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The gates of Hermes Powder Academy opened, the wrought iron creaking before it fully opened. The sun was nearly high in the sky, casting light on the grass and trees, a stark contrast to the looming darkness awaiting the new students who come here.

Ophelia sighs, the sun casting an annoying glow across her body through a dusty window and she turns in her bed. Her raven hair falls over her shoulders like water in a lake spilling over rocks, her body moving to sit up.

Today was her first day at this strange little school the young woman was invited to. She still didn’t quite understand why she was invited, by she would enjoy education outside of what she was taught by her late mother and father. Trudging out of the rickety bed, she sighs, rubbing her full blue eyes and beginning to get ready. She didn’t know if there was a uniform, so she just eyes a simple blue and black dress, putting on her usually accessories, a Pearl necklace and ring, the only really valuable things she owns.

Feeling that there was no need for breakfast, and never having enjoyed eating in the mornings anyways, Ophelia leaves the small house she owns, carrying a black leather bag with her, her blue heeled boots clicking along the tile as she walks. She leaves her hair down, never having been one for social accepted norms, and quite frankly, she couldn’t be bothered to care.

Ophelia can’t remember how long she walked for, but after a good long moment of humming and strolling to the address given in her invitation, she finally comes across a grand school, large and intricate in its design.

“Mon dieu…” she whispers, the French curse leaving her mouth softly

She makes her way through the gates, her doll like and tired eyes sweeping across the school grounds, observing all that she could, taking in the new scenery with intrigue.

Daria woke up with a start, it was the first day of arriving at the strange academy that she was enrolled in through anonymous reasons. She rubbed her eyes, lips parting with a big yawn.

She crept out of bed, changed from her linen pajamas to the uniform given to her in the mail by the academy.

She ate her grandmother's breakfast in a rush, not wanting to be late for school. As she wandered out, she realized the academy was a few blocks from her grandmother's cottage, so Daria did not bother getting on a trolley.

Daria saw another student at the entrance, she was a woman like her, but looked slightly older than her, around 18.

"So, what's your name?" Daria said in her slightly squeaky voice, her Sheffield accent giving it more lilt.

Ophelia raises a brow at a voice behind her, turning around in slight confusion. The small voice belonged to a girl, a few years younger than she was, but Ophelia didn’t guess age, never having been good at that. “Um…” she pauses, unsure of what to say, this was the first interaction she has had outside of work. “Are…you talking to me?” She asks, the French accent tinting her voice, the words she spoke not rude, more light and gentle.

"Oh, I am, my name's Daria. Daria Barker. And I'm 17 years old... uh, yeah, that's pretty much all about me. You?" Daria pointed to Ophelia awkwardly before setting her hand back at her hip immediately, flushing out of embarrassment.

Ophelia seems to visibly relax a bit, entertained by the young girls seeming nervousness. “It’s nice to meet to Daria. I’m Ophelia.” She hums, holding out a hand to the young girl for her to shake. It seems to be custom that when meeting new people, they always shake hands, so that is what she will do. Keep up some kind gesture of what she assumed was good will

Daria smiled shyly, and shook Ophelia's hand.

Ophelia smiles lightly, quietly congratulating herself in her head for officially meeting her first potential friend, basically ever. “Well, Daria who is 17, I’m assuming you were also invited to this…school? It is a school, yes?” She asks for clarification, tilting her head, her dark hair shifting with the movement, loose strands still not a culturally common sight.

"I don't.... really know what it is.. It's probably a school, or an academy, I've never really seen one, to be honest.." Daria shrugged her shoulders and chuckled awkwardly.

“Oh, well good, neither have I.” Ophelia nods, turning back to look at the school. “I’m going to find the headmaster,” she decides out loud, “let me know if you wish to join me.” She says over her shoulder to Dahlia before she begins walking, her posture practiced and perfect. When she lived with her parents, before she escaped, posture was a constant lesson Ophelia would be taught, and it was consistently a reminder of how she still seemed to be in their control, even with them dead.

