2. Henry

2

Henry

T he dimly lit room smelled of aged leather and cedar, an odd combination that somehow always made my nose itch. Shelves crammed with ancient tomes lined the walls, their spines cracked and faded from years of handling. A long, oak table stretched across the center, its surface cluttered with parchment, ink bottles, and quills that looked more decorative than functional. My fingers drummed against the polished wood as I glanced at the portrait hanging above the fireplace.

The raven's eyes seemed to follow me wherever I moved, its black feathers rendered in such detail they almost looked real. It perched on a branch against a backdrop of swirling shadows, symbolizing both mystery and intelligence—the core tenets of Ravenwood.

I hated being here. My mind wandered to the ice rink where my teammates were probably gearing up for practice. I had been looking forward to it all week.

"Henry, focus," came a sharp voice from the end of the table.

I turned my head and met Mr. Collins' stern gaze. His gray hair was neatly combed back, and his piercing blue eyes never seemed to miss anything.

"I'm here," I muttered, shifting uncomfortably in my chair.

"Your mind is clearly elsewhere," he countered, raising an eyebrow.

I clenched my fists under the table. "I have hockey practice soon. We're in the playoffs."

A murmur of disapproval rippled through the room.

"This is more important," Mr. Collins said flatly. "Ravenwood’s work takes precedence over personal activities."

I gritted my teeth but held my tongue. What could I say? This was tradition, a legacy handed down through generations of Mathers men. But today, of all days, it felt suffocating.

The room grew quiet again as Mr. Collins resumed speaking about some upcoming endeavor that sounded like it involved more dusty books and secret meetings. My thoughts drifted back to Freya and our strained conversations about our engagement.

The weight of responsibility settled heavily on my shoulders as I stole another glance at the raven's portrait. It felt like it was mocking me, daring me to break free from this web of obligations.

But for now, I remained seated, biding my time until I could escape to the ice and leave Ravenwood’s shadow behind me—even if just for a while.

Collins's voice sliced through the air like a well-honed blade. "The Imprinting ceremony is upon us," he announced, pacing the length of the table with an almost theatrical flourish. "As you know, it's a rite of passage for our juniors. If you hear your name, expect to take part."

Collins cleared his throat, the room falling silent in anticipation. "The following juniors are to prepare for the Imprinting ceremony," he began, his voice carrying a weight that made my stomach churn. "Alexander Pierce, Lucas Graham, Edward Sterling, William Blackwood, Oliver Gray, Jensen Ackerman, Thomas White, and Henry Mathers."

Each name landed like a blow, but hearing my own felt like a punch to the gut. I could sense the eyes of the older members boring into me, their expectations and judgment pressing down like an invisible shroud.

Jensen Ackerman shot me a look from across the table, his expression unreadable but intense. My heart pounded in my chest as I tried to focus on anything other than the suffocating reality of what was coming next.

"And if we refuse?" I asked, my voice more defiant than I'd intended.

Jensen leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. "Yeah, Collins. What if we’ve got better things to do? Like watching paint dry."

A few chuckles rippled through the room, but Collins’ expression remained stern. "This is no laughing matter," he snapped. "You’re engaged to Freya Reynolds, are you not?"

I clenched my teeth so hard it hurt. Freya's name brought a flood of conflicting emotions—anger, jealousy, regret. She'd been seen with another guy, and it gnawed at me more than I'd care to admit. I wasn’t any better myself, but it didn’t make it easier.

"Yes," I managed to say through gritted teeth.

"I would select her before someone else does," Collins said calmly, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Is that an order?" My voice wavered despite my best efforts to sound firm.

"No," Collins replied, his tone almost chillingly casual. "Not yet. But if you don't, I'm sure someone else will."

The implication hung in the air like a storm cloud about to burst. My fists tightened under the table as I stared at Collins, feeling trapped and furious all at once.

Jensen broke the silence with another one of his irreverent remarks. "Well, Henry? Looks like you're on a ticking clock."

I glared at him but said nothing. He wasn't wrong; time was slipping away faster than I could handle.

The raven in the portrait seemed to mock me from its perch, its eyes glinting with dark amusement.

