dinohigh, no humans allowed!

He bit his nail in anticipation, barely holding back the smirk that kept tugging at his lips. Today was the day. He could hardly believe he'd finally arrived here, standing on the very steps of Dino High. Years of relentless ambition, countless sacrifices, plans set into motion by whispers and carefully placed information—heads had rolled, hearts were broken, and now, all that effort was paying off.

Dino High. It was a world only whispered about, one off-limits to non-dinos for as long as anyone could remember. The dinosaur elite had kept their doors barred, allowing only those of "saurian blood" to cross into its hallowed halls, a wall of tradition they guarded like some precious artifact. The closest he'd ever gotten was hearing the stories passed down, bits and pieces of conversations about the monumental battles fought to keep the humans and other "non-pure" creatures out. This place wasn't just a school. It was a fortress, an institution designed to preserve the legacy of the dinosaurs, a place where they raised their future leaders, the mighty Saurastars. The idea that someone like him would ever step inside had once been laughable. But laws could change.

Today marked the first day in a new era. An era where, for the first time, non-dinos were allowed within Dino High's walls. Thanks to a recently passed law, their governor—a supposedly "gracious" leader, though the governor's motives were anyone's guess—had made it possible. All non-dinos with documented hereditary ties to any ancestor who'd once attended the school, plus a meteor fragment as a mark of their "heritage," could now claim admittance to the illustrious Dino High.

He clutched his own meteor fragment, a small, jagged piece of space rock, its surface dark and pitted, cold to the touch. Its edges pressed against his palm as he took in a deep breath and stepped forward.

Of course, the law was never meant for humans. It had initially been designed as a concession, a narrow loophole intended to make room for certain archosaur relatives who'd been expelled from the student body over the years. Pterosaurs, plesiosaurs, silosaurs—creatures technically on the "dino-adjacent" spectrum but no longer scientifically classified as true dinosaurs. They'd been pushed out as the dino elite grew more exclusive, but a small population had risen over generations, demanding their ancestral rights be recognized. The governor's bill was supposed to reinstate their right to attend, nothing more.

But someone—he didn't know who, and he doubted anyone would ever figure it out—had carefully slipped in a clause. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing, someone who understood how the fine print would twist the law in favor of more than just the "dino-adjacent." With a few strokes of the pen, the legislation had allowed anyone with family in Dino High's long-archived records to attend, as long as they could produce a fragment of the ancient meteor.

Non-dino enrollment had suddenly surged, the door to Dino High swung wide open. Whether the dinosaurs liked it or not, here he was, slipping through on a technicality they'd never seen coming.

His father had once told him about an ancient ancestor who'd studied alongside the very first dinos, someone with "great wisdom and adaptability," but he'd never taken much stock in the stories. To him, they were bedtime tales, the kind meant to calm restless minds before sleep. But it turned out they were real, all too real, and now that story—his heritage—was his ticket through the gates.

He moved forward, adjusting the dark green blazer he'd carefully chosen, one that seemed to blend in with the hues of the tall trees surrounding Dino High. He'd done his research, studied the campus layout, and learned as much as he could about its culture. Dino High had a way of doing things; they were meticulous, exclusive, and proud. Every bit of the curriculum, every rule in the handbook, every statue and plaque placed around the school grounds—it all carried meaning, hidden codes that only dinosaurs and their descendants could fully comprehend. Or so they thought. He'd learned their ways well enough to blend in and would hide his contempt with every step.

Just looking at the students walking around the courtyard was surreal. Massive, lumbering figures with scales gleaming in the morning light, tails flicking as they moved, claws tapping on the stone pathways. A pair of Triceratops juniors lounged nearby, their horns pointed and polished, each one covered in colorful ribbons. A few Pterosaurs flitted about, gliding from rooftop to rooftop. Further off, he saw a small group of Velociraptors in animated conversation, sharp teeth bared in excitement, eyes narrowed in that way he'd come to recognize as inherently "raptor-like." They moved with the kind of confidence and swagger that suggested they'd tear apart anyone who dared cross them.