Silas sprinted through the narrow alley, his pulse a frenzied drum against his ribs. A dull throb pulsed in his left leg, a phantom ache from a poorly-healed fracture, now brought to life by the exertion. His breath came in ragged, hungry gasps. He vaulted over a crate of apples, the sweet scent momentarily distracting, ignoring the furious shouts of the shopkeeper as he continued his headlong flight. He knew the constables would be on his trail soon enough, but it was nothing he couldn't manage. Hadn't he proven that time and again?
After all, the chase was the best part – the raw adrenaline, the calculated risk, the intoxicating dance on the edge of capture. The inky veil of night was his ally, though not entirely necessary. Silas was a master of camouflage, a chameleon in cloth. He was better at blending in than anyone he knew, an ability that had served him well in his shadowy existence. It was probably the precise reason he hadn't yet found himself behind bars.

Leaping up, he tore a dark woolen cloak from a hanging clothesline, the fabric rough against his gloved hands. Sprinting down another tortuous alleyway, he swiftly tied the cloak around himself, transforming his posture. He hunched his shoulders, dragging the hood low over his forehead, obscuring his sharp features in shadow. He slid down against the damp, grimy wall, feigning the pose of a beggar, his eyes narrowed. He heard the heavy footfalls and gruff voices of the approaching constables. He watched as they surveyed the alley, their eyes sweeping over the scene, eventually landing on him, huddled and seemingly pitiable against the brick.
"Excuse me, sir," one of the older constables, a man with kind eyes and a weary face, approached him. His voice was surprisingly soft, almost tender. Silas supposed that was the intended benefit of his carefully constructed disguise – the image of a poor, downtrodden wretch. "Have you seen a young man run this way? Dressed in dark clothing?"
Silas gave a slight, trembling nod of his head, feigning weakness. With a shaking hand, he pointed to his left, the direction from which he'd originally come.
"Thank you," the constable said, genuine gratitude in his tone. He placed a silver coin at Silas's feet, a small act of charity that Silas accepted with a silent, downcast gaze. "Come on, lads," the constable commanded, urging the other officers to follow. They turned and hurried off in the direction Silas had indicated.
Idiots. Utter fools, blinded by their own assumptions and the carefully crafted illusion he presented. A faint smirk played on Silas's lips as he watched them disappear into the darkness. He was a ghost in their city, a shadow they could never quite grasp. The game, as always, was far from over. His heart and head were already planning his next adventure.

Once he was certain the constables had disappeared into the labyrinthine streets below, Silas straightened his posture, his movements fluid and graceful as a cat's. He was on his feet in an instant, abandoning the pose of a beggar as if it were a discarded costume. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the stale loaf of bread he had liberated from the marketplace – a small victory in his ongoing war against hunger. He ripped off a chunk and shoved it into his mouth, freeing both hands to scale the brick wall of the alley.

His fingers found purchase on an out-of-place stone, and with a practiced ease, he hauled himself upwards. Years of climbing and escaping had honed his skills to perfection. A few more precise grips and footholds later, and he was scrambling onto the flat rooftop of the factory, his movements silent and efficient. He sat down heavily, his boots crunching on loose gravel, and took another bite of the stolen bread.

His stomach had been a persistent, gnawing tormentor for days, a low rumble that threatened to drown out his thoughts. His hunger had grown unbearable until he finally decided to rectify the issue.

His solution, of course, was theft. It was a skill he had refined to an art form.

And it turned out, predictably, to be a success. As always. Running and climbing weren't the only things he excelled at; petty larceny was practically hardwired into his being. One had to survive.

Finishing off the bread, which momentarily soothed the ache in his belly, he pulled the scrunched-up paper ball from his other pocket – one of many, many pockets hidden within his clothing, each designed to hold a lockpick, a knife, a stolen trinket, or some other useful item. He smoothed out the crumpled paper, revealing the invitation that had so unexpectedly landed in his life.

Hermes Powder Academy. Bla, bla, bla. The usual flowery prose, promises of a unique education, blah, blah, blah. Esoteric teachings, blah, blah. It was all the same. But then... Free entry. Free. That was the hook. Nothing was free these days, at least not for most people. Silas, however, had mastered the art of the five-finger discount, acquiring anything and everything he desired without paying a copper. Free food. A safe place to crash. People to torment. And, perhaps – a tiny, almost nonexistent voice whispered in the back of his mind – maybe it would even make his mother proud.

