Isabelle's POV
Weeks passed, but they did not pass quietly. They passed the way storms do,heavy, oppressive, and gathering heat on the horizon before crashing down all at once.
The strange shift in St. Aurelia's Academy did not reverse itself. If anything, it deepened like a bruise. The attention I received was no longer a hail of stones; it was a cage of mirrors. Whispers followed me everywhere, changing from sharp insults into a low, buzzing curiosity that felt twice as invasive. Boys who had ignored me now hovered at the edges of my vision, offering smiles that felt like experiments. Girls watched me with the predatory stillness of cats, their expressions a mixture of begrudging awe and sharpened resentment.
I learned to navigate this new, treacherous terrain. I learned which corridors to avoid and which "compliments" were actually traps. But through all the noise, the music remained my only true north.
It was during a rare, peaceful afternoon in the Music Hall that the storm finally broke.
Mr. Keller stood at the front of the rehearsal room, his eyes gleaming with a particular, sharp excitement. "As many of you know," he began, his voice projecting to every corner of the velvet-lined room, "the Academy's Winter Arts Exhibition will take place in three weeks. This year, however, the board has decided to elevate it from a showcase to a competitive recital."
A murmur rippled through the room. At St. Aurelia, "competitive" was a code word for "blood sport."
"Select faculty, prestigious patrons, and... certain external guests will be present," Mr. Keller continued. "Participation is not mandatory, but those who perform will be evaluated for future scholarships, sponsorships, and elite placements."
External guests. The phrase sent a chill down my spine. This wasn't just a school play; it was a market. A stage where the heirs of the elite displayed their refinement like thoroughbred horses, and donors sat in the dark, whispering judgments behind gloved hands.
Beside me, I felt Julien's hand brush against mine. It was a grounding touch, steady and warm. "You should do it," he whispered, his eyes fixed on the front of the room. "Don't let them own the stage, Isabelle. Claim it."
The thought of performing didn't frighten me, I had played for my supper since I was a child. What frightened me was the spectacle. But as the days passed, my name began to surface in the betting circles and the cafeteria gossip.
"She's entering."
"She has to. Did you hear her last rehearsal?"
"They say she plays like someone reborn."
I practiced until my fingertips blistered and bled. I woke up with melodies trapped in my ribs, my body humming with unfinished phrases. And through it all, I felt him. Dmitri Volkov. He never spoke to me, never approached the practice rooms, but his presence was a constant pressure change in the air. He didn't enter the competition, a Volkov didn't need to compete for what he already owned but he watched the preparations with a cold, predatory focus that made my skin crawl.
The night of the Exhibition arrived, wrapped in crystal lights and hushed, expensive expectations.
The Great Hall glittered. The marble floors had been polished into black mirrors, reflecting the massive chandeliers that refracted gold light across the velvet seats. The front rows were filled with the "Old Blood" men in tailored tuxedos and women draped in diamonds that looked like ice.
I stood backstage, my violin cradled against my shoulder like a promise I wasn't sure I could keep. My heart was a frantic bird trapped in a cage of ribs.
Julien found me in the dim light of the wings. He looked striking in his formal wear, but his eyes were soft. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," I lied. My hands were ice-cold.
"You don't have to be perfect, Isabelle," he said, stepping closer until I could smell the faint scent of his cologne. "Just be honest. Give them the music they can't buy."
"I just want to survive this," I admitted.
He smiled sadly, a look of profound understanding crossing his face. "Sometimes, in this place, those are the same thing."
The curtain rose. Performance after performance bled into the next, polished, technically perfect, and utterly soulless. The audience gave polite, measured applause. Approval was the only currency here, and it was being traded in small increments.
Then, my name was called.
The room seemed to inhale as I stepped into the spotlight. The silence was immediate and heavy. I lifted my violin, tucked it under my chin, and prepared to play the first note of Sarasate's Zigeunerweisen.
And then... a sound snapped through the hall.
Crr-ack.
It wasn't a loud sound, but in that vacuum of silence, it sounded like a bone breaking. My bow hand jerked. A sharp, discordant screech tore through the air.
