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TWELVE

FREYA

SEPTEMBER 21, 2017

I barely slept last night.

There was this strange dream that crept into the corners of my mind. A snake was eating a crow, their dark bodies writhing in the night, and my stalker was behind them, his face hidden behind a gas mask. I was running, but I wasn’t running from him. I was running toward him.

It wasn’t a dream. A nightmare.

He hadn’t reached out in days. For a moment, I thought he’d finally gotten bored and let me go. But deep down, beneath the relief, I missed the way he made me feel alive.

I was losing myself. And in all this chaos, I didn’t have anything tangible to hold onto. Because the reality was that my grandmother hadn’t spoken with me since the night I told her that I was going to Blackthorn. She left for Paisley the next morning, and before she left, she called Dean so that he would take care of me.

Maybe that’s why my stalker had disappeared. Maybe Dean had scared him off.

I slept through the night while my suitcase, overcrowded and haphazardly packed, lay open in the middle of the room; half-folded clothes scattered in chaotic readiness.

By the time morning came, exhaustion thumped against my skull, but I managed to get up, moving into the center of my dark room. I looked at the suitcase, looking at its chaos, and I picked up a long-sleeved, little black dress and a pair of knee-high, black socks.

I hesitated to close the suitcase, as if something was telling me not to go, but I had to, and I took the stuffed fox in my hands and gently pushed it inside.

I took off the shirt that was hanging on me and serving as pajamas and threw it over the chair by the mirror. The dress slid over my skin, the fabric against my body. I buttoned it just enough so I could squat down and pull up my stockings, and the hem of the dress hung just above my lace tops. The space between the fabric of the dress and my knees was bare, a bit of exposure.

I stepped into my platform loafers. I picked up a brush. I ran it through the strands of my hair until they settled into waves. Then, with steady fingers, I braided the two loose braids that framed my face.

I changed.

Something in me changed.

The mirror reflected who I wanted to be. But beneath the black fabric and lace, I was still the same insecure girl who carried Foxy Fox wherever she went. A girl who longed for something more.

A girl who knew what it meant to crave pain just to feel alive.

To drown and resurface, gasping, only to make another scar to remind herself that breathing was okay.

I bit my lower lip, turning away from my reflection. My hat hung on the closet hook. I plucked it down, setting it atop my head, then draped a plaid blazer over my shoulders.

I was ready.

I was ready for Blackthorn.

The clock struck eight. It was time to leave these four walls behind.

I gripped the handle of the suitcase tighter, rolling it toward the door. My heart ached, the ache I refused to acknowledge deep inside. I had never been able to say goodbye to my grandmother. But sometimes, silence was easier.

The music box sat on the table, untouched. I left it there, hoping that maybe—just maybe—he would find answers inside.

Footsteps creaked on the stairs, and Dean was in the middle, waiting. He wasn’t that bad, not really, but I told myself that his kindness was just a relief—a relief that I was leaving.

“Morning,” he said, smiling. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” I nodded, expressionless.

He took the suitcase from my hand and carried it downstairs. The door was already open. The car was already running. His driver was waiting in the front seat, motionless.

The air outside was fresh, suffused with the smell of wet pavement. I bit my lip, my fingers curled into my palms. My nails dug into my skin.

What if I hated it there?

But I wouldn’t know unless I tried.

Dean slid into the car beside me. The door shut with a quiet click, and the car eased forward, carrying me away from everything I knew.

“Still no word from my mom?” I asked, eyes fixed on my hands.

“No.” His voice held something—disappointment, maybe.

Silence stretched between us. Then, hesitantly, I asked, “Did she go to Blackthorn, too?”

Dean exhaled, watching the world blur past the window. “No. We both went to King’s University in London.”

“Oh.” I frowned. “I didn’t know you knew each other before.”

His chuckle was quiet, almost nervous. “Yeah. We were best friends.”

I managed a small smile. Even if I hated Mom for leaving me, I missed her.

Dean turned to me, studying my face. “Your dad went to Blackthorn, but I never met him.”

“You didn’t miss anything,” I murmured. The landscape outside melted into streaks of color, like paint flowing down a canvas. Blurred lines. That was all I was leaving behind.

Learning how to live without anyone around felt like being a ghost in a house that was never mine.

I had been eight when Mom took me away. I never saw Dad again. We spent a year with Grandma, then moved to London, where she met Marco, her second husband, who wasn’t much different from my father. And that year, those memories, were the ones I wished I could erase.

Mom always chose everyone else first. Even now, when she was nowhere to be found. Leaving was easier for her, staying had never been an option for me.

I wiped my sleeve across my cheek, swallowing the lump in my throat.

Learning how to leave when no one ever asked me to stay felt like proof that I was never meant to belong in the first place.

I had to find a place where I would belong. Somewhere, no one would judge my scars. Somewhere, I wouldn’t have to hide behind closet doors. A place where I could live without being afraid of my mistakes. Because I never had the chance before.

The car slowed, stopping in front of the train station, only about twenty minutes from Grandma’s house, but it felt like another world.

Dean got out first. The driver was already unloading my suitcase.

For a moment, Dean hesitated. Stood there awkwardly, as if he might hug me. But he didn’t.

I used to resent him for trying to be the father I never had. Told myself I didn’t need one. But now… maybe he did care. Maybe I was wrong all along.

I stepped closer, wrapping my arms around him, my fingers curled into his jacket as I pressed my face to his chest, seeking warmth, seeking something I wasn’t sure I needed.

“Thank you, Dean,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. Then, before the moment could drag on too long, I pulled away.

He smiled at me, slowly and lightly. “You’re welcome, princess.”

