"Death's a silent brigade, a solemn march,
It's the only way the weary find their peace.
To escape from this hell, this echoing cage."
"If we can't decide, if our hands are tied,
We can only cry, our voices lost to the wind.
Let's greet the other side... and find what silence brings."
Chapter 1: The Summons
London, 2002.
A rain so punctual it felt less like weather and more like a liturgical ritual, each drop a chime.
8:04 a.m.
Every single day, the city held its breath.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The droplets struck the academy's ancient, leaded glass like a clock counting down – always preceded by a soft static in the air, the ghost of a frequency fading, like a cassette reel rewinding a little too far, catching a phantom echo.
The usual cacophony of students – whispers, sudden bursts of laughter, the annoying scrape of soles on polished stone as classes ended – seemed to swirl around, deliberately clouding the sharp edges of one particular mind.
Lloyd had his head buried in his arms, his voice a low hum, a current beneath the surface noise. A poem? Perhaps, or a private incantation one couldn't quite decipher.
"Lloyd!"
A feminine voice, sharp as cut glass, sliced through the air. Lloyd stopped his recitation abruptly, his head snapping up.
"You've been summoned. Would you please come with me?"
A sudden hush fell over the room, the collective breath of dozens of teenagers held. Lloyd looked around, the quiet itself a heavy weight. His gaze landed on the girl standing at the hallway door. Her hair was pulled into a neat bun, bangs framing a face that was both composed and watchful. Her uniform, while adhering to the school's black and red, had a subtle flair of Victorian elegance – a hint of a bygone era in the crisp lines of her collar, the slight puff of her sleeves.
A flicker of something – recognition, resignation – passed through Lloyd's otherwise monotonous eyes, his face, already stark, becoming almost entirely blank. How was that possible? How could he feel so little, yet know this was bad?
"It seems like you enjoy disturbing my beauty sleep, bloody Marceline."
"I'd appreciate you refrain from placing my name in one of your swear words, Lloyd."
The girl, Marceline, replied to Lloyd's sharp tongue, the two students walking down the hallway, a path clearing before them as other students gave way. Lloyd grew conscious; the whispers from the students became more noticeable now, a low hum of curiosity and fear.
"Is it that bad?" Lloyd whispered.
Marceline didn't reply, her pace steady and unwavering.
Climbing the grand, winding staircase down to the courtyard, Lloyd was struck again by the sheer scale of the school grounds, a sprawling gothic beast of stone and history.
The eerie atmosphere wasn't just melodramatic; it hummed with an undercurrent of something deeply unsettling, clashing beautifully with the thematic feel of a classic 1980s prep school film – all polished brass and whispered secrets. Hazy rays of sun, thin as stretched silk, peeled through the perpetual London clouds, the patter of raindrops on the ground a strangely reassuring whisper, a steady pulse beneath the growing tension.
Lloyd shivered, not just from the inherent chill of the London air, but from a prickle of unease. He tugged his black blazer tighter, seeking comfort from the damp cold.
Marceline, however, seemed entirely unfazed, her movements precise as she opened the umbrella she held close, its dark canopy blooming like a morbid flower.
"Care to join me?" she offered, her tone flat.
"What if people think we're a coupl–" Lloyd started, a nervous habit of deflection.
Marceline merely arched an eyebrow, her expression utterly devoid of amusement or interest.
"I guess not," Lloyd muttered, shrinking into his own space.
Navigating their way through the main district of the Third Sanctuary – a moniker that now felt less quaint and more ominous – they were met by a thick cordon of police personnel. Every officer was armed and tensed, their state of alert palpable, like a stretched wire about to snap.
The perimeter covered Los Duos Park, typically a vibrant hub for school activities and clubs. Now, it was a forbidden zone, a silent testament to something profoundly amiss. Lloyd gulped, a knot tightening in his stomach. He glanced at Marceline, whose face remained a mask of practiced indifference, as she continued her deliberate stroll towards the grim sight. Lloyd, legs heavy, reluctantly followed, his fingers absently scratching his thigh.
One of the officers, a burly figure hunched beneath a standard-issue umbrella, squinted at them.
"You young'uns shouldn't be here," he rumbled, his hand instinctively hovering near his belt buckle.
"Yes, I'm aware," Marceline replied, her voice cool and composed. "But we are part of the Students' Council. I've been asked to bring him over."
The surrounding officers looked to their superior, who, after a moment of wary hesitation, nodded. "This way," he conceded, ushering them through a gap in the tape.
Lloyd dragged his feet across the damp grass of the park, each step feeling heavier than the last. "Well, that was easy," he mumbled, half to himself.
"You'd be surprised by the power this school holds," Marceline stated, without inflection. "The Students' Council included."
Marceline and the officer stopped at the entrance to the taped-off area, the air suddenly thick with a metallic tang. This wasn't just a crime scene; it felt like a sacred, violated space. But how bad could it be?
Lloyd's question was answered the moment he saw it. A grotesque tableau of his fellow students, arrayed in a precise, chilling circle, gathered not around a victim, but what could only be described as a ritual.
"What in the bloody—" Lloyd began, his murmur cut short, his scratching turning into a frantic, unconscious clawing at his thigh.
"Stand back," Marceline ordered, her tone sharper now. "Martha, I've brought him."
Lloyd's pupils dilated, his eyes widening to impossible saucers. "Martha? As in the Martha?" The name was a whispered legend, a force to be reckoned with even among the elite of the academy.
The girl in question stood at the center, motionless, two students holding an umbrella for her, shielding her from the relentless drizzle.
Her pale blonde hair, almost translucent, blended with the depressing atmosphere, reflecting the dull light of the day. Lloyd had never met her in person, but the aura she exuded, even from a distance, confirmed every unsettling rumor: she was something else entirely.
Her uniform was drastically different from Marceline's – a pure, unblemished black, with only the subtlest lining of deep red, a composition so stark it evoked the image of a creature from a gothic tale, a Dracula-esque figure. It covered every inch of her skin, including her neck, adding to the illusion. Yet, the flush of her visible ears betrayed a human pallor beneath the severe fabric.
Lloyd instinctively recoiled a step, a primal instinct against an unknown threat. Her voice, when it came, was a calm, almost musical whisper that cut through the silence.
"Good morning, Lloyd."
She turned, slowly, with a smile that was not warm but utterly eerie, her eyes, like shards of ice, calmly, unsettlingly, fixing on him.
Lloyd stood frozen, his lips barely parting, his voice a strangled wheeze.