The last rumour, faint and desperate, had pointed towards connections with Blackthorn's 'outreach program'. A long shot, maybe even a delusion born of grief, but it was the only thread I had. I have to stay. For her. I have to know. The thought was less conviction, more grim necessity. Leaving meant abandoning that last, fragile hope. Leaving meant letting Blackthorn, whatever darkness it held, potentially keep its secrets—and maybe Maya, too.

Shoving the terror down, I forced myself to walk, stiff-legged and robotic, towards the East Wing. The imposing stone entrance loomed, shadows gathering in its archways. Inside, the air felt different from the main building – cooler, damper, with a faint, persistent smell clinging underneath the polish and disinfectant. Mildew? Or something else? Something metallic, almost like old pennies.

The corridor stretched before me, lined with identical doors. The fluorescent lights hummed louder here, casting a stark, unwelcoming glare. No plush carpets like the glimpses I'd caught of the West Wing, just worn linoleum that echoed my footsteps ominously. A few other students hurried past, heads down, clutching textbooks. Their faces looked pale, tired already. Scholarship solidarity, or something more draining?

My assigned room was 2B. The key felt slippery in my sweaty palm. Inside, it was small, functional, spartan. Two narrow beds, two desks, two wardrobes. A single window looked out onto a patch of perpetually shaded courtyard. My meagre belongings looked pathetic piled on one bed. The other was neatly made, indicating a roommate had already arrived.

I dumped my backpack onto my bed, the diary landing with a soft thud. I stared at it, repulsed but morbidly drawn. Should I open it again? See if it had recorded… that?

Before I could decide, the door opened. A girl with bright, anxious eyes and a cloud of dark curly hair stood there, holding a stack of books. "Oh! Hi! You must be Elara. I'm Chloe," she said, offering a slightly shaky smile. "Just got back from the library orientation. It's… intense."

"Elara Jones," I corrected automatically, forcing a smile that felt brittle. "Yeah. Intense."

Chloe bustled in, dropping her books onto the other desk. "Tell me about it. Did you see the size of the restricted section? And the rules! Don't touch this, don't go there after dark, spectral librarians will eat your soul…" She trailed off, laughing nervously. "Okay, maybe not that last part. But almost!"

Her chatter was a flimsy shield against the dread still clinging to me. I tried to focus on her, on normalcy. "Yeah, it's… a lot."

"Still better than sharing a dorm with someone like Seraphina Dubois, right?" Chloe shuddered dramatically. "Saw her and her posse in the dining hall earlier. Practically sneering at anyone without a trust fund."

Seraphina Dubois. The name clicked – one of the 'legacy' students the guide had practically genuflected towards. "Posse?"

"You know," Chloe lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Julian Ashworth, Bartholomew Thorne… the usual suspects. They practically run the place. Act like they own it."

Ashworth. The name snagged something in my memory, but I couldn't place it. "Right," I said vaguely.

My stomach growled, a reminder I hadn't eaten since the stale sandwich on the bus hours ago. Maybe food would help ground me. "Dining hall?"

Chloe nodded eagerly. "Starving. Let's brave the lions."

The main dining hall was vast, cathedral-like, dominated by stained-glass windows depicting stern-faced founders. Long tables stretched across the polished floor. And the divide was instantly, painfully obvious. The tables nearest the sunlit windows were filled with loud, laughing students in expensive, subtly customized uniforms – the West Wing elite. Further back, in the dimmer light, sat smaller, quieter groups – the East Wingers.

Chloe led us towards a table near the back. As we passed a central table, a voice drawled, "Well, well. Look what the scholarship lottery dragged in."

I looked up. Julian Ashworth lounged in his chair, impeccably dressed, radiating effortless arrogance. He had sharp features, blond hair swept back perfectly, and eyes the colour of pale ice. He wasn't looking at Chloe. He was looking directly at me. A small, knowing smirk played on his lips. Beside him, Seraphina Dubois, stunningly beautiful and radiating disdain, didn't even glance our way. Ashworth, however, held my gaze. On his right hand, glinting under the chandeliers, was a heavy gold signet ring bearing an elaborate crest – a stylized tree entwined with thorns.

My skin prickled. There was something predatory in his stare, something that went beyond typical rich-kid condescension. It felt assessing. Like he was sizing me up.

Chloe tugged my arm. "Come on. Don't engage."

We slid onto a bench at an East Wing table. The food, served cafeteria-style, looked decent enough – roast chicken, potatoes, vegetables. But as I took the first bite, the taste was… off. Metallic. Coppery. Like licking a battery terminal.

I glanced at Chloe. She was eating without comment, though her expression seemed tight. Was it just me? Was the encounter with Marlena, the diary, Ashworth's stare, making me paranoid?

I pushed the food around my plate. My gaze drifted across the hall. Near the entrance, leaning against a shadowed pillar, stood another girl. Tall, dressed in the same grey uniform, but she wore it differently. Her posture was wary, coiled, like a stray cat ready to bolt. Her dark hair partially obscured her face, but I could see she was watching the room – specifically, watching Julian Ashworth's table. Then her gaze flickered towards me, lingering for a fraction of a second. Her sleeve was pushed up slightly as she crossed her arms. On her wrist, stark against pale skin, was a jagged, puckered scar. Like an old burn mark.

Penelope, I thought, remembering the name Chloe had mentioned vaguely, someone known for keeping to herself. She met my eyes for a heartbeat, a flicker of something unreadable – warning? Recognition? – before she turned and melted back into the shadows near the door.

The copper taste in my mouth intensified. The noise of the dining hall faded into a low hum. All I could feel was the weight of the diary in my distant backpack, the memory of cold fingers in the dark earth, and the chill of Julian Ashworth's assessing gaze.

Later, back in the suffocating quiet of room 2B, exhaustion warred with adrenaline. Chloe was already engrossed in a textbook, determinedly ignoring the oppressive atmosphere. I sank onto my bed, pulling out the diary. It felt heavier now, definitely warmer.

Hesitantly, I opened it past the first page with my name. The next page wasn't blank. New words had appeared, written in the same flaking brown ink, looking as if they'd always been there:

'You saw them. Good.'

My blood ran cold. It knew.

Then, underneath that, another line materialized, the ink seeming to darken and coalesce

even as I watched:

'You'll need me when the mirrors start screaming.'