Throne of Claw and Moon

Chapter 3

Selene

I opened my eyes. Morning light filtered through the tall windows of my bedroom. Everything was pristine, perfect, and felt like a prison.

The memories of last night crashed over me. The blasting music. The crowd at Jack's party. Mark’s arm around my shoulders. The surge of… whatever that was. The look on his face as he flew backward. The silence. The stares.

I fumbled for my phone. The screen was a warzone.

47 New iMessages 22 Missed Calls 71 i********: DMs 96 post tags.

I didn’t have to open them. A preview from an unknown number flashed: wtf are u witchbitch

I rolled my eyes, they were all behaving like this was some high school gist.

Grow the f**k up people!

“Selene?” A soft knock. Brenda’s voice, tight with forced calm. “Are you awake? Your father wants to see you before school.”

Brilliant. A morning lecture from Dave. Just what I needed.

I dragged myself up, my body feeling heavy and alien. I pulled on my favorite black hoodie. I avoided the mirror. I didn’t want to see the girl who had done… that.

The walk downstairs was a death march. The house was silent. I paused outside the heavy oak door of Dave’s study, my hand hovering over the knob. I could feel his anger from the other side.

I took a breath and went in.

He was behind his massive mahogany desk, the morning light glinting off his glasses. The Financial Times was open, but he wasn’t reading it. He was waiting.

“Close the door, Selene.”

I did. The click was final.

“Sit.”

I sat, trying to suppress the sudden urge to crash the f**k out.

He let the silence hang, a weapon he wielded perfectly.

He took off his glasses. "Headmaster Croft called. There's a video. From the party."

I rolled my eyes. "And? It's just people being dramatic."

"This isn't a game, Selene!" His voice was like ice. "The Blackwood name stands for something. It does not stand for... for whatever that was. You're grounded. No swim practice, no cards, no parties. You go to school and you come home. That's it."

I crossed my arms. "It wasn't my fault. Mark was being a drunk idiot."

"I don't care whose fault it was!" he snapped. "You're the one on camera. You're the one everyone is talking about. You will fix this. Now get out."

Typical. Don't solve the problem, just punish the person who caused it. I left without another word.

Brenda was waiting in the hallway, wringing her hands. “Sweetheart,” she said, her voice trembling. “What happened? People are saying such awful things.”

“It’s nothing,” I lied, the words ash in my mouth. “Just stupid drama. Dad's just mad it was public.”

She reached out to touch my arm, then hesitated, her hand fluttering back to her side. The tiny, aborted gesture hurt more than all of Dave’s words. She was afraid of me.

"Just… be careful, if you

"Save it, Mum," I cut her off. "It's fine. I'm fine."

She flinched like I'd shouted. Good. Let her be nervous.

She has no idea how I feel.

I marched straight back upstairs to my room, without sparing her a backward glance.

Dave can be so annoying. Grounded? Please. He thought cutting off my cards and confining me to this museum would break me.

Screw it. Screw all of them. I wasn't going. Let them expel me. I marched over to my bed and threw myself onto the silk duvet, staring at the ceiling. Let the world burn.

My phone, still on the nightstand, continued its relentless buzz. A constant, vibrating reminder of the hell waiting for me. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it out, but it was useless. With a frustrated groan, I snatched it.

The screen was a nightmare. #AthelstanWitch was trending. There were memes of my face photoshopped onto a cartoon character zapping someone. A DM from a number I didn't know read: Did u use black magic or are u just a freak?

There was a story from Annabelle Shaw, the biggest gossip in our year. It was a video of Mark from this morning, surrounded by his rugby mates, laughing. The caption read: "LOL someone's still shook. Don't worry Mark, everyone knows it was just a lucky push."

Lucky push.

He was making me look weak. He was turning my terror, my power, into a joke. Into his story.

Something hot and fierce ignited in my chest, burning away the self-pity.

Oh, hell no.

I launched myself off the bed and headed straight for my bathroom, turning the shower on as hot as I could stand it. As the steam filled the room, a plan crystalized. They wanted a freak? A shaken little girl? They wanted to laugh?

