St. Briar’s Academy

- The gates of St. Briar’s Academy loomed like iron jaws, wide open to swallow her whole. Elara stepped out of the black cab, the weight of her coat no match for the chill that clung to her bones. The rain had just stopped, but everything still dripped — the trees, the stone gargoyles, the air. It smelled like wet soil and secrets. The Academy stood tall and ancient, its Gothic towers clawing at the sky. Ivy ran wild over the grey stone walls, and stained-glass windows peered down like watching eyes. It wasn’t a school — it was a tomb pretending to breathe. She tightened her grip on the suitcase handle. She hadn’t wanted to come. But after Isobel died, everything changed. Her mother stopped looking her in the eye. Her father buried himself in work. And Elara… she just stopped feeling. Until the letter came. > We regret to inform you of the tragic passing of Miss Isobel Hart, our brightest student. However, a place has been reserved for her twin, Miss Elara Hart, should she wish to attend. Wish? Elara didn’t wish anything anymore. She just… existed. The headmistress was waiting inside, tall and thin, her hair twisted in a tight silver knot, lips drawn like a scar. “Miss Hart,” she said with the kind of voice that had buried many truths. “We are honored.” Lies. The inside of the school was colder than the rain. Students passed in silence, their uniforms sharp, their faces pale. Portraits lined the corridors — old headmasters, saints, and one that looked suspiciously like Isobel. Elara stopped. The eyes in the painting gleamed red for a moment, then went dark. “Keep moving,” the headmistress said, not turning around. Her room was at the top of the west tower. “No one else stays in this wing,” the headmistress told her. “Privacy is a gift. Use it wisely.” Then she left without another word. Elara unpacked slowly. The room smelled faintly of lavender and ash. On the desk lay an envelope with her name scrawled in Isobel’s handwriting. Her blood turned cold. Inside was a note: > If you’ve come here, I’m already gone. But something’s wrong, Elara. I didn’t die by accident. There’s something beneath this school. Something that watches. Please don’t trust anyone — not even him. Especially not him. – I A knock on the door made her jump. She opened it to find a boy standing there, soaked from the rain, hair like ink, and eyes the color of dried blood. He looked startled to see her. “Elara?” he whispered, as if saying her name hurt. “You… you’re real.” She stepped back. “Do I know you?” He looked at her like someone who’d waited a long time to breathe. “Not yet. But I know your sister.” Elara froze. “Isobel?” He nodded. “She came to me. In the mirror. The night she died.” He turned and vanished down the hall, leaving wet footprints that faded with each step. Elara stared after him. The wind howled outside, and the lights flickered. She looked into the mirror above her dresser. Her reflection stared back — same hair, same hollow eyes — but then the reflection blinked. And whispered: "You’re next."