Page 113 of The Bleak Beginning

In the chaos, I lose track of who’s who. We’re just a tangle of limbs and desperation. I feel someone’s elbow connect with my jaw, sending a burst of pain through my skull. Stars dance in my vision, but I cling to consciousness and to my flag. With a surge of adrenaline, I push off from the bottom of the fountain, using the momentum to break free from the chaos.

I stumble out of the water, soaked and shivering, but triumphant. One flag secured. I don’t waste time looking back to see who got the other two. Instead, I scan the courtyard for my next target.

The night air is alive with shouts and the sound of running feet. In the distance, I see flashes of movement as other students clash over flags. It’s like a war zone, with alliances forming and breaking in seconds.

My thoughts spiral as I run. One flag isn’t enough. I need more if I want to stay in the running. But where?

A flicker of movement catches my eye. Another student is scooting down the smooth glass of the dining hall, a flag clutched between her teeth. I have no idea how they got up there, but without thinking, I sprint to the base of the building. My pulse stutters as I watch the climber descend, their movements quick and practiced. I know I can’t match their skill, but maybe I can catch them off guard when they reach the ground.

I press myself against the cool glass, waiting. The climber is only a few feet above me now. I can hear their labored breathing, see the strain in their arms as they cling to nearly invisible handholds. The climber is almost at ground level when they spot me. Their eyes widen in panic, and they lose their grip, tumbling the last few feet.

I seize my chance, diving for the flag as it falls from their mouth. We collide in a tangle of limbs, both grabbing for the precious scrap of fabric. I feel it brush my fingertips, but the other student is quicker, snatching it and rolling away before springing to her feet with catlike grace.

I’m slower to rise, my earlier injuries making themselves known again. The other student—a lithe girl with close-cropped hair—hesitates for just a moment, her eyes darting between me and the flag in her hand. I can see the calculation in her gaze, weighing whether I’m worth helping up or if she should run. Her eyes flick from the flag in her hand to the one I’m still clutching. For a split second, I think she might try to take mine too.

But then she turns and sprints away, disappearing into the shadows between buildings. I let out a shaky breath, realizing how close I came to losing everything. My dress is soaked, my body aches, and I only have one flag to show for it.

Who was actually having fun with this?

I force myself to focus, pushing aside the pain and exhaustion, remembering I was only doing this because the Legacies have an advantage. My pride outweighing my sense of shame. There have to be more flags out there, hidden in less obvious places. The fountain and the dining hall were too exposed, too obvious. Where would I hide a flag if I wanted it to be a real challenge?

As I ponder this, a muffled boom echoes across the campus, followed by a flash of light from the direction of the science building. I instinctively duck, scanning the area for threats. What was that? An explosion? Part of the game, or something gone horribly wrong?

I hesitate for a moment, torn between investigating or finding a safer spot to regroup. Curiosity wins out, and I find myself jogging toward the science building, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. As I get closer, I can smell something acrid in the air, like burning chemicals.

Rounding the corner, I see a small crowd gathered outside the building’s entrance. Smoke is billowing from a shattered window, and I can hear shouting from inside. A few students are coughing, their faces streaked with soot.

“What happened?” I ask, approaching a girl I vaguely recognize from Atlas’s Oceanic Reflection class.

She turns to me, her eyes wide with a mix of excitement and fear. “Someone set off some kind of chemical reaction in one of the labs,” she whispers. “I think they were trying to create a diversion to get a flag.”

I scan the crowd, looking for any sign of turmoil. Who could have done this? It seems extreme, even for this twisted game.

Suddenly, two figures burst out of the building’s front doors, coughing and waving away smoke. Well, Sylvester is coughing and waving, Bishop just moves with purpose. Astute in the same way he is with any other calculation.

I notice Sylvester has at least eight flags tied around his wrist, and Bishop has so many that one bicep is covered with them and he’s starting on the other. How many does that make? At least a dozen, maybe more. Probably more.

He’s ditched the suit jacket he had on earlier, his dark button-down rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned forearms corded with muscle. His hair is disheveled, a few strands falling across his forehead, and there’s a smudge of soot on his cheek. Despite the chaos, he looks exhilarated, his eyes bright, and utterly in control.

As if sensing my stare, Bishop’s eyes lock onto mine. A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face, and I know he’s noticed the single flag I’m clutching. Sylvester follows Bishop’s line of sight and spots me too.

I freeze, caught between fight or flight instincts. Bishop’s intense gaze holds me in place, the same as it does every other time, like a rabbit hypnotized by a wolf. Sylvester’s expressionshifts from surprise to determination, and I know I need to move.

Without thinking, I turn and sprint away from the science building. I hear shouts all around me from other students, but I don’t look back. I just run, dodging between buildings and leaping over low hedges, desperate to put distance between myself and the Legacies.

No one had bothered asking for my opinion on the unfairness of the dress code—guys in pants, girls in dresses and heels. But if I argued, I’d probably just get some bullshit lecture about adapting, like what Bishop had said to me on the balcony earlier.

My lungs burn as I push myself harder, the single flag clutched tightly in my fist. I refuse to let anyone catch me. No one can take this one small victory from me.

As I round another corner, I collide hard with someone, nearly knocking us both to the ground. I look up, ready to apologize and bolt, but the words die in my throat.

Alfie?

His mask is gone, revealing a freckled face flushed red with exertion. His eyes widen in recognition, then narrow as he takes in my disheveled state and the single flag in my white-knuckled grip. My gaze shifts to his jacket pocket, where a red flag is carelessly stuffed inside. He only has one flag, like me.

For a moment, we both freeze, unsure whether to fight or flee. The sounds of pursuit echo in the distance, reminding us of the danger at our heels. Alfie’s eyes dart between my face and the flag, his expression a mix of calculation and indecision.

“Truce?” I blurt out, surprising even myself. “We both only have one. We could help each other.” Was I actually saying those words out loud? To Alfie, of all people?

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