Vyne led her through the tower's winding corridors, his footsteps echoing off stone walls that had seen too many desperate students pass through. The narrow hallways stretched endlessly, lined with rows of occupied rooms where hushed conversations buzzed like trapped insects.
conversations that died the instant they passed, leaving only the weight of curious stares boring into their backs. Blazar could feel the eyes following them, hungry for gossip, for any scrap of information about the boy who'd supposedly wounded Dante himself.
At the far end of the second floor, where the corridor grew darker and the air staler, Vyne stopped before a dented metal door that looked like it had survived several small wars. Rust stains bloomed around the hinges like dried blood. "Your palace, your highness," he announced with theatrical grandeur, swinging it open with a mock bow that would've made court jesters weep with envy. His grin was all teeth and sharp edges.
Blazar shouldered past him with more force than necessary, her face twisted to a scowl. The door groaned shut behind them with the finality of a coffin lid, sealing her into what could generously be called a closet-sized cell.
The space was barely fit for the narrow cot shoved against the far wall, its frame already sagging under the weight of previous occupants' despair.
She kicked it—once, hard—and relished the splintering crack of cheap wood beneath her boot. The sound was satisfying in a way that violence usually was.
Vyne whistled low, impressed despite himself. "Save the destruction for the trial, Captain Chaos. You'll need all that rage tomorrow."
Blazar spun on him, her eyes blazing with fury that had been building for hours. "Or what? They'll kill me extra dead?" The words came out sharper than a blade, each syllable dripping with the kind of desperation that made people do stupid things.
Moonlight bled through the single barred window like silver blood, casting prison-stripe shadows across the cramped room. Beyond the bars, the five distant spires rose against the star-drunk sky, each one a monument to power she'd never understand. Somewhere in those towers, the kings waited—predators dreaming of fresh meat.
Vyne followed her gaze, his mismatched eyes reflecting the cold light. "Pick your poison, I guess," he said quietly, and there was something almost gentle in his voice. Almost.
Run. The word thrummed in her veins like a second heartbeat, wild and insistent. Not just from the trial—from him.
From chains and cold hands and a life measured in missions where success meant survival and failure meant something worse than death.
Tomorrow, I will make sure I lose and disappear.
"If I lose tomorrow, I'm running," she said, tossing her bag onto the protesting bed. The frame shrieked like a dying animal, metal joints grinding against each other. "That principal and Aria? They'll make my life here a living hell. I'd rather take my chances with the wilds—at least wild beasts kill you quick."
Vyne's smile flickered like a candle in wind. "You trust me, huh?" There was something vulnerable in the question, as if her answer actually mattered to him.
Idiot. She smirked, but there was no real malice in it. "I trust you to save your own skin. Snitch on me and I'll drag you with me when I run. We'll be fugitives together—won't that be fun?"
"Flattering," he drawled, leaning against the wall with practiced casualness. His arms crossed over his chest, but she could see the tension in his shoulders. "But escape's a flogging offense here. They'll send the Royal Imperial Guards after you—the kind with tracking magic and very little mercy."
"I don't care," she said to the water-stained ceiling, where someone had carved what looked like a countdown. Thirty-seven days. Someone had been keeping track of something, and she wondered if they'd made it out alive.
"Some of us didn't enroll here for glory or power or whatever delusion drives most of these idiots. Like, I want to marry one of the kings. Or I want to have a night with the princesses."
Vyne's shadow shifted against the wall, mechanical eye whirring softly as it focused on her face. "Why'd you come, then? Really?"
Because monsters don't let their weapons retire. The thought came with phantom pain, the brand between her shoulder blades burning in memory like it had been pressed there yesterday instead of years ago.
"Bad luck," she said instead.
Silence stretched between them, thick as molasses and twice as suffocating.
Then—a metallic click that made her nerves jump. Vyne tossed something small and silver through the air.
She caught it midair, reflexes honed by years of surviving impossible situations: a lockpick, elegant and well-crafted.
A test? A trap? She rolled the tool between her fingers, feeling its weight, before shoving it deep into her boot where it couldn't be seen.
He sighed, the sound carrying more weight than words. "For what it's worth? I hope you make it."
"Just so you know, Midnight Blade specializes in assassination," Vyne said casually, examining his nails like he was discussing the weather instead of her potential future.
"They recruit based on stealth and precision, the ability to end lives without leaving so much as a whisper behind." He flicked a glance at her, studying her reaction. "You'd fit right in, considering your... talents."
