THE DISCARDED LUNA‘S REVENGE

Chapter Nine

LYRA’S POV

The hidden corner behind the copper pillar felt like the only pocket of breathable air in the entire cathedral of the refectory. I sat on the low iron stool, the cold metal biting through the thin fabric of my uniform skirt, and carefully unwrapped the wax paper around my sandwich.

The turkey was thin, the bread was the generic white loaves my mother bought in bulk at the avenue market, and it looked completely pathetic compared to the artisanal plates being carried past the perimeter line. Three tables away, a legacy senior was complaining that the truffle oil on his seared duck breast was too aggressive.

I took a bite, chewing mechanically, my eyes fixed forward on the scratched surface of the counter. I didn't want to look at them. I didn't want to watch the effortless, gilded ease with which they occupied space. But more than anything, I didn't want to think about the absolute submission I had witnessed in Advanced Macroeconomics. The memory of the scholarship students sitting like paralyzed stone statues while Gabriel Jakes and his clique took their sweet time leaving the room made the dry bread stick in my throat.

"You're Lyra, right? The transfer from the Chicago hub?"

The voice was low, sharp, and laced with an intense, vibrating nervousness.

I didn't turn my head immediately. I finished swallowing, wiped my mouth with a paper napkin, and then looked up. Three scholarship students were standing in the narrow space between my copper pillar and the dark wood paneling of the wall. They were all wearing the same level-four standardized blue blazers as me, the cheap wool stiff and boxy against their frames.

The one who had spoken was a girl with sharp, pinched features and dark hair pulled back into a ponytail so tight it looked painful. Her uniform tag read Cadence – Level 4 Registry. Flanking her were two boys who looked like brothers—both pale, both with the distinct, shadowed exhaustion around their eyes that came from living under the heavy exhaust of the valley flats.

"I'm Lyra," I said, keeping my tone flat and even. "Can I help you with something?"

Cadence didn't answer right away. She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes darting frantically toward the center tables where the legacy students were laughing, before she stepped closer into my personal space. Her fingers were twisting the hem of her cheap blazer so hard the seams were groaning.

"You need to fix your posture," Cadence whispered, her voice dropping into a harsh, frantic hiss. "And you need to change your seat in Harrison’s room before tomorrow morning."

I blinked, a cold, incredulous amusement rippling through my chest. "Excuse me?"

"Don't play stupid," the boy on her left muttered, his voice cracking slightly as he stepped forward. His knuckles were white where he gripped his plastic lunch tray. "We saw you in Economics. You sat in the top tier, right in the center line and when the final bell rang, you actually reached for your backpack before the legacies even stood up. Do you have a death wish or something?"

I stared at them, the turkey sandwich completely forgotten on the wax paper. I had expected the rich kids to be monsters. I had prepared myself for the arrogance of Gabriel, the malice of Julian, and the suffocating snobbery of Chloe. But I hadn't expected my own people—the ones who shared my registry level, the ones who came from the same dirt as me to come to my corner to police my breathing.

"I was putting my notebook away," I said, my voice remaining entirely level, entirely calm. "The class was over. The bell rang."

"The bell doesn't mean anything for us!" Cadence snapped, her voice rising just enough to make the boy on her right flinch and grab her elbow. She lowered her pitch instantly, her eyes wide with a manic, terrified urgency. "Listen to me, transfer. You might have run things differently in Chicago, but you aren't in the midwest anymore. This is Garrison Heights. There is an order here. The legacies leave first. Always. If a level-four student blocks the aisle or makes them wait, it doesn't just look bad on you, it looks bad on all of us."

"She’s right," the second boy whispered, his eyes scanning the cafeteria like a soldier in a trench. "Last trimester, a scholarship kid from the lower docks tried to push past Marcus Vance in the main corridor because he was late for a chemistry lab. The legacies didn't even touch him. They just... they made a few phone calls. By Friday, the kid’s housing stipend was re-evaluated for an administrative clerical error, and his father lost his commercial transit pass. They broke his whole family over a five-second delay in the hallway."

The sheer, naked terror in his voice was pathetic, but beneath the pity, a dark, hot anger began to simmer in my veins.

"So your solution is to sit there like servants until they decide to let you walk?" I asked, leaning back against the counter, my eyes locking onto Cadence’s pinched face. "You bow your heads and shrink into the woodwork because you’re afraid of their phone calls?"

"It’s called survival!" Cadence hissed, her face flushing a deep, angry red. "You think you're better than us because you scored high on some entrance metrics? You think that boxy blazer gives you the right to be brave? It doesn't. Your pride is going to get our registry tier targeted. If Gabriel Jakes or Julian Vance decides that the scholarship block is getting arrogant because the new girl from Chicago doesn't know her place, they will make all of our lives a living hell. They’ll change the curve on the exams, they’ll lock the digital library keys, or they’ll just let their friends ensure our cafeteria privileges are revoked."

"I am here to study," I said, my voice dropping into a cold, hard register that made Cadence stop mid-sentence. "I am here to maintain my GPA, get my thesis parameters met, and leave. I don't care about their cliques, I don't care about their hierarchy, and I certainly don't care about their convenience."