They were about to be so disappointed.

I emerged from the shower with a new mission. I went to my wardrobe and pulled out my armor.

I dressed for war. I slipped into the black Miu Miu skirt, its pleats so sharp they could cut glass. I paired it with a simple but devastatingly expensive white silk camisole. Next, the blazer—a perfectly tailored black piece from Alexander McQueen that structured my silhouette like a suit of armor.

Then, the details. I took the signature Hermès silk scarf, a splash of crimson and navy, and instead of tying it around my neck, I looped it through the handle of my black Dior Book Tote in a flawless, intricate knot. It was a casual flex, a silent declaration of wealth and taste that everyone would notice. I blow-dried my whitish-blonde hair into a sleek, low ponytail, severe and sophisticated. A flick of liquid eyeliner, a single coat of mascara to make my gaze icy. Finally, a spritz of my Jo Malone Wood Sage & Sea Salt—a scent that whispered of cool, unshakeable confidence.

I looked in the mirror. The girl staring back was icy. Powerful. A queen.

I walked into the dining room, my outfit making me feel like a unstoppable. My perfume left a cool, expensive trail in the air.

Brenda looked up from her tea. Her eyes did a quick, expert scan of my outfit—from the sharp pleats of my skirt to the scarf on my bag. A tiny, approving smirk touched the corner of her mouth before she quickly hid it behind her cup. It was our silent code. She saw the effort. She got the message.

"Ready for the day, I see," she said, her voice neutral but her eyes still warm.

"Ready," I replied with a smirk of my own.

It was a shame, really. In another life, we could have been a real team. She had a great eye and a kind heart buried under all that fear. I saw her glance nervously at Dave, and just like that, the warmth in her eyes vanished, replaced by that familiar, careful blankness. I hated how he did that to her.

Her smile became a bit nervous as she remembered the situation. "But, honey, are you sure you won't have some breakfast? You can't face the day on an empty stomach."

"Not hungry," I said, my voice cool and flat as I glanced at the spread of food. My stomach was a knot of nerves and defiance, but they didn't need to know that.

From the head of the table, Dave didn't bother looking up from his Financial Times. He took a slow sip of his coffee, the newspaper a literal wall between us. His silence was a dismissal, an attempt to make me feel insignificant.

Two could play at that game.

My eyes cut to the fruit bowl. I walked over, grabbed a single banana, and turned to leave.

"Charles is waiting," I announced to the room, not bothering to look back.

I pushed through the front door, the morning air hitting my face. I slid into the back of the idling town car, the banana held loosely in my hand.

"To Athelstan, Charles," I said, my voice steady.

"Very good, Miss Selene."

As we pulled away from the kerb, I finally pulled out my phone. The screen was a wall of notifications from a single person: Chloe❤️

23 Unread Messages. 5 Missed Calls.

My thumb hovered over the notifications. Not to open them, but to go into her contact and finally remove the f*****g heart next to her name. This b***h had done me dirty so many times, always skating away from the consequences while I took the fall. But last night… last night was the final straw. She stood there and watched. She recorded it. She turned my terror into her content.

A cold little smile touched my lips. She would be waiting by now. Pacing by her Range Rover at the school gates, phone in hand, wondering where I was. For the past three years, without fail, one of us would call the other the moment we were dressed. We always arrived together in her car, a united front.

This silence from me was a message in itself. And she would be furious.

It wasn't like I couldn't drive myself to school. My Audi R8—a sleek, silver beast Brenda had gifted me for my eighteenth birthday—sat in the garage, probably collecting dust. But I hadn't touched the steering wheel since the accident.

It was my hands on the wheel that night after the Jhené Aiko concert at the O2. My foot on the pedal. Chloe, buzzing from the music and whatever else she'd taken, was egging me on from the passenger seat. "Faster, Selene! This is so fun!" she'd laughed, her voice shrill over the blasting stereo.

And I’d listened. I weaved through the late-night traffic on the A40, showing off for her. The last thing I remembered was the deafening screech of my own tires, the sickening loss of control, and the world shattering into a kaleidoscope of glass and screaming metal.