"Remember, each girl must be here willingly," Collins continued, his voice steady and authoritative. "Consent is paramount. However, once the ritual takes place, you will be bonded for as long as you want her. Should you wish to change your mind, your only options are to swap with another Ravenwood or wait until next year. Your choice is critical. Is this clear?"

Nods and murmurs of assent filled the room, but I felt a sinking sensation in my gut. The weight of what Collins was saying pressed down on me like a vise. The thought of dragging Freya into this mess made my skin crawl. I had no intention of choosing anyone.

"And your selection bears a strong reflection of you," Collins continued, his eyes scanning the room with calculated precision. "Choose well."

The tension in the room thickened as his words settled over us. I could feel the pressure from every direction—the older members' expectations, the looming ceremony, and the complicated tangle of my own feelings.

Finally, Collins dismissed us with a wave of his hand. Relief washed over me as I stood up, eager to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the private library.

I made my way toward the door, keeping my head down to avoid any more judgmental stares. Jensen fell into step beside me, his usual smirk replaced by a rare look of seriousness.

"Henry," he said quietly as we walked down the corridor, "what are you gonna do about Freya?"

I shot him a sidelong glance but didn't break my stride. "Why the fuck do you care?" I muttered.

Jensen raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. We reached the end of the corridor where sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting long shadows on the marble floor.

I stopped and took a deep breath, feeling a small measure of freedom outside that oppressive room. "I have practice," I said, more to myself than Jensen.

"Good luck with that," he replied, his tone lighter now. "Just remember—time's ticking."

I nodded absently and headed toward the exit. The cool air outside hit me like a refreshing wave as I stepped out into the courtyard. My thoughts raced as I considered my next move.

Freya deserved better than this mess—better than me being tangled up in Ravenwood's legacy and traditions. As much as I wanted to break free from all of it, I couldn't shake the feeling that my choices were already limited by forces beyond my control.

But one thing was clear: I had no intention of choosing anyone for this ritual—not Freya, not anyone else.

I stepped out of the library and into the crisp spring air, feeling an immediate sense of relief. The sky was a brilliant blue, and the campus grounds were alive with activity. Students sprawled across the lawn, books and laptops scattered around them like modern-day picnics. Birds chirped in the trees lining the cobblestone paths, their melodies adding to the hum of conversation and laughter.

I started my walk toward Pandora's Box. My school bag hung over my shoulder, a reminder that I had to endure one more quarter before summer. Before the wedding.

The path wound through manicured gardens bursting with color—tulips, daffodils, and cherry blossoms painting the scene in vivid hues. I passed by the old clock tower, its hands inching closer to practice time.

The air smelled of freshly cut grass and blooming flowers, a sharp contrast to the musty library I'd just escaped from. I took a deep breath, letting the scents wash away some of the tension coiled in my chest. The rhythmic crunch of gravel under my boots provided a steady backdrop to my thoughts.

Students waved and called out greetings as I walked by. "Hey, Mathers! Good luck in the playoffs!" one shouted from a study group gathered under a large oak tree.

I gave them a nod and a quick smile but didn't slow my pace. My mind was still tangled in Collins' words and the pressure of what lay ahead. The only thing that could clear it was the ice.

The path curved around a small pond where ducks paddled lazily across the water's surface. Their serene movements contrasted sharply with my own restless energy. I quickened my pace, eager to reach Pandora's Box.

Finally, I saw it—the rink's sleek, modern facade standing out against the more traditional architecture of the campus buildings. Its glass walls reflected the surrounding greenery, making it look almost like an illusion.

I pushed open the heavy glass door and stepped inside. The cool air inside hit me like a welcome embrace, instantly soothing some of my inner turmoil. The sound of skates carving into ice echoed faintly from within.

"Mathers!" Coach Morgan's voice boomed from across the lobby. "You're fucking late!"

I flashed him an apologetic grin as I made my way to the locker room. "Got held up," I said, dropping my bag on a bench.

Coach rolled his eyes but didn't press further.

As I laced up my skates, I felt some of the day's weight lift off my shoulders. Out here on the ice, everything else could wait.