It wasn't hard to despise them, not really. They'd built this place around an idea of superiority, closing off any chance for coexistence. But he wouldn't let them see that; no, he'd smile, nod, and act as if he were humbled to simply be in their presence. Inside, he felt only disdain, but his face bore an expression of humble reverence. His classmates didn't need to know the truth.

The architecture of Dino High reflected its philosophy. Towers spiraled upward, walls were covered in ancient symbols, and murals depicting victories of the Saurastars adorned every hall. The Saurastars—those dino elites who supposedly led the world in all things, from politics to philosophy, from art to science. They were revered as geniuses, intellectual giants, each one chosen for their wisdom, vision, and, as he imagined, the cruelty that kept them at the top. There wasn't much about their society that inspired awe in him.

He'd studied the political drama behind the Saurastars. He'd heard tales of power struggles, betrayals, and the iron grip they held over the dino world's every aspect. It wasn't about governance or leadership in his eyes; it was more like a game of survival, with only the most cunning or ruthless rising to the top. And yet here he was, expected to respect them, to blend in with them, to revere them. But he would play the game. Inwardly, he sneered, but on the surface, he was every bit the grateful student.

The irony of it all wasn't lost on him. The dinosaurs had intended to limit the new admissions, thinking they'd keep it to the pterosaurs, plesiosaurs, maybe a few silosaurs. Creatures they could tolerate, "family" on the fringe, a necessary evil to bolster their numbers. But thanks to that little clause—subtle, untraceable, likely buried in a mountain of legalese—any creature with a past link could enter. And as it turned out, a few species, a human they had long relegated to the bottom rung of society, could now claim lineage and entrance. He almost laughed at the thought of it.

As he walked past groups of dinosaurs, he overheard snippets of conversations, words like "honor," "heritage," "destiny"—things that sounded straight out of a cheesy war drama. How quaint. They were so enamored with their roles, so self-assured in their superiority. He caught a few stares as he passed, some indifferent, some openly hostile, but he ignored them, head held high, his expression carefully neutral.

From everything he'd learned, Dino High had managed to sustain itself by cultivating an image of exclusivity, strength, and discipline. It was tradition, honor, and legacy over everything else. But in the end, all those ideals made them blind, so set on purity and pride that they'd failed to see their own vulnerabilities. Their arrogance was precisely what had gotten him here. And he planned to make the most of it.

The administrators had been less than thrilled to see him arrive at orientation, handing over his meteor fragment after scanning it, with an almost sacrilegious indifference. He hadn't bothered with formalities, casually flashing the fragment in front of her as though it were an ID badge. The look on the teacher's face had been priceless, a mix of confusion, disbelief, and outright disdain. The Triceratops teacher had tried to play it off as dignified tolerance, a performance meant to reinforce the school's supposed values of acceptance and open-mindedness. But the barely contained fury in her eyes had told him everything he needed to know.

He'd rehearsed his response, a polite, "Thank you for the opportunity, teacher," accompanied by a respectful nod. She'd grunted in response, nostrils flaring, and he could feel the barely restrained disgust as she'd handed over his schedule.

For the dinosaurs, Dino High was more than a school. It was their sanctuary, a place they saw as their birthright, a stage where their future leaders would learn the finer points of ruling, shaping society, leading wars, creating art, and even inspiring legends. But he wasn't here to celebrate their history or absorb their lessons in dominance. No, he was here for himself, and every moment in this place was another step closer to his own goals.

As he stepped into his first class, he noted the desks lined up in perfect rows, each equipped with a tablet loaded with interactive lessons on "Dino Ethics" and "History of Saurian Excellence." The instructor—a stout Ankylosaurus with a stern gaze—eyed him with suspicion, the ridges of her back covered in thick scales that looked as unyielding as her personality. He took his seat in silence, careful not to let his thoughts show on his face.

They were watching him, every movement, every word, scrutinized for any sign of unworthiness. Let them. He could play their game, attend their classes, nod in agreement during lectures on dino supremacy. All the while, he'd harbor his own quiet ambitions, storing up everything he learned, all the weaknesses in their precious institution, waiting for the perfect time to strike.

Today was the first step in that plan. The door was open, and he'd walked through. Now, he would wait, watch, and, in time, remind them exactly why they should have left that door firmly shut.