The Cursed Extra-Chapter 110: [2.58] A Complete Guide to the Academy’s Social Hierarchy (Spoiler: We’re at the Bottom)
"Nothing reminds you of your place in the world quite like assigned seating."
***
The main assembly hall was designed to intimidate. That much was obvious from the moment you walked through those massive iron-banded doors.
Soaring stone columns rose toward a vaulted ceiling that seemed to stretch into infinity. They felt less like architectural support and more like silent sentinels standing eternal judgment over the students scurrying about below.
Each pillar bore carved reliefs of ancient battles. Heroes frozen mid-strike against monsters that had been dust for centuries. The craftsmanship was exquisite.
The message was clear.
You are small. You are temporary. Act accordingly.
At the far end stood a raised platform of dark granite where faculty members gathered in their formal regalia. Their faces impassive as the marble statues lining the walls behind them.
They arranged themselves in a hierarchy so rigid it might as well have been carved in stone alongside those ancient battle scenes. Department heads occupied the seats closest to the Headmaster’s empty throne. A massive chair of black oak and silver inlay that seemed to absorb rather than reflect light.
Lesser instructors stood at attention behind them. Arranged by seniority and department in rows so straight they could have been ruled with a measuring stick.
The entire setup resembled nothing so much as a court where judgments would soon be passed.
With none of us having any say in the verdict.
I shuffled to the back corner with the rest of the academy’s afterthoughts.
House Onyx.
Our designated section felt appropriately symbolic. Tucked away in the shadows where the light from those grand windows barely reached.
From our vantage point, the social hierarchy was on full display. Laid out before us like a map of our collective inadequacy.
Let me give you the tour.
House Aurum, naturally, held the front. They occupied the prime real estate directly before the platform. A cluster of golden peacocks preening around their undisputed leader.
Leo von Valerius sat at the center of his admirers like the sun around which lesser planets orbited. His golden hair caught every stray beam of light as if the universe itself conspired to make him look heroic.
Protagonist privilege. It’s a real thing.
To the east, the silver-trimmed uniforms of House Argent formed a testament to pristine ambition. They sat in smaller clusters than Aurum. Each group leaned toward one another in hushed conversation.
Secrets being shared. Alliances being formed. Information being traded like currency.
Even now, even in a simple assembly, they were working. Scheming. Positioning themselves for advantages not yet apparent to the rest of us.
Their eyes never stopped moving. Never stopped assessing.
The information brokers. Dangerous because they deal in the only currency that never loses value: what other people don’t want known.
The western section was a void of burgundy, where House Vermillion’s students absorbed light and revealed nothing. They sat in perfect stillness. Each student a statue of aristocratic composure.
They didn’t speak. They observed.
Vultures waiting for the rest of us to fall. Patient in the knowledge that eventually, we all would. Their ancient lineages and inherited power meant they could afford to wait.
Time was always on the side of those who had enough of it.
The old money. The real power. The ones who know that today’s drama is just noise in the grand scheme of their centuries-long games.
And then there was us.
House Onyx.
The dregs. The leftovers. The politically inconvenient.
Our charcoal-grey uniforms looked shabby compared to the other houses. The fabric duller. The cut less flattering. Whether this was intentional or simply the result of reduced funding, the effect was the same.
We looked like what we were.
The losers’ bracket. Welcome aboard.
Marcus Vellum sat hunched over a notebook two rows ahead of me. His quill scratched frantically across the pages as if taking enough notes could somehow change his circumstances. He muttered to himself as he wrote. Lips moving in silent recitation of facts that wouldn’t save him when the time came.
Thomlin Ashworth sat beside Marcus. Stared at his hands with the empty gaze of a man who had already accepted defeat.
His shoulders slumped in resignation. His uniform hung loose on a frame that seemed to have shrunk since the semester began. He had been a promising student once, or so the whispers said. Before his father’s scandal. Before his family’s fall from grace.
Now he was just another body filling space in the corner of the hall nobody wanted to occupy.
Like me. Except I’m faking it and he’s not.
Even Mira Blackthorn, usually defiant in her cynicism and quick with a cutting remark, looked smaller than usual. She sat with her arms crossed over her chest. Her dark hair fell like a curtain to hide her face from the rest of the room.
The bravado she typically wore like armor had cracked somewhere in the past few days.
None of us mentioned it. We all had our own cracks to hide.
Fen sat three seats away from me. Her copper-red hair caught the light like burnished metal. Even seated, she radiated a coiled energy that made the students on either side of her lean subtly away.
They gave her an invisible buffer zone of personal space that had nothing to do with politeness.
Her golden eyes swept the room with predatory intensity. Cataloged threats and weaknesses among the other houses with the focus of a hunter assessing potential prey. Her wolf ears twitched at every sound. Rotated independently to track conversations too quiet for human hearing.
When her gaze landed on a particularly arrogant Aurum student who was laughing too loudly at his own joke, her lips pulled back slightly.
The expression revealed the sharp canine teeth that marked her wolf-kin heritage. Gleaming white and decidedly non-human.
A low growl rumbled in her chest. Deep enough that I felt it more than heard it. The tip of her tail twitched against the stone floor. A single, sharp beat of irritation.
She was a drawn bowstring. Any target would do.
"Look at them," she muttered. Loud enough for nearby students to hear and flinch. "Preening peacocks, the lot of them. Acting like they’ve already won whatever test they’re about to throw at us."
Her tail lashed again. Twice this time.
"I’d like to see how pretty they look with their faces in the dirt."
Nobody responded. Nobody dared.
Agreeing might encourage her. Disagreeing might redirect her aggression. Silence was the safest option when dealing with Fen Grimhowl.
Everyone in House Onyx had learned that lesson quickly.
Mental note: figure out how to recruit the murder wolf without getting my throat torn out.
Seraphina Valois sat two rows ahead of me. Her silver hair braided with the same methodical care she applied to everything else. Not a single strand out of place.
She held a small leather journal in her lap. The same journal she always carried. Its pages filled with observations and diagnoses in handwriting too small for anyone else to read.
But her grey eyes weren’t focused on the pages.
Instead, she watched the faculty platform with the intense focus of someone trying to solve a complex equation. Her brow furrowed slightly. Lips pressed together in concentration.
Occasionally, her gaze would drift toward me.
Lingering just long enough to make my skin crawl before returning to the platform.
Whatever she saw during her diagnostic examination of my injuries, it left her with questions she clearly wants answered.
I can almost see the analytical gears turning behind those winter-sky eyes. Sorting through observations that don’t quite fit the pattern she expects.
That’s going to be a problem.
Not immediately.
But eventually.
I slouched further in my seat. Made myself smaller. Let my eyes go unfocused in the way of someone who had given up on paying attention to anything important.
Just another pathetic Onyx student. Nothing to see here.
The list of people who see too much keeps growing.
Rhys. De Clare. Now Seraphina.
At this rate, I’m going to need a much better performance.
Or a much faster exit strategy.
