The First Cracks
1512 Words
Autumn settled over Blackridge almost unnoticed.
There was no single morning when the leaves turned amber or the air suddenly sharpened with cold. Instead, summer seemed to retreat by inches. The ivy climbing the Institute’s ancient walls darkened first, then the mornings grew quieter, wrapped in pale mist that lingered over the eastern gardens until lectures had already begun. By October, every stone path glistened with rain before sunrise, and the old oak in Founders’ Court scattered bronze leaves across the cobblestones faster than the groundskeepers could sweep them away.
Evelyn soon discovered that life inside Blackridge obeyed a rhythm entirely separate from the outside world.
The first bell rang at half past six.
Breakfast lasted precisely forty-five minutes.
Morning lectures began at eight.
Afternoons belonged to seminars, societies, language tutorials or supervised study. Evenings disappeared into the library, essays and preparation for the following day.
No one needed to tell students that excellence was expected.
The Institute had been designed so that expectation became impossible to escape.
During the first weeks, Evelyn often caught herself comparing Blackridge to her old school, only to realise the comparison itself felt absurd. There, lessons had ended with the final bell and teachers reminded children to complete their homework before watching television. Here, professors assumed every student had already read the following week’s material before arriving in class. First Course students debated constitutional theory over breakfast. Second Course students quoted Cicero in Latin simply because it amused them. The library remained open until midnight, and it was never empty.
For the first time in her life, Evelyn was surrounded by people who enjoyed learning as much as she did.
She should have felt relieved.
Instead, she felt challenged.
Every corridor reminded her that she was no longer extraordinary simply because she loved books.
Here, everyone had once been the cleverest child in their classroom.
Blackridge merely gathered them together and quietly waited to see who would remain exceptional.
If the pressure frightened her, she never admitted it.
Not even to herself.
…
“You’ve been reading for three hours.”
Benjamin’s voice drifted across the common room without interrupting the page she had nearly finished.
“I know.”
“You’ve turned exactly..” he pretended to count in the air, “..four pages.”
“I’m annotating.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
Alexander looked up from his own book.
“It means she’s thinking.”
Benjamin frowned thoughtfully.
“I usually do that without books.”
Alexander blinked.
“..Do you?”
“I assume so.”
Evelyn laughed softly before placing another note in the margin of her economics text.
The common room had gradually become their refuge during the evenings. While dozens of First Course students gathered there after dinner, the three of them always seemed to occupy the same corner beneath the tall windows overlooking the gardens. Benjamin claimed the armchair nearest the fireplace regardless of whether it had been lit. Alexander preferred the sofa because it allowed him to stretch his impossibly long legs while reading. Evelyn usually sat beside the window where the natural light lingered longest before sunset.
None of them had consciously chosen the arrangement.
One day it had simply.. happened.
Benjamin suddenly closed his notebook with theatrical determination.
“I’ve reached a decision.”
Alexander didn’t look up.
“I’m worried already.”
“We’re going exploring.”
“We have philosophy essays due tomorrow.”
Benjamin nodded.
“Exactly.”
“..How are those connected?”
“I’ll enjoy writing mine significantly more after climbing something forbidden.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The terrible idea.”
Benjamin grinned.
“I was wondering when you’d notice.”
Evelyn rested her forehead against the back of her chair.
“I refuse.”
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“I know you.”
“That’s fair.”
Alexander finally closed his book.
“I assume this involves one of the towers.”
Benjamin looked genuinely impressed.
“..How did you know?”
“Because last week you wanted to climb the clock tower.”
“I still do.”
“The week before that was the greenhouse roof.”
“It has an excellent view.”
“And before that —”
“I understand your point.”
Benjamin sighed dramatically before looking toward Evelyn with exaggerated disappointment.
“You’re both remarkably difficult people.”
“So we’re told,” she replied.
“You know what your problem is?”
“We’re about to find out.”
“You enjoy following rules.”
Alexander answered immediately.
“No.”
