Chapter Text
Feyre Archeron made a face as her father pulled over at the looming iron gates of Prythian Academy. This would not, in any way, shape, or form, be fun. Her sister, Elain, had been jealous when she’d arrived home one day from her art course with a letter from a prestigious school in the north, where she, by recommendation of her teacher, had been accepted and granted a scholarship. But despite what everyone kept saying to her about the ‘fantastic opportunity’, Feyre couldn’t help but feel a bit bitter about not having a choice about going.
As soon as her father had heard of the scholarship, he’d demanded that she pack her belongings and go. Just like that, a whole life of planning for, well, her life in her small town was over and done with.
Now she was doomed to go to school with a bunch of rich kids who probably had a lot more talent than she would ever have and—Gods, she was going to have a panic attack.
There was only one part of her, one small part that was glad, so glad to be gone, to disappear completely. The part that had listened to explanation after explanation and gotten hit in the face with more and more abuse and couldn’t take it any longer and—no, she wasn’t going down that rabbit hole again.
“Well, we’re here.” her father said, looking at her like he was waiting for her to make the first move. “Do you want me to help you with the bags?”
“No, I’ve got it, Dad.” she said, pulling the straps of her purse to her shoulder as she walked to the trunk of the car, opening it and getting the large wheeled platinum bag from inside before putting it on the ground with a THUMP.
After a long, boring talk with the Dean of Prythian Academy, Feyre and her dad finally stood up—one step closer to the peace and quiet probably awaiting her in her dorm room. As her father and the Dean, a blonde haired woman named Ianthe, exchanged pleasantries, and Feyre took the time to look outside the window.
It was late March, a strange time for a new student to enroll, and the changing leaves left beautiful grounds for the students to walk, sit on, and run around in—not that Feyre thought that that was permitted here in this fancy school.
A knock sounded at the door, jolting Feyre out of her reverie, and Ianthe said, “Oh, yes, that’s probably Morrigan right now,” as if they would know who that was.
Well, to be fair, she probably had said something when Feyre wasn’t paying attention—which, admittedly was the whole time they were here.
The Dean opened the door, where another girl stood waiting. She was beautiful in a way Feyre could never see herself being, all soft turns and full curves and sharp edges, with a halo of wavy golden hair and eyes the softest brown Feyre had ever seen.
“Hey, Dean Falsum, am I late? Sorry, um,” the girl sounded a bit breathless, as if she’d been running to get here. “I was—I, um—”
“Morrigan!” Dean Falsum interrupted enthusiastically, clapping her hands once before placing the right one on Morrigan’s back. “You’re here! Good,” Dean Falsum lead the girl into the room and in front of Feyre. “This,” she smiled, “Is Feyre Archeron, the roommate I told you about.” Roommate? She was going to have to share a room with this girl? Oh Gods, what if she’s horrible?
But Morrigan didn’t seem horrible. Not when she smiled warmly at Feyre, and certainly not when she said, “Hey, roomie!”
“Now,” the Dean continued to Morrigan, “I know you were both promised a single this year but we could not arrange that in such a short time so I hope you find it in your hearts to thinks of yourselves as friends, sisters even,” she gave them a feline smile. “Yes? Good.”
“Well, I think that I should be going.” Feyre’s father said, looking between her and his wristwatch apologetically.
“Okay, Dad.” Feyre tried her best to smile.
She was not close to her parents—and wasn’t thick as thieves with her sisters either, though their relationship was leagues better, and she knew, she knew now, more than ever, that if she needed them they would be there for her—but it still pained her to see him gone, even if only because it was the last strand of normalcy being taken away from her.
Feyre hugged her father goodbye, and watched him leave, waiting for the Dean to start speaking about sisterhood and academic records again.
“Feyre, I hope you find yourself happy within these walls as I once was,” the older woman took her hand and shook it. “Enjoy your time here and explore as much as like. You might even learn a thing or two,” she smirked a bit and then looked at Morrigan. “Now, Morrigan will show you to your room. You have all the schedules and information already and I have asked her to be your guide these first few days, so if you have any questions just ask her or come visit me anytime.” She touched Feyre’s shoulder. “Okay?”
“Yes, thank you, Dean Falsum.” Feyre smiled politely and followed Morrigan outside the room.
The two girls walked in silence for a couple of minutes through the echoing stone corridors of the Academy before Morrigan said, “So, you’re here for the Arts program, right?” she gave a big, warm smile. “I’m so jealous, I wish I could draw!”
“ Yeah,” Feyre murmured, still testing the waters with this new, unknown girl. “I paint mostly, actually.”
“Oh, that’s even better! You must show me some of your work when we get to my—I mean our room, sorry.” She laughed, embarrassed but somehow still sure of herself.
“No problem,” Feyre said. “I’m going to have to get used to sharing a room with someone, too. I only just got my own room at home.”
“Aw, man, I’m sorry. I hope my company won’t suck that much,” Morrigan answered in a self-deprecating tone that was much too perfect for someone as beautiful as she was.
“Somehow, I don’t think it will, Morrigan.”
The blonde haired girl pulled a face. “Please don’t call me that.”
“What? Morrigan?” Another twist of her face and a scrunched up nose. “What should I call you, then?”
“Mor.”
Feyre was starting to get lost when they turned down yet another corridor and five doors down, four people were sitting in a small circle outside a dark wooden door no different to any other.
Please don’t be it, please don’t be it, please don’t be it.
“Here we are.” Mor said enthusiastically, waving to the only girl in the circle as the approached. “Door 66. Remember this. When you’re lost, the numbers help.”
“Mor!” said one of the boys, standing up to greet them. He had dark hair, tan skin and elegant features. Mor stepped into his reach and gave him a light peck on the lips.
“Feyre, this is my boyfriend, Azriel,” she said, beaming at him. “May I ask what it is you all are doing here?”
“Waiting for the fresh meat of course,” one of the other boys said, mischief gleaming in his hazel eyes. The girl seating beside him elbowed him, hard.
“Don’t go scaring her off, Cassian,” the girl said.
“That’s usually your job, Amren,” Cassian answered with a large smirk.
“With all your talk of getting to know our new guest, you haven’t even asked for her name, Cassian,” said a rich voice from behind the hazel eyed boy.
And that’s when she saw him.
He was, undoubtedly, the most handsome man she had ever seen. His eyes glowed a rich violet that contrasted to his tan skin, and designs formed in the planes of his chest and disappeared beneath his shirt. He had dark, blue-black hair and wore fine, rich clothes. Everything about him screamed refined, and he was at the same time everything Feyre’d wanted and wanted to avoid.
He stood up and offered his hand to her. She stared. “What’s your name, darling?”
Darling? She recomposed herself, taking his hand and shaking it. “I’m Feyre.”
“Well, Feyre, darling, I’m Rhysand. Rhys. And we’re your Welcome Wagon!” the boy—Rhys—said with a big smirk, sizing her up.
Mor put a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll have to excuse my cousin, Feyre. He has a few issues understanding personal space.” She finally turned, putting a key in the small lock on the door and everyone entered the room, throwing her arms out as if to say TA-DA! “Welcome home, I suppose.”