Black roses lined the hall like a warning.
Not fresh ones—never fresh. These were preserved, lacquered until their petals gleamed like obsidian, arranged in perfect symmetry along the marble corridor of Blackthorn Academy. Seraphina Vale slowed her steps as she passed them, her fingers tightening around the leather strap of her satchel.
Black roses never bled.
That was the saying whispered by students who came from old money, the kind that didn't need explaining. The kind that decided futures before birth.
She didn't belong here. Everyone knew it—including her.
The academy rose ahead like a cathedral built for gods who no longer prayed. Gothic arches. Stained glass darkened by age. Towers that scraped the sky as if daring it to fall. Seraphina had memorized every corridor, every shadowed alcove, not because she loved the place, but because knowing your exits was a kind of survival.
Tonight, there were no exits.
A summons had arrived at dusk. No signature. No explanation. Just a black envelope sealed with gold wax and a single letter pressed into it:
I
Ivory Circle.
The name alone tightened something cold around her ribs.
She reached the doors at the end of the hall—tall, iron-framed, carved with symbols she pretended not to recognize. Two men in dark suits stood guard. Not academy staff. These men carried themselves differently. Still. Watchful. Dangerous in a quiet way.
"Seraphina Vale," one said, not asking.
She nodded.
The doors opened without a sound.
Inside, the room glowed with low amber light, candles set into the walls like watchful eyes. A long table dominated the center, carved from dark wood so polished it reflected the faces seated around it—twelve of them, all masked in shadow.
The Ivory Circle.
Her pulse thudded once. Then steadied. Fear was a currency here. She refused to spend it.
"Step forward," a voice commanded.
She did.
Each footstep echoed, too loud, too final. She stopped where the marble floor was marked with a thin gold ring—a boundary she instinctively knew not to cross.
"You were not born to us," another voice said, smooth and disdainful. "Your presence here is… irregular."
A ripple of amusement followed.
Seraphina lifted her chin. "Then this is a mistake."
Silence.
Then—laughter. Soft. Dangerous.
"There are no mistakes," the first voice said. "Only selections."
Her stomach dropped.
The truth settled slowly, like ash after a fire. She'd heard rumors. Everyone had. Of a girl chosen once a decade. A living vow. A secret bound in flesh and silence.
She had always assumed those girls came from somewhere else.
Not her.
"Why me?" she asked, before she could stop herself.
At that, someone leaned forward.
He didn't wear a mask.
Lucien Blackwood sat at the head of the table, his presence bending the room toward him like gravity. Dark hair. Sharply cut features. Eyes so cold they seemed carved from stone. He studied her not like a man appraising beauty, but like a strategist measuring threat.
"You're observant," he said. His voice was calm. Precise. "Unattached. And inconveniently resilient."
Her breath caught—not at the words, but at the way he said them, as if he already knew every corner of her life.
"I refuse," she said.
The candles flickered.
Lucien's mouth curved—not into a smile, but something close. "You can't."
A parchment was placed before her, unfurled by unseen hands. Ancient script. A vow written in ink so dark it looked wet.
"Read," a voice ordered.
She did.
Each line tightened the room around her.
I will wear your name.
I will guard your secrets.
I will burn before I betray you.
Seraphina's fingers trembled as she lowered the page.
"What happens if I say no?"
Lucien stood.
The sound of his chair sliding back was quiet, but it silenced the room. He stepped into the light, and for the first time she understood why people feared him. Not because he was loud. Or cruel.
But because he looked at her as if resistance was merely a delay.
"Then," he said softly, stopping an arm's length away, "you leave this room knowing too much."
Her heart hammered.
"And no one ever leaves the Circle with knowledge intact."
The threat wasn't in his tone. It was in his certainty.
Seraphina stared at the vow again. At the future closing in around her. At the truth she had spent her life avoiding.
Kneeling would keep her alive.
Standing would change everything.
She lifted her chin.
"I'll swear it," she said. "But I won't kneel."
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the Circle.
Lucien studied her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he extended his hand—not to help her kneel, but to seal the vow.
"Very well," he said. "But understand this, Seraphina Vale."
His fingers closed around hers. Cold. Unyielding.
"Black roses never bleed."
Her voice didn't shake when she replied.
"Then I'll be the first."
— End of Chapter One