Page 72 of The Ruthless Rivalry

I run my finger along the spine of one of the books, but it’s not the book I’m focused on. My eyes are on a gap in the shelves—a space where a book should be, but isn’t. The area around it is completely untouched, no dust or smudge to be found. The book was pulled out recently.

I glance at the shelves again, taking in the light layer of dust on everything else. A faint track here, a clean edge there. Was this from whoever lit the candles?

I pause, my finger still hovering in the air. My curiosity flares, and I turn, following the pull toward the table. There, sitting on its edge near a flickering candle, is an open book. The pages are yellowed with age, the ink faint but legible.

Resting neatly on the open page is a photograph—just sitting there, like it was meant to be found. I pick it up carefully, my fingers brushing the brittle corners. It’s old, worn at the edges, but the image is still clear enough to make out the faces.

My breath catches. Standing at the center is my father—only much younger, probably around my age, his smile tight and unreadable. On his left stands Sylvester and Sutton’s dad, positioned close, his shoulder nearly touching my father's. Just to my father’s right is Bishop’s mom—his hand almost brushing her sleeve. Her opposite arm is draped casually around Camden’s mother, the kind of easy closeness that spoke of longtime friendship, like they knew how to take up space together without needing to say a word.

They all look so connected—relaxed, familiar. Not just a group of classmates or peers, but something tighter. Like they shared something more.

I stare at the photo, the weight of it pressing down in my hand. It shouldn’t surprise me—and yet it does.What is this?I wonder, my mind racing.

I glance back at the book, curiosity gnawing at me. The text beneath where the photo sat is dense and formal, typeset in a narrow column, like an old article—something preserved. The edges of the page are slightly uneven, not quite the same as the others, as if this particular section had been printed separately and bound in later.

My eyes catch on a headline printed in faded ink:

“Prescott Gala Marks Legacy Alignment.”

Beneath it is a grainy black-and-white photograph of two familiar people dressed in formalwear—my father again, standing beside Bishop’s mom, both wearing matching pins on their collars. They aren’t touching, but they’re angled toward each other, smiling in a way that feels rehearsed. Expected.

The short article beneath reads like a clipped society column, something ceremonial but distant.

"During the annual Prescott Gala, hosted by the Prescott family, guests witnessed what one faculty member described as a 'quiet affirmation of unity between two Legacy bloodlines.' A gesture of tradition, not unlike the alignments that once shaped the university’s founding years."

I read the line again. Then again.

Symbolic pairing?

My stomach twists, but I don’t know why.

I glance back down at the page, my fingers tightening on the edges. The rest of the article trails into vague language about “shared futures” and “heritage stewardship,” but my eyes catch on something handwritten in the margin—inked in the same darker script as before.

“Was this always the plan?”

It’s not a statement. It’s a question—simple, but strange. Like whoever wrote it wasn’t sure what they were looking at either.

I don’t know what it means. I don’t know why it makes my pulse spike. But I lean in, about to turn the page—

“Alex.”

I freeze, my heart jumping. I’d known someonecouldbe down here—the lit candles made that clear—but I’d gotten so caught up in the article, I’d stopped thinking about it. The voice—deep, calm, and unmistakable—snaps me back to the moment. I whirl around, pulse spiking as I scan the room.

“Atlas?” I say aloud, my voice unsure.What is he doing here?

I blink, but there’s no mistaking him. He’s standing in the doorway beneath the arch, posture casual—too casual, maybe. A book is tucked under one arm, his expression calm, but there’s something unreadable in the way his eyes flick around the room. This doorway is far from the stairs I just descended, tucked into a shadowed corner, making it feel like a completely different space.

“What is this place?” I ask before I can stop myself, my heart still beating hard from the surprise.

Atlas gives a slow, almost amused smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ah,” he says, stepping further into the room. “This? This is theVault of Nightfall.A…restricted section, if you will. A place where the school keeps its more…uniquetexts.”

Unique texts? What did that mean?

I open my mouth to ask more, but the candlelight flickers, casting long shadows that dance across the walls. A sudden chill creeps down my spine. I swear I feel something shift behind me—no sound, no movement, just the prickling sensation of being watched. I turn, but the room is still.

Just my nerves.

And then, behind Atlas, the heavy door creaks closed and slams shut with a dull finality that echoes through the vault like a warning.

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