Blazar shuddered so violently she nearly lost her balance. The words hit her like ice water, bringing back memories she'd spent years trying to bury. "No. Not that one. Never that one." Her voice cracked on the last word, raw with old pain.
Vyne arched a brow but had the grace not to press, though she could see the questions burning in his mismatched eyes.
"What about Crown's Conclave then? They're... different."
"And what do they want?" she asked, fingers tightening around the edge of her cot until her knuckles went white. The metal frame cut into her palms, grounding her in the present.
He leaned back against the wall, the dim light catching the mechanical whir of his artificial eye as it adjusted focus.
"Spies. Information brokers. They look for people who can lie without blinking, memorize entire conversations at a go, and smell betrayal before it happens."
His smile was sharp as winter wind. "The kind of people who survive by being smarter than everyone else in the room."
A slow, relieved breath escaped her, the first easy breath she'd taken all day. "I have all of those. Been using them to stay alive for years."
"Which is why you're still breathing," Vyne said dryly, his tone carrying undertones of something that might have been respect. "What, you thought Ryuzaki chose you because of your pretty face? That self absorbed psychopath doesn't take anyone without a reason."
She ignored that particular landmine, focusing instead on safer ground. "What circle are you in? Besides the obvious disaster magnet club."
He tugged at his orange-accented sleeve with something that might have been pride. "Fist of Flame. The colors give it away—Dante's circle wear orange accents."
A smirk tugged at his lips. "Ryuzaki's lot wear purple like they're trying to channel royalty, Vesper's crowd are drowning in red that matches their bloodthirst, Kaelric's frostlings sport icy blue that makes your teeth ache to look at, and Xeari's crew bleed silver like liquid moonlight."
"And the Royalins?" The word tasted sour on her tongue.
"Pink and gold. Gaudy as a peacock's ass, if you ask me." He pushed off the wall, floorboards creaking ominously under his weight.
The sound echoed in the small space like gunshots. "Dominant color's white though—academy's pride and joy. Pure as fresh snow and twice as cold."
A beat.
Outside, wind howled through the academy's stone corridors like the voices of every student who hadn't made it through their trials.
"Should get going," Vyne muttered, turning toward the door with obvious reluctance. His hand hesitated on the handle for just a moment.
"Back to my dorm before someone notices I'm fraternizing with the infamous Dante-stabber. Try not to die before the trials, yeah? I'd hate to lose the most interesting person I've met in months."
The door clicked shut behind him with mechanical precision, leaving Blazar alone in the dim glow of the oil lamp that flickered like a dying heartbeat.
The silence pressed against her like a physical weight, broken only by the distant howl of wind against the academy's ancient stone walls and the occasional creak of settling timber.
At least I have time to tend to my wounds before tomorrow.
She exhaled sharply, the sound harsh in the enclosed space, and rolled her shoulders as she began peeling off her baggy shirt.
The fabric stuck to the half-dried blood on her ribs like a second skin, each tug sending fresh waves of pain through her battered torso.
The tall mirror in the corner—cracked and spotted with age—reflected her pathetic form: bruises mottling her abdomen in shades of purple and yellow, shallow cuts from Dante's claws still weeping crimson tears.
Her fingers trembled despite her best efforts to keep them steady as she reached for her bag, digging through layers of carefully packed belongings until she found the first-aid kit.
It was worn from years of use, the leather cracked and stained with old blood—both hers and others'.
The sting of alcohol on her wounds made her hiss between clenched teeth, but the pain was familiar, almost comforting in its predictability.
I wish I was a healer like Theo. Then I wouldn't have to do this myself.
The thought tasted bitter as medicine, tinged with envy she'd never admit aloud. Power like that—effortless mending, flesh knitting at a touch—was wasted on nobles who'd never known real pain, who'd never had to stitch themselves back together in dark rooms with shaking hands.
A sharp knock at the door made her freeze, bandages half-wound around her ribs.
Before she could even turn, before she could grab a weapon or cover herself or do anything but stand there like a deer in headlights, the hinges groaned in protest.
No.
Kaelric stepped inside, and his presence sucked the warmth from the room like winter itself had decided to pay a visit. Ice crystals began forming on the mirror's surface, and her breath came out in visible puffs.
Blazar's breath hitched in her throat, panic clawing at her chest with razor talons.
Fuck.
Her hands flew to her chest, fingers knotting desperately in the bandages still wrapped tight around her torso.
The bindings covering her chest held, thank every god she'd never believed in, but her pulse roared in her ears like a thunderstorm. Eight years. Eight years of hiding, of careful planning and constant vigilance, and now—