Page 55 of The Bleak Beginning

The old wing’s gothic architecture seems even more imposing in the darkness, but at least it stopped raining for the night.

A soft click breaks the silence, and Sly grins triumphantly. “We’re in,” he whispers, pushing the door open with a creak that seems to echo across the entire campus. We freeze, waiting for an alarm to sound or a professor to appear. But the night remains still.

Sly slips inside, and Cam and I follow, closing the door behind us. The musty smell of old books, age, and neglect assaults our senses. Our eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, revealing long hallways lined with dusty portraits and empty display cases.

The narrow hallway continues to stretch before us, shadows dancing on the walls as Sly strikes a match.

I scowl, as the joke of a flame catches nothing more than the dust motes in the air. “Remind me to get you a better light source for your birthday.”

“You got anything better? Didn’t think so,” he murmurs. “Now come on, maybe there’s a candle or something we can light in here.”

We creep forward, our footsteps muffled by the thick layer of dust on the floor. The match sputters out, plunging us back into darkness. Sly curses under his breath and fumbles for another.

The fresh match’s feeble light casts eerie shadows on the walls, making the portraits seem to come alive, their eyes following our every move, or maybe it was the alcohol. I suppress a shudder, trying to focus on our mission.

“There,” Cam whispers, pointing to a small alcove. An old brass candlestick sits on a rickety table, its candle stub barely visible in the gloom.

Sly moves toward it, the match flickering dangerously close to his fingers. He manages to light it just as the match burns out, plunging us into momentary darkness before the new flame takes hold.

The candlelight reveals more of our surroundings—ornate woodwork, faded tapestries, and rows of locked cabinets and doors lining the walls. The air feels thick with secrets and forgotten Altair history.

“Remember what we’re here for,” I remind them.

Sly nods, holding the candle aloft as we continue down the hallway. The flickering light casts long silhouettes that seem to reach for us, like spectral fingers grasping at our ankles. I shake off the eerie feeling, focusing instead on the task at hand. Ashbourne’s weren’t easily scared.

Just then a loud clatter rings out behind me.

“Cam!”I threaten in a whisper-shout.

“It’s dark,” he complains, in way of apology. His face is sheepish in the dim light. He’s knocked over some metal object in the darkness, it’s shiny circular surface glinting in the light. We freeze, listening intently for any sign that we’ve been discovered.

Seconds tick by, each one feeling like an eternity. The old space creaks and groans around us, but there’s no sound of approaching footsteps or voices. We all collectively exhale.

Sly gestures with the candle, and we press on.

As we near the end of the passage, a faint glimmer catches my eye. I grab Sly’s arm, pointing to a glass case tucked into an alcove. Inside, barely visible in the dim candlelight, sits an ancient-looking trophy. The gold gleams in the darkness, catching the eye with its intricate, ornate engravings.

“That’s it,” Cam breathes, his eyes wide with excitement. “The Altair Cup. It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”

I approach the case cautiously, my heart stuttering. This artifact has been around for centuries; each of our families’ names carved into the base as a reminder of who established the games. Prescott, Ashbourne, Oliveri, and Whitlock—three of the four powerful names have stood the test of time.

“Careful,” Sly warns as I reach for the case. “We don’t want to leave any signs of us being here.”

I dip my chin, acknowledging him.

Cam steps forward, his brow furrowed in concentration. “We should probably go before anyone realizes we’ve come here.”

As if in response to his words, a distant sound echoes through the hallway—footsteps, growing louder with each passing second.

Sly blows out the candle immediately casting us into darkness.

I force my breathing to shallow, straining my ears in the process. The footsteps grow louder, accompanied by the jingle of keys and a low murmur of voices.

“This way,” Cam hisses, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward a narrow alcove hidden behind a tapestry. Sly follows close behind, his movements silent as a shadow.

We squeeze into the tight space, pressing our backs against the cold stone wall. The tapestry falls back into place, concealing us, just as the door to the trophy room creaks open.

“…don’t see why you dragged me out of bed for this,” a gruff voice complains. “Students aren’t allowed back here.”

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