"Well, you better start caring," the first boy growled, stepping into the gap by the copper pillar, his face inches from mine. "Because if your attitude brings down a compliance audit on the stipend packages this month, I will make sure the administration reviews the residency claims on your application. We all know how strict the board is about out-of-state transfers, Lyra. It takes one anonymous tip about a mismatched utility log to get your family's temporary valley permit pulled entirely. Don't think for a second we won't protect ourselves by throwing you to the wolves."

The threat hung in the air, thick and foul, completely destroying any illusion of solidarity I might have hoped for. The caste system at Garrison Heights wasn't just enforced from the top down; it was maintained by the desperation of the bottom. They were so terrified of losing the crumbs the ridge elite threw at them that they were willing to tear down one of their own just to prove their submission.

Before I could respond—before I could let the sharp, defensive instinct I had honed on the streets of Chicago dictate my next words, the heavy atmosphere in the cafeteria snapped like a dry twig.

A shadow fell over our corner.

The three scholarship students froze instantly, the color draining from Cadence’s face so fast she looked like a ghost. The boy who had just threatened me let out a small, pathetic choking sound in his throat and immediately stepped back, his lunch tray rattling violently against his knees.

Julian Vance was standing at the edge of the copper pillar.

He was wearing his tailored white athletic jersey over his uniform shirt, his massive shoulders making the space feel incredibly narrow. His hands were shoved casually into his pockets, and a cruel, lazy smirk was plastered across his face. Walking right behind him was a shorter, blocky senior whose blazer bore a distinct embroidered insignia—not a family crest, but a smaller, private mark that looked vaguely like a stylized claw.

"Well, well," Julian drawled, his eyes sweeping over the three scholarship students with the casual disgust of a man looking at a grease spot on his tire. "Look what we have here. A little charity convention in the dark. Am I interrupting a union meeting, or are you guys just trading tips on how to clean the grease traps?"

Cadence didn't look him in the eye. She dropped her head so low her chin practically touched her collar, her shoulders caving inward in that exact, submissive bow I had seen in the courtyard. "No, Mr. Vance. We were... we were just leaving. We were just helping the new student find the recycling bins."

"Is that right?" Julian stepped closer, his boots making a heavy, deliberate sound against the marble tile. He didn't even look at Cadence or the boys; his eyes locked directly onto me, his smirk widening as he noticed my half-eaten turkey sandwich. "Because it looked like you guys were getting a little loud, and the chancellor hates noise in the refectory. It disrupts the digestion of people who actually pay tuition."

"We are leaving. Right now. Sorry, Mr. Vance," the boy who had just threatened me muttered, his voice trembling so hard it was sickening.

Without waiting for another word from Julian, the three of them scrambled. They didn't walk; they practically ran, pushing past each other to get down the narrow perimeter aisle, their heads bowed, their bodies small, completely abandoning me without a single backward glance.

Julian watched them go, a short, barking laugh escaping his lips. "Pathetic. Every single one of them. You give them a free uniform and a transit pass, and they still smell like the lower yards."

He turned his full attention back to me, leaning one massive forearm against the copper pillar, effectively blocking my only exit from the counter. His blue eyes were cold, sharp, and entirely predatory.

"You're a long way from the high row in Economics, transfer," Julian murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, dangerous pitch that meant he was enjoying himself. "I saw you looking at Gabriel today. I saw the way you were holding that cheap plastic pen like you wanted to drive it into his throat."

I didn't move. I didn't drop my head, and I didn't cower. I carefully took another bite of my sandwich, chewed deliberately, and swallowed before I looked up at him. "The acoustics in the room are excellent, Mr. Vance. It’s hard not to look when someone is being that loud."

Julian’s smirk vanished for a fraction of a second, his eyes narrowing as he processed the quiet defiance in my tone. A low, dangerous rumble seemed to form in his chest—a sound that felt strangely deep, almost animalistic, before he forced the lazy smile back onto his face.

"You've got a lot of mouth for a girl whose father spends his nights shoveling coal in the low docks," Julian whispered, leaning down so his face was level with mine. The scent of his expensive cologne—something metallic and sharp, like winter pine filled the air. "Gabriel might find your little midwestern attitude amusing for now, but I don't. The borders in this place are very specific, Lyra. If you don't learn how to bow like the rest of your level, someone is going to break your neck to teach you the geometry."

He reached out, his thick fingers deliberately tapping the edge of my wax-wrapped sandwich, flipping it over onto the dirty surface of the counter before I could stop him.

"Enjoy your lunch," Julian sneered, turning on his heel. He and his associate walked away, their laughter echoing over the roar of the cafeteria as they returned to the bright, sunlit tables in the center of the room.

I sat entirely still in the shadow of the copper pillar, my eyes fixed on my ruined lunch. The anger inside me wasn't a hot flare anymore; it had cooled into something heavy, solid, and entirely lethal.

Monday was only half over. The legacy students wanted me broken, and the scholarship students wanted me silent. I reached down, picked up the wax paper, and threw the ruined sandwich into the bin before picking up my backpack. I had three more periods before my shift at the diner, and I needed to ensure my face was completely unreadable before the next bell rang.