Blackspire University slept with its eyes open.
That was the first thing Rowan Vale noticed as he crossed the quad alone. Not the quiet, not the lamplit paths or the clean stone buildings pretending to be ancient and benevolent, but the sense of awareness humming beneath it all. The campus did not rest. It watched. It waited.
Rowan moved at an unhurried pace, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed. He had learned early how to look like he belonged wherever he was standing, even when he did not. Especially when he did not. Scholarship students learned that trick fast or learned nothing at all.
The air was wrong.
It clung to his skin, heavy with damp autumn cold and something else layered beneath it. Copper. Sweat. Heat. The smell curled low in his chest and made his mouth ache in a way that had nothing to do with thirst. He slowed, jaw tightening, and forced himself not to look around like prey.
Get through the week, he told himself. Get your bearings. Then decide who to trust.
His phone vibrated.
Rowan stopped beneath a dying tree and pulled it free.
Unknown Number: You are late.
Late implied obligation. Obligation implied leverage. Rowan frowned.
Late for what?
The reply came instantly.
Unknown Number: Honors placement interview. North Wing. Sublevel.
His pulse ticked faster. Honors tracks did not operate like this. They did not meet after midnight. They did not send messages that disappeared the second you tried to call back. He stared at the screen, weighing instinct against ambition.
The scholarship covered tuition. Not survival. Not protection. Blackspire rewarded the bold and buried the cautious.
Rowan typed, On my way.
The North Wing crouched at the edge of campus like something embarrassed to be seen in daylight. Older stone. Fewer lights. No student traffic. The door opened when he touched it, silent and unresisting.
The air inside pressed close, cool and intimate, as if the building exhaled around him. The smell intensified. Blood now, unmistakable. His heart thudded harder, traitorous and eager.
The stairwell descended farther than any campus blueprint would admit. Each step took him deeper into the university's bones. No signs. No cameras. Just stone worn smooth by repetition.
By the time he reached the bottom, his nerves were alive, his skin was tight, and his senses were stretched thin.
Five men waited in the hallway.
They stood with casual confidence, blocking the exits without needing to acknowledge them. All young. All clean-cut. All were watching Rowan with the calm interest of men who already owned the outcome.
One stepped forward.
He was tall, broad, and immaculate in a way that felt deliberate. His smile was easy, practiced, and intimate.
"Rowan Vale," he said.
Rowan nodded. "You texted me."
"Yes. That tells me you follow instructions." The man gestured behind him. "This is the Nocturne Pact. Think of this as an interview."
Rowan felt the words settle under his skin, heavy and deliberate. "I did not apply."
"No one ever does," the man said. "Stand still."
The punch came hard and fast, cracking into Rowan's ribs and stealing his breath. Pain flared white-hot. Before he could recover, another blow landed, then another. Controlled. Precise. Not cruelty.
Assessment.
Rowan swung back on reflex, fist connecting with a jaw. Bone shifted. Someone laughed softly. Hands seized him and slammed him into the wall. His vision blurred. Blood flooded his mouth.
The tall man leaned in close, voice low. "Good. You fight."
Rowan spat red onto the stone. "Is that it?"
The smile sharpened.
"Now it begins."
They dragged him deeper, past doors that should not have existed, into a chamber carved from stone and shadow. Symbols crawled along the walls, etched deep, old enough to make his skin itch. Candles burned low, flames steady and patient.
A chair waited at the centre.
Rowan did not sit willingly. Leather straps bit into his wrists and ankles, tight and unforgiving. Panic surged, sharp and electric, but beneath it something darker stirred. Anticipation. Heat.
The tall man removed his jacket, rolling his sleeves with unhurried confidence.
"You have been selected," he said. "For strength. For adaptability. For hunger."
Rowan's heart pounded. "I do not agree to this."
The man chuckled. "Agreement comes later."
He stepped closer.
Only then did Rowan truly see his eyes. Too still. Too bright. When the man smiled again, his canines lengthened, sharp and gleaming.
Reality snapped into place.
The vampire leaned down.
Fangs pierced Rowan's neck, precise and intimate. Pain flared and dissolved, transforming into a molten rush that flooded his body. His pulse thundered against the intrusion. Fear tangled with sensation, arousal threading through it despite his resistance.
A sound escaped him, low and involuntary.
The vampire drank slowly, one hand pressed flat against Rowan's chest, fingers spread wide, possessive. Rowan's body betrayed him, arching against the restraints, nerves screaming as pleasure bled into terror. The world narrowed to heat and pulse and hunger.
The vampire pulled back before darkness took him.
"Remember this," he said softly. "This is the truth."
A blade flashed. Rowan hissed as his wrist opened, blood spilling thick and dark.
"Drink."
Rowan shook his head weakly. "No."
The blade pressed harder.
"Drink."
Something inside him gave way.
He drank.
The blood burned its path down his throat, violent and intoxicating. Power surged through him, rewriting muscle and bone, sense and instinct. His hearing exploded. Heartbeats echoed in the walls. The city above tasted alive.
He screamed as his heartbeat slowed, then stopped.
When it ended, he sagged forward, shaking, breath coming from habit alone.
The straps fell away.
"Welcome to the night," the man said.
Rowan slid to the floor.
He was no longer human.
And beneath the fear, beneath the shame and the thrill and the ache curling in his gut, a darker realisation took hold.
He wanted more.