The tenderness sent a flash of warmth through me, but I swallowed it down. I turned, grabbed the suitcase from the driver, its weight pulling me down as I took a steady breath.

“See you, Dean.”

He didn’t reply—just lifted a hand in a small wave before slipping into the car. No final words. No drawn-out goodbyes. Just silence as the door shut and the engine turned to life.

I forced my feet forward, stepping into the station.

Inside, the world blurred into movement. A sea of people rushed past—suitcases dragging, voices merging into a tense hum. The sheer size made my pulse quicken.

Focus, Freya.

I scanned the area, looking for something— anything —that might point me toward Blackthorn. The only desk in sight belonged to the ticket office. No signs. No staff waiting to assist lost travelers. With no other choice, I crossed.

The woman behind the desk barely looked up. “Yes?” she asked, her fingers tapping rapidly on the keyboard.

“I need a train to Blackthorn Academy,” I said, shifting my weight onto the wood of the counter, feeling the faint smell of paper and ink settling around me.

“Name?”

“Freya Sinclaire.”

That got her attention.

She stood there speechless, walked over to a nearby cabinet, and opened a drawer, taking out a rustling piece of paper. Then she returned, placing a black envelope in front of me so calmly that my stomach clenched. My name— Freya Sinclaire —was stamped in gold on the surface, making the letters glitter under the station’s fluorescent lights.

“The Blackthorn train is at platform 29. It leaves at exactly 9 a.m., so don’t wander. Inside that envelope is your ticket, which has your name and seat assignment,” she explained, her tone clipped, rehearsed.

My fingers brushed over the envelope before picking it up. “Okay. Thank you.”

As I turned to leave, I hesitated.

“Go to the end of the station,” she added, as if sensing my uncertainty. “Turn left. Platforms 25 through 30 are down that way.”

I exhaled, offering a small, grateful smile. “Oh! Thanks.”

I was moving again. My rolling suitcase behind me, I pushed through the crowd. The environment around me pulsed with chaos as voices fought. The children’s laughter was abruptly silenced by the staccato clatter of heels on the tiles. The unknown created a fear in my heart that I didn’t know existed.

Then, I saw a girl up ahead, blonde hair catching the light of a station, moving forward, knowing where to go.

In her hand, she clutched a black envelope identical to mine.

Something inside me stirred. And when she turned right, I didn’t think—I just followed.

When I saw the number 29 on the sign hanging from the iron beam, I quickened my pace. My suitcase clanked behind me as I dodged the rushing passengers, my breath quickening with each step. Then, finally—I saw it.

A black train with gold letters, Blackthorn Academy of Verity and Vision, elegantly inscribed against its side.

I looked at the clock— 8:45 . Just in time.

My fingers impatiently fumbled with the envelope, and when I opened it, inside was a gold ticket with my name embossed on it.

Freya Sinclaire Cabin Number 4, Seat 23

I took a deep breath, holding the ticket firmly, and walked towards the entrance of the train.

As I came in, the atmosphere changed. The smell of polished wood and faint scents of old books surrounded me. The corridors were long, lined with rows of compartment numbers, each with groups of already occupied seats. I made my way through the train, glancing at the little plaques above each compartment door.

Then I found it.

Cabin 4.

Inside, there were three students sitting in a compartment facing one another, two girls and a boy. The dark brown leather seats were worn, and neatly stacked above them were the suitcases, resting on sturdy shelves. I entered and tried to lift my own suitcase, but its weight nearly overbalanced me.

I was about to humiliate myself further when the boy stood up with ease, setting it in place.

“I’m Oscar,” he said, wiping his hands against his thighs before resuming his seat. His dark blond hair was slicked back, save for one rebellious piece that curled forward onto his forehead. Blue eyes twinkled, his lips curving in a smile—just enough to make his motives suspicious.

“Freya,” I said, smiling back. “Thanks.”

Across from me, a girl with blonde hair rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck.

I sat down in my assigned seat next to a girl who was completely engrossed in her phone, her fingers tapping away at some game. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she was wearing a black coat with loafers eerily similar to mine. I couldn’t help but smile a little.

Maybe we would get along.

“So, what’s your deal, ginger ?“ the blonde girl suddenly asked. “Blackthorn doesn’t just hand out golden tickets.”

I met her gaze, refusing to shrink under it. “I don’t know.”

She scoffed, folding her arms. “Please. My uncle is the Dean of Blackthorn Academy,” she said, lifting her chin as if that detail should impress me. “So I know you must have some kind of connection.”

“Leave her alone, Ava,” my seatmate muttered without looking up from her game.

Ava’s head snapped toward her so fast I almost expected whiplash. “What did you just say?”

Before she could move, Oscar was already standing, sliding smoothly between them.

“Ladies, ladies,” he said, lifting his hands in mock surrender, “let’s not start throwing punches before we even leave the station, yeah?”

Ava huffed but didn’t sit.

He smirked, glancing between the two. “Hard to believe, but these two are sisters.” He tilted his head toward them. “This blonde menace is my girlfriend, Ava, and the quiet one trying to disappear into her phone is Stella.”

I raised an eyebrow but smiled. “Nice to meet you all. I’m Freya Sinclaire.”

Just as I said that, the cabin door slid open again, and a girl with bright pink hair bounced in.

“Hi, guys! I’m Blue!” she chirped, grinning as she plopped down between Oscar and Ava.

Ava snorted. “Seriously?”

Blue blinked innocently. “Yeah.”

I bit my lip, holding back a laugh.

This ride was going to be interesting. I just didn’t know how right I was.