Blazar's boots scuffed against the marble floors as she stalked down the hallway, her head low, her jaw clenched so tight she could feel her molars grinding. The wound on her cheek burned like acid against raw flesh, a steady trickle of blood sliding down her neck, soaking into the stiff collar of her already ruined uniform.
She didn't wipe it away. This is what happens when you try to do the right thing in this godforsaken place.
What now? Where the hell am I even supposed to go? The thought pounded in her head in rhythm with each angry footstep.
She traced her fingertips over the hidden knife in her sleeve, the cool metal a small comfort against her feverish skin. At least she still had this.
The academy stretched around her like a gilded maze, all towering arches and stained-glass windows casting fractured light over the bloodstains on her sleeves—crimson fragments of blue and gold dancing across evidence of violence that nobody would acknowledge.
Elaborate tapestries depicting the academy's illustrious history hung on walls that had witnessed centuries of the same brutal hierarchy she'd crashed against today. The smell of ancient books and polished stone couldn't mask the underlying scent of fear and ambition that permeated every corner.
She didn't belong here. She didn't want to be here. The weight of that truth pressed down on her shoulders like a physical burden.
Her calloused hands and street accent marked her as clearly as if she'd been branded. And after today, after challenging Dante in front of half the student body, she wasn't sure she'd survive long enough to pretend otherwise.
Blazar's fingers tightened around the hidden blade as a shadow detached itself from the arched corridor ahead. Her heart hammered against her ribs, fight-or-flight response flooding her system with adrenaline.
Every muscle in Blazar's body coiled tight as a spring. Her fingers found the knife hidden in her sleeve before recognition clicked through the haze of pain and exhaustion—the boy from the courtyard.
The one she'd watched writhing under Dante's claws, the one whose ribs had cracked loudly enough for her to hear from across the practice field.
The one she'd saved by throwing herself between him and those sharp claws. The one who'd gotten her into this mess. Alive. Patched up. Smiling.
Of course he's smiling. Why wouldn't he be? Bitterness flooded her mouth.
Up close, he was all sharp edges and mismatched parts—deep navy hair, nearly black, styled in an uneven undercut, one side longer than the other in a way that seemed deliberately asymmetrical rather than haphazard.
His right eye was a warm hazel that might have been friendly under different circumstances, but the left was an unnatural, piercing yellow, like a cat's eye caught in lamplight.
A thin scar ran through his left brow, the tissue white against his olive skin, and his mouth worked around a piece of gum, chewing lazily as if he hadn't almost died hours ago. As if this were any ordinary day.
"My name's Vyne," he said, sticking his hand out like they were meeting under normal circumstances.
Like she hadn't seen him half-dead at Dante's feet, like her uniform wasn't stiff with both their blood. "Thought I should properly introduce myself to the person who saved my life."
Blazar didn't take it. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion, scanning the corridor behind him for any signs of an ambush. "What do you want?" Her voice was a blade, honed to a dangerous edge by years of survival instincts that screamed this was a trap.
He retracted his hand without offense, clearing his throat. A flash of something—understanding? pity?—crossed his features before his easy smile returned. "I'm your guide."
"Who sent you?" She took half a step back, creating distance between them, her stance automatically shifting to defensive. Nobody did favors at the academy without collecting something in return.
"Standard procedure," he said, shrugging with an ease she couldn't fathom. "New students who don't know what they're doing get assigned help. I get paid for this anyway." The subtle emphasis on "don't know" made her bristle, pride flaring hot beneath her skin.
His gaze flicked to her cheek, lingering on the still-bleeding gash. His brow furrowed slightly, the first genuine concern she'd seen from anyone all day. "We should get you to the infirmary."
"I can handle it myself." She stepped around him, her boots squeaking against the polished floor. She'd been patching herself up since she was seven—a scratch like this was nothing compared to what she'd survived on the streets.
Vyne moved faster than she expected for someone who'd been injured so recently.
Suddenly, his fingers clamped around her wrist—not rough, but unshakable. Before she could wrench free, he was pulling her down the hall, weaving through winding corridors with the confidence of someone who knew every secret passage and shortcut.
They passed gawking students who scrambled out of their way, whispering behind cupped hands, eyes wide with recognition. Great, word travels fast. By dinner, everyone will know about me.
"Let go—!" She tried to dig in her heels, but the slick marble offered no purchase.
"Nope." His reply was infuriatingly cheerful, like he was enjoying her futile struggles.
He yanked her through a side door she hadn't noticed before, into the academy's sprawling courtyard where just hours ago she'd made the possibly fatal mistake of interfering with Dante's "lesson."
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across immaculately trimmed hedges and stone benches where students practiced minor spells between classes.
Vyne led her away from the main buildings, toward a secluded bungalow half-hidden by overgrown ivy that crept across its stone facade like grasping fingers.
