Page 52 of Soulless Rivalry

She must have closed it hurriedly before going out but didn’t notice it didn’t lock automatically. With a smirk, I pulled it open, the brightness of the screen momentarily blinding me. I’d gotten used to the darkness of the room, only illuminated by the moon outside.

When I saw what Elyssa had written on the search bar, I paused.

What is Tyche?

The page she opened was from some obscure blog about Greek mythology. According to it, Tyche was an old, forgotten Greek goddess, the goddess of good fortune.

The name sounded familiar but I couldn’t quite place it until I checked another open tab withOrder of the Sons of Tychein the search bar. This one didn’t lead anywhere: there were no results to the search.

Still, it hit me then, and I knew where I’d seen that name before. It was written on the old journal Elyssa had found in the secret room.

Closing her laptop completely this time, I turned around and hightailed it out of her room.

I knew where she was.

ELYSSA

The secret room was less scary when you came prepared. Which was exactly what I did: borrowed Lorenzo’s flashlight, took the small knife that Aunt Matilda had gifted me when we first joined the Academy, a thick jumper, and a bag of chips, because uncovering years-old mysteries made me snacky.

It was freezing in there though, and even the wool sweater I had taken with me was not cutting it. I made a mental note to take a lighter with me next time on the off chance the fireplace was still working.

I found the journal right where I had left it, or rather, where I’d let it fall in my haste to join Konstantin in fear of being left alone down here. I picked it up, went to sit on the old sofa after I took the dust-ridden sheet off, and started reading. I couldn’t explain the type of weird fascination I had for this journal, just that somehow, it had sparked my curiosity.

December 19, 1898

If you’re reading this, it means I do not belong to this world anymore.

I will not name names in this journal, not of the main ones concerned, for fear, not for my life, but that of my family. The reason why I am writing this in the first place is that guilt is eating at me, keeping me from sleeping, eating, and living life as I used to. The things that I have done on those nights with the brotherhood do not only dishonor me, but also my family, my education, and my faith.

I shall recount and repent in this journal as I hope to get better and keep others from making the mistakes I made.

My name is Arnold Hangmire, I am the son of Jeremiah and Felicity Hangmire. My family does not own thousands of acres of land or any blossoming business, and we are not in politics. We are but simple farmers from Connecticut who try to do things right, the way God Almighty intended them to be.

Though I always aspired to more.

Joining the Longfield Academy was a dream come true for me. I was the first of my family to attend college, by reason of the Sweet Tale Academic Grant offered by our small town. My pa’ was against me going, because he believed nothing good came from a school that needed to hide on a remote island to exist, but Mother was ecstatic. She knewhow much it meant to me and, as any mother, was proud of her only son.

I came here with dreams and aspirations. With the goal of making connections that would serve me once I obtained my diploma.

The reality of being a scholarship student was drastically different from the one I had made up in my mind. Nobody cared or respected me for my smarts. All they ever saw me as was a poor farmer from Connecticut.

I do not say that to stir up pity or justify my actions. What I did could never be forgiven or explained rationally.

But it was the reality of my life at the Academy. The boys would torment me day and night, uncaring of my tears or pleading for them to stop. Professors looked at me in disdain. I was an easy target, getting devoured by my hatred for them but also myself as the days passed. By the time Thanksgiving came, I was ready to give up and go back home.

Thinking about it now, I should have done so. Better to be a poor farmer than a murderer?—

The book was suddenly snatched away from me and I screamed in fright. Looking up from where I sat, relief washed over me when I recognized who stood there.

But his presence did nothing to slow my rapidly beating heart. Quite the contrary, it continued beating fast, but not for the same reasons.

“Bitch, you scared the fuck out of me.” I put my hand on my chest, exhaling loudly while Konstantin tilted his head to the side, eying me, perplexed.

“Made yourself at home, I see,” he commented, taking in my little sweater, slippers, and reading glasses.

I felt myself blush and broke away from his gaze before standing up. He was still a good head and a few inches taller than I but it wasn’t as bad as when I was sitting.

“What do you want, Korolov?” I narrowed my eyes at him, folding my arms against my chest and leveling him with a glare.

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