The last thing Ivana Valerian expected from the city that killed her family was an invitation back.
Valerian Academy rose from Manhattan's heart like a monument carved out of ambition, old money, and darker things no one spoke about out loud. Iron gates crowned with black lions. Gothic towers kissing the skyline. Every inch of the campus whispered:
You don't belong here unless your name is on a vault or a body count.
She stood outside the gates, motionless, as students glided past her in cashmere and cruelty.
A black duffel hung from her shoulder. Her hoodie was pulled tight. Her name, at least the one she used, was stitched into her student file with barely a footnote.
Zara Grey.
Nobody. Invisible. Unimportant.
But the blood in her veins was a legacy they'd tried to erase.
Ivana Valerian.
She raised her eyes to the school's golden crest, a lion devouring a serpent and beneath it, the words etched into stone:
Fortis In Tenebris.
Strength in Darkness.
Her grip on the strap tightened. Her past had led her here. Her vengeance would keep her here.
"Let's see who bleeds first," she whispered, and stepped inside.
The sun had barely set when she reached her dorm.
The hallways were silent, polished, clinical, like even the walls were watching.
Inside, her roommate was already unpacked and practically glowing with curated confidence.
Amara Cross looked like the cover of a fashion magazine and carried herself like her family owned the school and maybe they did.
She glanced up from her phone.
"You must be the scholarship girl."
There was no venom in her tone. Just a bored kind of curiosity. Like watching a storm roll in from behind glass.
Ivana dropped her bag without comment.
"Zara. Zara Grey."
Amara raised a single, arched brow. "Right. Well, good luck surviving orientation week."
She crossed the room, offered a hand, then thought better of it and tossed her a neatly folded Valerian Academy hoodie.
"Trust me. Blend in where you can. It gives you time to figure out who's sharpening their knives."
Ivana gave her a tight-lipped smile. It never touched her eyes.
Blend in? Not a chance.
But pretending to try? That was part of the game.
The next morning came fast. Her schedule was a mess — room numbers missing, system logins failing, even her ID scanning wrong at the lecture halls.
She navigated the chaos in silence, boots echoing through empty corridors until she found herself standing in the East Wing — the oldest, coldest, most forgotten part of the school.
Her first class.
Inside, a towering lecture hall breathed with history. Carved archways. Dust-muted chandeliers. The kind of room where power was passed down, not taught.
At the front stood Professor Madeleine Voss, elegance dressed in crimson. Her voice wrapped around every student like a silk noose.
She spoke of power structures, loyalty, betrayal and something that didn't sound theoretical at all.
Halfway through, her gaze swept the room and landed on Ivana like a blade unsheathed.
"Some names disappear over time," she said softly.
"Others… are buried alive. But the ones written in blood?"
"They never die. They wait."
The class was still.
Ivana didn't blink.
And Professor Voss, she smiled, just slightly, as if she'd confirmed something.
By the time the lecture ended, Ivana's nerves buzzed beneath her skin like static.
Her laptop charger had shorted out. Her replacement ID still didn't work. She'd missed lunch, a student worker called her "ghost girl," and someone had left a white rose on her dorm pillow without a note.
This place wasn't a school. It was a trap wearing a crown.
She cut across the South Hall, half in her head, half on autopilot and hit something hard.
No — someone.
Her body jolted back, bracing for apology, but none came.
She looked up.
He didn't move.
Didn't apologize.
Black leather. Cold grey eyes. Tattoo climbing his throat like a warning.
Leo Moretti.
Every girl on campus whispered about him like a cautionary tale with perfect cheekbones. Son of one of the oldest mafia families still walking the line between myth and murder.
Ivana stepped back. But only a little.
"Watch it," he said, voice cool, quiet, dangerous.
She blinked. "You bumped into me."
He tilted his head like he was trying to remember if he'd seen her before. Or if he needed to remember at all.
"Then next time…"
"Don't walk into fire."
He turned and walked away without waiting for a response.
Ivana stood still. Her pulse didn't.
That night, the city outside the windows breathed neon.
Amara was already asleep, silk mask over her eyes. The room buzzed faintly with the sound of elite comfort.
Ivana lay awake.
Beneath her pillow, she'd found another white rose.
Another message, this time not hidden.
A phone buzzed on her nightstand.
NO CALLER ID
You're not just a Valerian.
You're the last one.
And they know.
– G.
She didn't respond.
She didn't sleep either.
Somewhere under Valerian Academy, something ancient was shifting.