Page 2 of The Bleak Beginning

“Actually, I prefer to be called Alex,” I say.

“Come. This way!” she insists. She quickly reaches out and grabs my arm, pulling me toward her as she checks the watch onher wrist with a worried look. My father and I are ushered up the stairs and into the building with forceful pushes from her hands.

We turn a corner and pass by what I presume is the lobby with a front desk and a small area for visitors to wait. The dark wooden counter is empty, which isn’t too unexpected, given that it’s the early evening. “Follow me,” the woman says cheerfully as she leads us through another doorway. Her office door stands open, welcoming yet professional. As we enter, I notice engraved letters spelling out “Dorothy Maxwell” in bold gold font on the opaque glass of the door. Above them are the words “Head Chancellor.” She closes the door behind us.

We take a seat, and my father yanks at my hood, tugging it down to my shoulders, and my long hair cascades down my back with it. I shoot him a glare just as the chancellor fans out the skirt of her dress and lowers herself into her own office chair across from us.

She smiles, pressing her hands together on her desk and I fight back a cringe. Her grin feels almost like squishing a piece of overly ripe fruit in your hand, with its mushy texture and overpowering sweetness.

“I think it goes without saying, but it is my pleasure to be the first to welcome you to Altair University,” the chancellor says with a smile. “And Magnus, we are thrilled to have the Prescott family return to Altair, once again.”

I notice my father’s shoulders tensing and his body shifting, as if he is taken aback by her words.

Chancellor Maxwell’s gaze cuts through the air like a sharp blade, meeting my own with unwavering intensity.

“Now,” she says, pausing for emphasis. Every word carries the same sharpness as her gaze. I believe she could match the intensity of the bird at the gate. “Before I bring you to your dorm room, I want to review the detailed regulations and standardsthat we expect all Altair students to follow.” Her tone is firm and authoritative, underscoring the seriousness of this institution.

My lips tighten. “Detailed?”

“Yes, Miss Prescott. Our standards here are quite high compared to other universities,” she says, her tone dripping with condescension as she emphasizes each word.

“Sure,” I say, leaning back in my chair.

My father’s disapproval hangs in the air like a musky warning, telling me to stop pushing back. But I ignore it and focus on the room instead.

Her office is dimly lit, with muted colors and shadows dancing on the walls. Furniture is scattered about, with a large window at one end of the room and a fireplace at the other. The walls are lined with books and paintings and a grandfather clock in the corner. The room exudes an air of prestige and importance, and this woman’s every word is delivered with unwavering authority. She believes she holds the power to change lives, and in her line of work, perhaps she does…but not mine. Her actions won’t have any impact on my life.

The chancellor throws a book onto the desk with a loud thud, bringing my eyes back to her. Her face is tight, and it’s clear that she wanted to get my attention. The book’s cover is faded and worn, the spine cracked and creased from years of use. Despite its condition, the book has clearly served her well over the years, holding up decently.

“You’ll have your own copy of our rules and regulations in your room if you ever need to reference them,” Chancellor Maxwell says. “But I thought it might be helpful to review a few tonight.”

I suppress a groan as Chancellor Maxwell opens the book, her manicured nails tracing down the table of contents. The soft scratching sound grates on my nerves.

“Let’s start with the dress code,” she says, flipping to a marked page. “All students must wear the official Altair uniform duringclass hours, assemblies, and extracurricular activities. For girls, this consists of a black blazer, white-and-black-striped collared shirt, skirt, and knee-high socks. Boys wear a similar ensemble with trousers instead of a skirt.”

I glance down at my ripped jeans and oversized hoodie, already feeling suffocated by the thought of such restrictive clothing.

“Outside of these listed requirements, students are expected to maintain a neat and modest appearance,” Maxwell continues, her eyes flickering to my outfit with clear disapproval. “No excessive piercings, visible tattoos, or unnatural hair colors.”

“No unnatural hair colors?” I interrupt, my hand instinctively going to the deep green streak in my ash-blonde hair. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Maxwell’s lips purse into a thin line. “I assure you, Miss Prescott, I am not in the habit of ‘kidding’ about our policies. The green will have to go before your classes begin.”

I can feel my father move beside me, but I press on. “And if I refuse?”

“Then you will not be permitted to attend classes,” Maxwell states, her voice as cold and unyielding as steel. “Compliance with our rules is not optional. It’s a requirement for enrollment.”

I lean forward, my eyes locked with hers. “So much for fostering individuality and self-expression, huh?”

Her lips purse, but she says nothing, instead continuing to drone on about the dress code.

“Makeup should be minimal and natural-looking. Jewelry is limited to small earrings, a watch, and a single necklace or bracelet.”

I resisted the urge to facepalm. This place sounds more like a prison than a school. My father shifts uncomfortably in his seat beside me, no doubt imagining the fight we’ll have later about all of this.

Maxwell closes the book with a snap, her eyes boring into mine. “Do you have any questions about the dress code?”

“Yeah, actually,” I say, leaning forward. “What century are we in again? Because this sounds like something out of a Victorian novel.”

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