Chapter 2 Aslan
Aslan
Day two, and I woke up early.
James was already gone again. His side of the room looked untouched—pristine—in clear contrast to mine. Not that I’m a pig or anything, but come on. I’m a guy….
“Damn,” I muttered, rubbing my eyes. “Does he sleep?”
I smiled to myself as I got dressed, slower this time. The trousers and shirt had come from different thrift stores, chosen to match the academy colors as closely as possible. The blazer, on the other hand, was real—neat, heavy, stitched with the Crownwell emblem—and I swear it made me look like freaking Harry Potter…
Then I headed out toward breakfast, with my stomach already tight in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.
That was when it started.
The Silver Star effect.
In the hallways, people didn’t exactly shove me or spit insults. They did something worse. They looked away. Conversations stopped mid-sentence when I passed. A couple of kids I nodded to yesterday suddenly found the floor fascinating.
“Good morning,” I said to a girl by the stairs.
She didn’t even blink.
Hostile much?
Shit.
By the time I reached the cafeteria, the message was loud and clear. I grabbed a tray and scanned the room for an open seat, finally sliding into a half-empty table near the windows.
I’d barely set my bag down when a voice cut in.
“Well, if it isn’t the boy from The Lion King.”
I looked up.
Evan. The Chinese guy from yesterday—one of the Constellation.
“Narnia,” I muttered under my breath. “You idiot.”
He slammed his hand on the table.
The two kids sitting there stood up immediately and moved away like the chairs had caught fire.
“What did you say?” Evan asked, leaning closer.
I met his eyes before my brain could stop my mouth. “There was no Aslan in The Lion King. The name’s from The Chronicles of Narnia.”
The silence that followed was instant and heavy.
I flinched internally.
I cannot believe I just said that to this asshole.
Then laughter broke out around us.
Evan snorted. “Oh my God, I don’t give a shit. What are your parents—hippie morons?”
More laughter. More elites sliding into the seats around me, claiming the table like it had always been theirs.
I exhaled slowly, grabbed my tray, and stood. “Table’s all yours.”
No one stopped laughing.
I scanned the room again, spotting James near the far wall. Relief hit—quick and stupid. I headed his way, tray in hand.
He looked up. Then he stood and walked away.
Just like that.
I froze for half a second, staring at the empty chair he’d left behind.
Seriously?
You’ve got to be kidding me. I felt something twist sharply in my chest. I swallowed it down hard.
I stood up for you yesterday.
I stood up for you.
“To hell with you all,” I muttered, already turning away.
By the time I reached my first class, I was already wound tight.
I raised my hand twice. Maybe three times. Each time, the professor’s eyes slid past me like I wasn’t there. When I finally spoke up anyway—something about the reading, a point I knew was solid—the room responded with a collective, practiced silence.
No groans. No comments.
Nothing.
It was like I’d spoken in a language no one recognized.
Fine. Whatever.
I shoved my hands into my pockets and bolted for History the second the bell rang, head down, moving fast. That was when I saw it.
My locker.
The door hung crooked, metal bent outward like it had been forced open with pure spite. The inside looked like a small explosion had gone off—books torn, pages ripped out, notes shredded and scattered across the floor.
My breath caught.
I dropped to my knees without thinking, hands shaking as I sifted through the mess. Bent covers. Broken spines. Then I saw it.
The photo.
It had been taped to the inside of the locker door, hidden unless you knew it was there. My dad, holding me as a baby. His smile wide and a little crooked, like he wasn’t sure how he’d managed to make something that small and alive.
The only thing I had left of him, and now it was torn straight down the middle.
Something inside me cracked.
I stared at it, vision blurring, throat tight like it was closing in on itself. I pressed my palm to my chest, breathing shallow, then reached into my backpack with numb fingers. Pill. Water. Swallow.
In. Out.
Don’t lose it.
Not here.
I scooped up what I could—books, paper, the ruined photo—and stumbled into Art History late, arms full and shaking.
“Who the hell did this?” I shouted.
The room went dead quiet.
Dr. Vance looked up sharply from the podium. “Aslan,” he said calmly. “Please—sit down.”
I didn’t move. “Someone destroyed my locker. Who did it?”
A pause.
Dr. Vance turned to the class. “Did anyone see anything?”
Silence.
Heavy. Intentional.
I scanned the room. The Constellation sat together, relaxed, amused. One of them smirked. Another leaned back like this was all just part of the day’s entertainment.
“Okay,” Dr. Vance said carefully. “We’ll report it after class. Please take your seat.”
My hands clenched around the broken books. “So that’s it? Nobody knows anything?”
No one looked at me.
“Sit down, Aslan,” he repeated, firmer now.
I did. Because what choice did I have?
After class, Dr. Vance stopped me in the hallway. His voice dropped, gentle but tired. “You’re talented. I don’t want to see you hurt yourself here.”
I laughed once, sharp and humorless.
“The Constellation has ruled Crownwell for a long time,” he continued. “If you don’t back down—if you don’t apologize—they’ll make things impossible. They’ll force you to withdraw.”
Apologize.
For existing.
I nodded, because that was apparently my new default response.
Angry. Hurt. Hollowed out.
I took a few deep breaths, just like I’d learned. Slow. Controlled. I picked up my broken textbook and headed toward my next class.
I’d survived worse.
But Crownwell was clearly determined to make sure I remembered exactly where I stood.
I got lost on the way to my next class. Again.
Which, honestly, felt intentional on the universe’s part.
Crownwell’s hallways twisted and doubled back on themselves like they were designed to weed people out, and after the day I’d had, my patience was already hanging by a thread. I stopped short at a corner, staring at two identical corridors and silently daring either one of them to make sense.
“Looking for something?”
I turned to see a dark-haired guy leaning casually against the wall, hands in his pockets, smile warm and easy. Italian accent. Polished. Effortless. One of them—I recognized him from the cafeteria. Joseph.
“Yeah,” I said. “History.”
“Oh—wrong way,” he said quickly, pointing down the left corridor. “Happens to everyone. And, uh… sorry about your locker. That was rough.”
Rough.
Sure.
“Thanks,” I said, already moving.
I made it to the classroom just as the bell was about to ring, breath shallow, nerves humming. Through the narrow window in the door, I could see the students inside already seated, their faces turned toward the entrance with a mix of anticipation and something uglier.
Waiting.
James sat near the doorway. When our eyes met, his expression tightened—reluctant, pained, like he wanted to say something and didn’t know how.
I hesitated.
That was when I felt it. A presence behind me.
I glanced back and saw the fourth Constellation.
Dark, long, wavy hair falling loose around his shoulders. Aitor—I knew the name now. One of them. He stood a few steps behind me, basketball tucked under one arm, posture relaxed, expression anything but.
Our eyes met.
A tightness crossed his face—unease, maybe. Regret. Like he hated what was about to happen.
Then he moved. The ball left his hand and slammed into the door with brutal force. The door flew open, the bucket tipped, and water crashed down, splashing across the floor as laughter erupted inside the classroom.
I stood there, heart pounding, staring at the mess.
Aitor walked past me without a word, stepping over the spill and into the room like nothing had happened. As he passed, our eyes crossed again—brief, electric, confusing… and so different from Garrett’s cold indifference. Different in a way I couldn’t quite place yet.
I exhaled slowly and stepped into the room.
A year of this?
Man.
This was gonna be fun.