The Buffett of Trouble
1287 Words
Isadora:
Ashwyck didn’t feel like a school.
It felt like a warning.
Dark, brooding architecture curled skyward like it wanted to pierce the clouds. The hallways smelled like rain on stone and secrets half-whispered. Shadows moved where they shouldn’t. Light flickered like it was nervous.
Lunch, apparently, was no better.
When I stepped through the towering double doors of the cafeteria—if you could call it that—I saw Loralie waiting near the archway, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. She offered a tight smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“You survived your first half of the day,” she said cheerfully, falling into step beside me.
“Yeah, I didn't get murdered, unfortunately. That counts for something, right?”
“Absolutely.”
She wasn’t kidding. Probably.
The dining hall opened wide like a cathedral—vaulted ceilings, cold chandeliers dripping with blue fire instead of warmth, and black stone floors that reflected just enough light to make you feel disoriented. Everything about it was… deliberate. Stark. Grand.
A performance of dread.
Even the food looked like a threat. Trays of meat that glistened unnaturally. Bowls of something steaming and violet. Fruit with teeth. I wasn’t sure if we were meant to eat lunch or sacrifice it.
“This way,” Loralie said, grabbing my wrist. Her touch was warm, grounding.
We weaved through rows of gothic iron tables until we reached a small bench tucked deep in the corner. Far from the center. Far from everything.
She patted the spot across from her. “Here. This is where we sit. Nobody bothers you back here.”
I slid into the seat, relieved to have a barrier between me and the world, even if it was just a warped wooden table.
Around us, the buzz of conversation hummed—a steady undercurrent of voices, laughter, and the occasional low chant. A few people glanced at me. Curiosity more than malice. New blood always draws a little attention.
But most went right back to their ghosted scrolls and haunted entrees.
Except one table.
No—the table.
It was impossible to ignore. Set apart from the others, elevated on a small obsidian platform like some ancient altar. It stretched long and narrow, polished black and glinting under candlelight, as if carved from the tomb of a forgotten king.
Four boys sat there.
Only them.
No one approached. No one whispered near them. No one dared.
Their presence felt... sacred. But not in the holy sense. Sacred in the way tombs are sacred—beautiful, ancient, and filled with things you shouldn't touch.
And they were looking at me.
Not talking. Not eating.
Just watching.
I tried to look away.
I failed. Miserably.
Each of them exuded the kind of presence that didn’t ask for attention—it took it. Like gravity had shifted in their direction and the rest of us were just caught in the orbit.
Gods in uniforms.
“Who—” I started.
Loralie cut me off, already blushing. “That’s the High Table.”
“Sounds like a death cult.”
“Pretty much,” she whispered, leaning forward. “They don’t sit with anyone else. Most people here don’t even talk to them unless they’re invited. They’re the strongest legacies on campus. Like, actual royalty.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And the school just lets them sit there acting like they’re better than everyone else?”
“They are better than everyone else.”
“Well. That’s gross.”
She smiled sheepishly, then dropped her voice even lower. “Okay, left to right.”
I followed her gaze.
“First one—black-on-black, chin propped in his hand like he owns the air you breathe? That’s Lucien Bloodsworth. Pureblood heir to vampire nobility. He's been here for ages, literally. He's 225, give or take a couple decades. He was turned at 24. Think castles and ancient bloodlines and… the chalice he drinks from constantly isn't full of red wine. Rumor has it, he was born during an eclipsed moon and baptized in ancient wine and cursed blood.”
I studied him for a moment. Midnight hair, flawless jawline, crimson eyes threaded with silver like a predator that knew exactly how sharp his teeth were. He didn’t hide the fangs. If anything, he showed them—just slightly, just enough to remind you what he was.
He caught my gaze.
Smirked.
It was small. Sharp. Lethal.
I looked away first.
“Next to him,” Loralie whispered, “with the silver eyes and that whole ‘I’ve seen your death’ vibe? Silas Grimm. His family is the only line of reapers. Literal emissaries of death. Half-reaper, half-shadow. No one knows his age. Death incarnate in a hoodie. Don't touch him unless you're into soul dismemberment.”
Silas Grimm. He was... eerily mesmerizing. His skin shimmered faintly in the dim light—like smoke trapped under glass. His veins lit up in eerie blue pulses beneath his sleeves. His eyes were pale, almost white, but not lifeless. They glowed. Watching me like he’d already carved my expiration date into a tombstone.
He didn’t blink.
I shifted, spine tightening.
“Then there’s Kai Rosewood,” Loralie said, a little too dreamily. “Fae heir. Dark Court. Well over 300, but looks 22. Don’t make deals with him. He’ll smile, charm, and then eat your soul like candy. And somehow you’ll thank him.”
Kai Rosewood, what an arrogant ass. Hair like glowing golden metal, curled and untamed. Opal eyes with slit pupils—inhuman, curious. Jewelry glinted on his fingers and neck, the kind that looked like it had stories. He lounged like he had all the time in the world. Smirked like he knew all your secrets.
He winked at me.
I rolled my eyes. He laughed, like I’d passed a test.
“And the last one?” I asked.
Loralie hesitated. “That’s Rhett Wolfe.”
The name hit harder than I expected.
“Shifter?” I guessed.
She nodded. “Alpha blood. Pack-born. But… well. Let’s just say there’s no pack anymore. He went on a frenzy one night and slaughtered everyone, no one knows what happened, and he won't speak about that night to anyone. He's 23. All sharp edges and quiet storms."
Rhett Wolfe. Golden eyes, unreadable expression, a restless kind of stillness that suggested he could explode at any second. His dark shirt hung open at the collar, revealing a hint of scarred skin. He was barefoot, like shoes were a suggestion he refused to take.
He didn’t bother pretending not to stare.
If Lucien’s gaze felt like a dare, Silas’s like dying, Kai’s like seduction…
Rhett’s felt like a warning.
My heartbeat picked up.
None of them looked away.
I reached for my drink and took a slow sip, forcing myself not to flinch under the weight of their collective attention. Then, one by one, I met their stares.
Lucien. Silas. Kai. Rhett.
Held.
Dropped.
“I hate being watched,” I muttered under my breath.
Loralie didn’t laugh. “They’re not watching,” she said quietly. “They’re studying. Measuring. The High Table doesn’t look at just anyone.”
I frowned. “Well, lucky me.”
“No,” she said. “Not luck. Ashwyck doesn’t believe in luck.”
The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch, though I’d barely touched my food. A part of me wished I had—it might’ve grounded me, reminded me that I still had control over my own body. My own choices.
But that table… those eyes…
Ashwyck wasn’t just a school.
It was a crucible.
And the High Table?
The flame.
- Writer