I woke up in the hospital with a broken collarbone and a headache that lasted for weeks. The doctors were baffled by how quickly the bone knit back together, muttering about "remarkable healing." All I felt was the gut-wrenching guilt. Chloe got a broken arm. I got a lifetime of knowing the crash, the pain, was my fault.

I made a vow that night. No more driving. I couldn't trust myself with that much power, that little control.

The town car glided through the wrought-iron gates of Athelstan University, leaving the busy London streets behind. The long, tree-lined drive to the main campus was a buffer zone between the real world and this one—a modernized British institution where old money grandeur met sleek, new-money ambition. The architecture was a blend of historic, ivy-covered lecture halls and sharp, contemporary glass-fronted buildings.

My major was Biomedical Science. It suited me—precise, demanding, and with a focus on the inner workings of things everyone else took for granted. It was also a building on the far side of campus, which meant a long walk through the heart of student life.

When the car pulled up to the main quad, the stares began immediately. It wasn't just the usual attention my looks or clothes drew. This was different. This was the "#AthelstanWitch" effect.

I stepped out, my Gucci loafers hitting the pavement. The whispers were like a wave moving through the students lounging on the grass and rushing to their 9 a.m. lectures. I saw a guy from the swim team—a fellow sprinter I usually shared a nod with—do a double-take before quickly looking away. That stung more than a stranger's stare. On the swim team, you're supposed to have your teammate's back. Apparently, that didn't apply when your teammate might be a supernatural freak.

I kept my head high, my whitish-blonde ponytail swinging, and cut a path directly through the center of the quad. My destination was the Sciences building, a journey that felt like running a gauntlet. I didn't see Chloe, and for that, I was grateful. Our majors were in completely different colleges—her in Fashion Marketing, me in Sciences—and our paths rarely crossed by accident in the morning rush.

I finally made it to my locker in the relatively quiet Sciences corridor. I was fumbling with the combination when a timid voice spoke beside me.

“Um. Selene?”

I turned. It was Lily Chen from my Biochemistry seminar. She was shy, brilliant, and usually invisible to the wider social scene.

“Yeah?”

She shoved a folded note into my hand, her cheeks flushing. “I just… I saw the video. With Mark. He’s a jerk. He deserved it.” She gave me a quick, nervous smile. “Thanks.”

Before I could respond, she scurried away.

I unfolded the note. In neat handwriting, it read: ‘Don’t worry about the witches. They’re just afraid of a bigger bad.’ - S. King. P.S. That was awesome.

I stared at it, a strange warmth spreading through my chest. The first kindness all day.

The warmth didn’t last.

I felt a large presence behind me. I didn't need to turn to know it was Mark. I took my time, slowly finishing the note before turning around.

Mark stood there, flanked by two of his rugby mates. His jaw was clenched, his eyes bloodshot. The buzzing hallway fell silent.

"Blackwood," he said, his voice a low growl.

I raised a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Did you need something? Or are you just here to block the hallway?"

He stepped closer, trying to use his height to intimidate me. I could smell the cheap body spray and stale coffee on his breath. The static in my head flared, but I just smiled coolly.

"You got something you want to say to me?" he demanded.

"I think you said enough last night," one of his friends, Oliver, snickered. "When you were flying backward."

Mark's face flushed a furious red. The humiliation was a live wire in the air.

"Shut up," Mark snarled at him, not taking his eyes off me. "This isn't over, freak."

He moved to shoulder past me, but I stood my ground, forcing him to go around. My gaze was icy as I watched him stomp away, his friends trailing behind him like lost puppies.

The show was over. The crowd dispersed, but the whispers were about him now. About his pathetic attempt to scare me.

I turned back to my locker, my movements calm and deliberate. I tucked Lily's note safely inside and gathered my books.

I had won. I hadn't flinched. I hadn't raised my voice. I'd put him in his place with nothing but a look and a few choice words.

So why, underneath the cool exterior, did I still feel like everything was about to shatter?

The bell rang. Time for class. Time to face the music.

Let them stare. I'm Selene Blackwood. And I'm just getting started.