Sighing, he shoved the paper back into his pocket, crumpling it once more. He had made up his mind to attend a week ago when he had first received the invitation. The Academy offered exactly what he needed: a roof over his head, food in his belly, and an environment ripe to exploit. Still, one could always rethink one's decisions. There was always something newer and better to think about. Whatever. With a shrug, he curled up on the rooftop, wrapping the cloak around him like a blanket, the cold concrete a less-than-ideal mattress. He stared at the starless sky, his thoughts drifting aimlessly, until he finally succumbed to exhaustion. He managed to fall asleep, knowing he would likely wake again in a few hours. He always did. Sleep was just a temporary escape from the harsh reality of his life, a fleeting respite before the darkness inevitably returned. And his days would only get darker.

The walk to the Academy, if one could call leaping across rooftops a walk, had been mercifully brief. Silas had woken before dawn, his body instinctively aware of the dangers that lurked in the shadows of cities underbelly. He had begun his journey towards Hermes Powder Academy almost immediately, preferring the anonymity of the pre-dawn hours.
Now, he was perched high above, one of the highest branches of an ancient oak tree near the school gates his temporary lookout post. He sat, silent and perfectly still, a predator surveying his territory The branches creaked softly beneath his weight, the dawn chorus a faint soundtrack to his internal deliberations. His sharp, grey eyes, narrowed in concentration, were focused on two young women engaged in conversation near the school entrance.

Silas observed them with unwavering attention, every movement, every gesture carefully noted and analyzed. The cogs of his mind were whirring, calculating the potential benefits and risks of entering the Academy. The internal debate raged within him: should he walk through those gates and embrace this new, uncertain path? Or should he turn tail and vanish into the maze of streets, returning to the only life he had ever known? He knew from his experiences so far that he would probably hurt someone soon.

A violent growl from his stomach decided the matter. A stolen hunk of stale bread could only satisfy a nineteen-year-old's desperate hunger for so long before base instincts took over. It was a reminder that even a creature as skilled at surviving as he was had basic needs.

Sighing inwardly, Silas abandoned his lofty perch. He climbed down from the tree with swift and practiced movements, his descent almost silent, landing on the ground with barely a whisper. His gloved hands instinctively found their way into his pockets, his fingers curling possessively around the familiar hilt of one of his many knives. He trusted himself more with his weapons.

Straightening his posture, he summoned an air of effortless confidence, the kind of effortless cool that some might call roguish. A charming smile, carefully rehearsed over years of manipulation, spread across his face, revealing a glimpse of perfect, white teeth. He approached the two young women, a wolf in a scholar's clothing.

"Ladies," he drawled, his voice low and laced with a calculated nonchalance. He intended his words to sound casual and disarming, to charm rather than intimidate. It was an act he played well. Just as he had intended.

"Sorry to interrupt your... conversation~" he purred, letting the last word linger with a hint of playful amusement. He waited, his eyes twinkling just so as he analysed their reactions and judged them perfectly. The game, always and forever, was on. Let the chaos begin.

Daria blushed furiously at the sight of the boy in front of her. How could she be feeling this way the first few seconds of meeting someone? Her grandmother always taught her to never fall in love at first sight, since it would destroy dear Daria in the long run. But who cared? There was literally the most handsome boy right in front of her that she's always seen. Of course, she did had fleeting crushes on her tutors from home, but none of them could compare to this boy.

"H-hello there.." Daria immediately put the collar of her blouse to her face to cover her blush. God, why was she so nervous all over again?

Ophelia pauses from where she was about to walk, hearing a new voice. Two people in one day, totally a recorded for her. She turns back around, seeing a boy now. She observes him carefully, the red tint on his face isn’t sunburn, it looked like the wind had blown to harshly against it, but there wasn’t much wind today, he must have been doing something strenuous, like running prehaps? She didn’t know, maybe it didn’t matter. “Well it’s alright…” she says lightly, her voice similar to that of golden honey, the accent of her origin ever present.

She notices Darias light blush, raising an eyebrow in confusion at it but saying nothing, looking back to the boy, “And you are…?”