Benjamin blinked.
“No?”
“We enjoy avoiding consequences.”
Silence.
Then Evelyn burst into laughter.
Benjamin pointed accusingly at Alexander.
“You’re becoming funnier.”
“I’m spending too much time with you.”
“I’m choosing to consider that a compliment.”
Around them, conversations continued uninterrupted. Some students revised together before the week’s first assessments. Others argued cheerfully over a game of chess near the fireplace. Across the room, a girl practised piano on the old upright instrument tucked into the corner, filling the common room with a hesitant Chopin nocturne that drifted gently through the evening.
For the first time since arriving at Blackridge, Evelyn felt.. settled.
Not accepted.
Not entirely.
But comfortable.
She had found her people.
Perhaps that was enough.
For now.
She could not have known that, elsewhere within the Institute, another group of first-years had unknowingly established a routine just as consistent as her own.
While the eastern residence echoed with laughter and unfinished essays, the western wing remained noticeably quieter.
Cassien Ashcombe sat alone beside one of the tall library windows, a volume on commercial law lying open before him. Unlike most first-years, he had long since finished the week’s assignments. Instead, he was reading material intended for students several years older, occasionally making brief notes in immaculate handwriting before turning another page.
“You’ll blind yourself.”
Celeste Beaumont lowered herself into the chair opposite him without waiting for permission, carrying two cups of tea.
Cassien looked up.
“I’ve been informed that candles existed for centuries before electricity.”
“That wasn’t the point.”
“I know.”
She slid one cup across the table anyway.
“You skipped dinner.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“You never are.”
Damian arrived moments later, dropping heavily into the chair beside Celeste.
“I’ve solved the mystery.”
Neither of them looked up.
“There wasn’t one.”
“There is now.”
Damian leaned forward.
“Miles and Oliver challenged the rowing captain to a race.”
Cassien continued reading.
“And?”
“They don’t row.”
A pause.
“They know that now.”
For perhaps the first time that evening, the corner of Cassien’s mouth moved.
Barely.
Not quite a smile.
Simply the smallest concession that the story had amused him.
Celeste noticed.
“So you are capable.”
“Of what?”
“Looking your age.”
He returned his attention to the book.
“I fail to see the advantage.”
Damian exchanged an amused glance with Celeste.
“There he goes again.”
“What?”
“Speaking like your father.”
Cassien’s pen stopped moving.
Only for a heartbeat.
Then it continued.
“My father would consider that a compliment.”
“I know.”
Damian’s smile faded slightly.
“That’s what worries me.”
For a brief moment, none of them spoke.
Outside, rain began tapping softly against the library windows.
Cassien stared at the same paragraph for several seconds without reading it.
His father’s voice echoed through memory with perfect clarity.
“The Ashcombe name enters every room before you do.”
“Your duty is to ensure it never leaves diminished.”
Lucien Ashcombe had repeated some version of those words for as long as Cassien could remember.
Duty before comfort.
Legacy before affection.
Perfection before everything.
Mistakes were expensive.
Weakness was unforgivable.
And sentiment..
Sentiment belonged to people whose families could afford it.
Cassien closed the book.
“I have riding practice tomorrow.”
Damian sighed.
“At dawn?”
“Six.”
“You truly are impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
Celeste stood first.
“Come on.”
“Where?”
“We’re taking a walk.”
Cassien frowned.
“In the rain?”
“Especially in the rain.”
“I have reading to finish.”
“You’ve finished it.”
“I haven’t.”
“You memorised half that book twenty minutes ago.”
He looked at her.
She looked back.
Finally —
“..Ten minutes.”
Celeste smiled victoriously.
Damian stood.
“I’ll consider that progress.”
Cassien quietly slipped a bookmark between the pages before following them from the library.
For all the certainty with which the rest of Blackridge viewed the heir to House Ashcombe, neither Celeste nor Damian had ever mistaken him for invincible.
They had known him too long for that.
- Writer