Gasps rippled through the front rows. I looked down, my breath catching painfully. The wood of my bow, right near the frog, had fractured. It was a clean, jagged break…too clean to be an accident. Someone had scored the wood, ensuring that the moment I applied the necessary pressure for the opening fortissimo, it would snap.
My heart plummeted. My hands began to tremble. I felt the humiliation rising like a tide, ready to drown me in front of the most powerful people in the country.
I didn't need to look up to know who had done it. But I did.
My gaze found him instantly. Dmitri Volkov was sitting in the center of the elite row, his posture relaxed, his hands folded over his knee. His eyes met mine, and for a fleeting second, I saw it, a flicker of something colder than ice. His lips didn't curve into a smile, but his expression held a terrifying sort of satisfaction. He wanted me to break along with the bow.
Julien rose halfway from his seat, alarm flashing across his face, ready to rush the stage.
I looked at the broken bow. I looked at the audience. And then, I looked back at Dmitri.
No. I would not give him the satisfaction of my retreat.
I didn't flee. I reached down and picked up the spare bow I had kept in the wings, a heavy, unbalanced thing that belonged to the school's general inventory. It was clunky and less forgiving, but it was a weapon nonetheless.
A murmur spread through the hall. The judges exchanged glances, their pens poised. I didn't care about the score anymore. I cared about the war.
I inhaled once, closed my eyes, and played.
The first note cut through the tension like a blade. I didn't play for the donors. I didn't play for the scholarships. I poured every ounce of my fear, my anger, and the memory of that dead rat in the box into the strings. I played the sound of being small and the sound of refusing to stay that way.
The music swelled, fragile and fierce. I forgot the chandeliers. I forgot the velvet. I even forgot the man in the front row. I was the music, and the music was a ghost demanding to be heard.
When the final, haunting note faded into the rafters, I stood there, trembling, my chest heaving.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing but dead silence. Then, the applause erupted. It wasn't the polite, measured clapping of the previous performers. It was a roar, a visceral, startled reaction to something they hadn't expected to feel.
I bowed once, barely holding my knees together, and fled into the wings.
Backstage, my strength vanished. My knees buckled, but Julien was there, catching me before I hit the floor.
"That wasn't just good, Isabelle," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "That was unforgettable. You didn't just play; you haunted them."
I couldn't answer. I could only breathe. Through the heavy velvet of the curtain, I started to hear the whispers, the real whispers.
"She looks just like... no, it can't be."
"The eyes... that specific tilt of the head when she hits the high notes..."
"That woman from twenty years ago... the one who disappeared."
"Impossible. She's just a scholarship student."
I pressed my forehead into Julien's shoulder. My heart was still racing, but a new fear was taking root. A staff member brushed past us, murmuring a panicked apology about "technical difficulties." I learned then that my second slot, a duet with Julien had been "accidentally" removed from the program. My sheet music was missing. My registration had been misfiled.
The sabotage hadn't been a single act; it had been a campaign.
I looked through a gap in the curtain. Dmitri was rising slowly from his seat. For the first time since I had met him, the "Demon Prince" looked... unsettled. He wasn't angry. He wasn't amused. He looked shaken, as if he had seen a ghost.
His gaze followed the empty stage as if something had slipped from his iron grip. And for reasons I couldn't explain, his look of shock terrified me more than the broken bow ever had.
Whatever he had expected me to be, I had failed him. I had become a memory he didn't want to face.
The Exhibition ended with champagne and quiet, sharp deals. My name was everywhere, but the tone had shifted again. It wasn't just interest; it was an investigation.
She resembles someone, doesn't she?
I didn't know who "she" was. I didn't know whose ghost I was carrying in my features. But as I left the hall, my violin tucked safely under my arm, I felt the weight of the Academy's history settling into my bones.
St. Aurelia never opened doors without expecting payment. And the door I had just kicked open led into a past I wasn't sure I was ready to claim.
Music had given me a voice, but in this house of secrets, a voice was just an invitation for someone to try and silence you forever.