Coach Morgan leaned against the wall, his leather jacket creaking as he crossed his arms. His presence dominated the locker room, a mix of authority and menace. He had a piercing gaze and gravelly voice that could make even the toughest guy on the team flinch.

"All right, assholes, listen up," he began, his eyes sweeping over us as we finished lacing up our skates and adjusting our gear. "Last game? You played like a bunch of pussies. What the hell happened out there?"

I glanced around at my teammates. Keaton, who was sitting next to me, shrugged and muttered under his breath, "Wasn't exactly our best night."

Morgan's eyes zeroed in on him. "Damn right it wasn't. You let their fucking defense run circles around you. No more of that shit."

He started pacing, his boots thudding against the floor with each step. "Kennedy you missed two golden opportunities right in front of the net. What's your excuse?"

Levi Kennedy looked up from taping his stick, a hint of defiance in his eyes. "They had a solid goalie."

"Solid?" Morgan barked a laugh. "He’s good, but he's not unbeatable. You hesitated. That split second cost us."

Kennedy clenched his teeth and went back to taping.

"And defense," Morgan continued, turning his gaze to me and Keaton. "You two were like Swiss cheese out there—full of holes."

I clenched my jaw but didn't respond. I knew he was right.

"You gotta tighten the fuck up like a virgin's pussy," Morgan went on, his voice carrying a mix of frustration and determination. "Communicate better. Cover each other’s asses."

Keaton rolled his eyes but kept quiet this time.

"We've got another shot coming up," Morgan said, his tone softening just a bit. "You’ve got the skill. You’ve got the talent. Now you just need to get your heads outta your asses and play like it."

He stopped pacing and looked at each of us in turn, making sure his words sank in.

"No more excuses," he said firmly. "You either give it everything you've got or you don't deserve to wear that jersey."

The room fell silent except for the faint sound of skates scraping against ice in the distance.

"Now get out there and show me you’re worth a damn," he finished, turning on his heel and heading towards the rink entrance.

We followed him out, determination etched on our faces. The weight of Ravenwood and everything else faded away as I stepped onto the ice.

Here, nothing else mattered but the game.

The coolness seeped through my skates and into my bones. The familiar glide of the blades against the frozen surface brought an immediate sense of calm. The rink was my sanctuary, the one place where I could forget about everything—Ravenwood, Freya, the weight of expectations.

Coach Morgan blew his whistle, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Let's go, boys! Warm-up laps!"

I took off, pushing hard against the ice. My muscles fell into a rhythm as I skated around the rink. The cold air rushed past my face, and each breath came out in visible puffs. My teammates fell in line behind me, our synchronized movements creating a symphony of scraping ice.

After a few laps, Morgan signaled us to gather at center ice. "We're running drills today," he barked. "I want to see crisp passes and tight formations."

We broke off into groups, and I paired up with Keaton. We started with passing drills, firing pucks back and forth with precision. The clink of stick against puck echoed in the empty rink.

"Keep your head up," Keaton said as he sent another pass my way.

I nodded, catching the puck on my stick and sending it back to him in one fluid motion.

Morgan's voice rang out again. "Switch it up! Two-on-one drills!"

Keaton and I moved into position. I took off down the ice, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline as Keaton chased after me. We weaved between cones, passing the puck back and forth with increasing speed.

"Nice move," Keaton muttered as I deked around a cone and sent a quick pass his way.

We reached the goal crease, and I lined up for a shot. Keaton fed me the puck perfectly, and I fired it into the top corner of the net.

"That's what I'm talking about!" Morgan shouted from the sidelines. "We need more offense from you both."

The rest of practice flew by in a blur of drills and scrimmages. My focus never wavered; each shift on the ice felt like a battle to prove myself. Every shot, every pass was an opportunity to forget about everything else—even if just for a moment.

Finally, Morgan blew his whistle again. "Wrap it up! Good hustle today."

I skated off the ice with my teammates, feeling a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. As we headed back to the locker room, Coach clapped me on the shoulder.

"Keep that up in the playoffs," he said gruffly.

I nodded, feeling a small spark of pride ignite within me. For now, at least, I'd left everything else behind on that sheet of ice.