Without hesitation, he shoved the door open and pushed her inside.
White walls. Sterile air. Medical equipment gleaming under harsh lights. The unmistakable medicinal tang of antiseptic and healing salves.
An infirmary.
Blazar whirled on him, her teeth bared in a feral snarl. "I said I was fine!" The words came out louder than intended, bouncing off the sterile surfaces.
She fought the urge to cover her mouth, hating how her voice betrayed her discomfort. Healers asked questions. Questions led to records. Records could be accessed by those in power.
Vyne crossed his arms, utterly unimpressed by her display. "And I said I'm your guide." He tossed her a clean towel from a nearby shelf. "Now sit down before you bleed on everything and they charge you for cleaning. Trust me, you don't want to see those bills."
Blazar's fingers dug into the edges of the infirmary cot as she sat, her body rigid with distrust.
Infirmaries. Where covers get blown and gender disguises fail under scrutiny
The sterile air stung her nostrils, too clean, too controlled—nothing like the raw, iron scent of blood still clinging to her skin.
Her wound throbbed in time with her heartbeat, a persistent reminder of her vulnerability in this place where weakness was currency for the predators.
"Don't worry, the healers are good guys," Vyne said with an assuring smile, leaning against the wall with casual ease that made her want to shake him. How could he be so relaxed after what happened?
Bullshit. The thought came instantly, reflexively.
There were no "good guys" in this place. Only predators and prey. And right now, she was the latter—cornered, wounded, and pissed off.
Her eyes darted to the door, calculating her chances of making it out before whoever Vyne will summon arrived. Slim to none, given how her head was spinning from blood loss and lack of meals.
Vyne pressed a button on the bedside table. A sleek microphone slid up from the surface with a soft click. "Patient in Bed 403 seeking attention," he announced, then leaned back, flashing her a grin that probably charmed most people who didn't know better.
"Just a few seconds. They're quick here, unlike the public healers back in the Central-waste Ring."
He knows I'm from the central-waste. The realization sent a chill down her spine. How much did he know about her?
Then the door swung open with a soft pneumatic hiss.
Two men entered, their contrasting presence immediately filling the small room with a tension that made Blazar's skin prickle.
The first was tall, clad in a long white coat that reached his knees, his raven-black hair tied neatly back from a face lined with years of concentration.
His face was stern but lacked the glacial cruelty of Kaelric's. The starch-stiff posture and precise movements of his hands as he adjusted his white coat suggested military training rather than medical school.
Field medic turned academy physician, her mind catalogued automatically, always assessing, always looking for angles.
But it was the second figure that triggered her adrenal response, sending a fresh surge of fight-or-flight chemicals coursing through her system.
Red hair like spilled wine cascaded to his shoulders, one side artfully tucked behind a distinctly pointed ear, the other falling across his face in a calculated curtain.
The style was too deliberate to be careless—the longer side obscured his right eye completely, while the shorter strands on the left just teased vision.
A predator's camouflage, designed to make others underestimate depth perception while preserving his own.
He wore a high-collared trench coat over a black turtleneck that hugged his throat, maroon combat pants clinging to lean muscle that spoke of power carefully contained.
White knee-high boots that clicked with every measured step across the tile floor—boots made for show, not practicality, yet somehow more threatening for it. Dangerous.
Yet his smile—too charming, too bright—clashed with the lethal precision of his movements as he stalked into the room like he owned it.
"I said I'm bored with your collections, Theo. I want something different." His voice was syrup-sweet, but the words slithered down her spine like ice water. Collections? The implication made her stomach twist.
Theo didn't look up from his medical tray as he arranged his instruments with methodical care, seemingly accustomed to the redhead's demands. "We've fed you hybrids, synthetics, and three illegal species in the last month alone. At this point, either your physiology is rejecting all viable options, or you're intentionally wasting my time, or you're just being picky." The faintest note of exasperation colored his professional tone.
The redhead's smirk never wavered, but something dangerous flickered behind his visible eye—a flash of crimson like blood under ice. "That an excuse, Theo? Or are you ignoring orders now? Or are you just bad at your job?" Each question dripped with poisoned honey, a threat wrapped in sweetness.
Theo's hands stilled over a silver instrument. "With all respect, we've exhausted options that won't draw attention. Should we move to domestic animal blood next? Perhaps you'd enjoy something feline?" The subtle emphasis on the last word carried weight Blazar couldn't decipher but recognized as significant.
Silence stretched between them, taut as a wire.
Then—the redhead's nostrils flared. His head snapped toward Blazar with inhuman speed, causing her to flinch.
Every muscle in her body tensed, readying for combat even as her mind calculated the odds of survival.
She was on her own, with an unknown entity eyeing her like a freshly served meal.