Silas's steel-grey eyes snapped to the woman who had spoken, his attention instantly focused. An eyebrow, perfectly shaped and arched with a touch of mocking amusement, rose slightly, his practised grin never faltering. He allowed himself a moment to take in her features, his gaze lingering, assessing. A flicker of something – surprise perhaps – crossed his face as he noticed the faint blush that had risen on her cheeks. Interesting. A soft, rumbling laugh resonated in his chest, a controlled sound that hinted at both amusement and a subtle threat. His eyes, sharp and predatory, roamed over her figure with a blatant, unapologetic appraisal, devoid of any pretence. He allowed his tongue to slide briefly over his lower lip, a gesture calculated to disarm or unsettle, before finally speaking.
"Hello to you, too," he purred, his voice a low, silken melody designed to charm. He took a measured step closer, closing the distance between them ever so slightly, tilting his head just a fraction, a silent question poised. That was enough to let her know he was there. Dominance, he would take on her, but not yet.
"And what might your name be~?" he hummed, drawing out the question with a deliberate languor, his words expertly laced together with that practised confidence he had cultivated over years of carefully orchestrated deception. His smile widened, predatory, knowing, to give her an invitation or a threat. Either way, he was ready. "Silas," he hummed, without tearing his eyes away from the blushing girl.

"Uh... erm... Daria.. Daria Barker.." Daria said, trying to keep the stammer out of her voice. Silas seemed so dangerous, yet so captivating. And his proximity didn't make her attraction to him fade, no, it rather increased, the flush on her cheeks became more red, and then spreading to her neck, which couldn't be seen now thanks to the blouse covering it. She was practically trembling at this point!

Ophelia watches the interaction between the two with interest. She had never seen anything like this before. Did this man put a spell on Daria? He got close to her quickly, although her new friend didn’t exactly seem to mind it. Silas…huh, so that’s his name. Well, in any case, she studies their body language, simply watching to see how this plays out

Silas savored the subtle shift in Daria’s demeanor, watching her visibly squirm under his intense gaze. Good. That was familiar territory, the dynamic he was accustomed to, the predictable dance of unease and attraction. He thrived on setting people off balance, making them uncomfortable – it allowed him to maintain control, to keep them at arm's length. He would make everyone uncomfortable, and then they would leave. They always left, after all.

His eyes, momentarily flitting downward, took in the spreading flush that was blossoming across her neck and chest, a tell-tale sign of her inner turmoil. A hint of amusement, dark and knowing, flickered in his grey depths. The more flustered she got, the funnier he thought it was going to get.

"Daria~" he purred, stretching out each syllable of her name, his voice a silken caress. He tasted the word, experimenting with its texture, testing how it felt on his tongue, savouring the power it gave him. It was a pleasant name, evocative, almost… innocent. An odd contrast to the setting.

“A beautiful name, for a beautiful girl,” he hummed, his tone suggestive and playful. He held her gaze for only a heartbeat longer, burning his image into her mind before deliberately breaking eye contact, as if growing bored. The abrupt shift was designed to create further confusion and further imbalance; it always worked.

He abandoned her abruptly, a silent dismissal. With a languid stride, he moved past Daria and towards the other woman, his presence a vortex of raw energy and unsettling charisma. Without pause or apology, he continued through the wrought-iron school gates, his back to those he had left behind him.

"Well Daria and…" he paused at the threshold, turning his head just enough to glance back over his shoulder at the other woman, his expression a carefully crafted mask of casual curiosity. He raised an eyebrow, silently inquiring her name with a look that left no room for refusal. The game was already changing, and he knew he had left the other girl wanting more.

Daria wondered why she felt... jealous after Silas moved on to Ophelia. Still, she only met Silas for a couple of seconds and yet she's feeling this way towards him.

“Ophelia.” She says simply, holding out a hand. There was something about this guy, how he talked, how he interacted with Daria, something was off about him. Ophelia thought of it as like a game. A game her father taught her. Dissect and figure people out. She would figure out everything about these two before they could blink, she is determined to do so.

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As Daria, Silas and Ophelia, and several other students meeted and greeted each other, the sound of the bell, indicating the start of class crept them out of their friendly stupors. They moved on with their classes, the complexities of math, the bubbling confusion of science, the intricate push and pull of literature and the ever-abstract build of art made the day much longer than necessary. At the end, every student was put in their own dorm. Will Daria and Silas fall in love? Will Ophelia find new friends in these two? Only to find out in the next day...