The scholarship hall smelled of mildew, industrial cleaner, and despair.
It was located in a wing of the academy that time and funding had forgotten. The stone here was darker, grimier. The carpet in the narrow corridor was a faded burgundy, worn thin in the center by decades of anxious feet. Lia's keycard clicked in the lock of room 312, and the door swung inward with a protesting groan.
The room was a cell. A narrow bed with a thin mattress and plain white linens was pushed against one wall. A scarred wooden desk and a chair that looked like it had survived several wars occupied the opposite side. A single, high, arched window offered a view of a dank inner courtyard and the imposing back wall of the main library. The only light came from a dim, buzzing fluorescent panel on the ceiling. It was monastic, punitive. A clear message: you are here on sufferance.
Lia dropped her duffel bag on the bed. The sound was hollow in the small space. She walked to the window and placed her palms flat on the cold stone sill. The storm was finally easing, leaving behind a bruised twilight sky and a dripping, glistening world. From this angle, she could see the lit windows of the other dormitories—the ones for the paying students. They looked warmer, larger. She imagined plush carpets, canopy beds, fireplaces.
This is where they put the ones who don't belong, she thought, not with self-pity, but with cold, analytical clarity. Out of sight, out of mind. Easier to control.
A soft knock at the door made her stiffen. She wasn't expecting anyone.
She opened it to find a girl standing in the hallway, looking as nervous as a cornered rabbit. She was petite, with wispy blonde hair and wide blue eyes behind round glasses. She clutched a binder to her chest like a shield. "Hi," she whispered. "I'm Chloe. I live in 310. Across the hall."
Lia forced her shoulders to slump, her expression to soften into a tentative, friendly mask. "Lia. Come in."
Chloe scurried inside, her eyes darting around the room as if confirming they'd both been sentenced to the same prison. "It's… cozy," she offered weakly.
"It's something," Lia said, turning back to the window. She needed to establish her persona. The quiet, bookish scholarship girl. "Do you know when the library opens?"
"Oh, the main one? Not until tomorrow after orientation. But there's a smaller one in the east wing for… us." Chloe blushed. "It's not as good. Fewer books. No restricted sections, obviously."
Obviously. Lia stored the information away. Access would be a problem. Elena's notes, the ones she'd managed to sneak home during her last break, had mentioned a "Restricted Archives" in the sub-levels of the main library. That was her first target.
"Are you going to the welcome mixer?" Chloe asked, her voice tinged with both hope and dread.
The mixer. A mandatory social event in the Grand Refectory. A chance for the elite to size up the new blood and for the new blood to learn their place. Lia's skin crawled at the thought, but absence would draw more attention than presence.
"I suppose I have to," Lia said, injecting a note of reluctant anxiety into her voice.
"I heard Kane Wolfe and Elara De Leon will be there," Chloe said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "They're like royalty here. He's the Wolfblood heir. She's from the Vampyre clan that controls most of the banking syndicates in Southern Europe. They're engaged. Can you imagine?"
Lia could imagine. She'd seen them. The cold prince and his venomous queen. "They seem… intense," she murmured.
"That's one word for it," Chloe breathed. "My cousin was here two years ago. He said you just… stay out of their way. Don't make eye contact. Don't speak unless spoken to. It's easier."
Easier. Lia's jaw tightened behind her meek smile. Elena hadn't stayed out of anyone's way. Elena had burned bright enough to get herself killed.
An hour later, wearing the same slightly-dried clothes (she had nothing else to change into that wouldn't break her 'poor student' cover), Lia followed a stream of other scholarship students through the labyrinthine corridors toward the Grand Refectory. The contrast was jarring. One moment they were in the dim, functional service corridors, the next they pushed through a set of heavy double doors into a scene of opulent chaos.
The Grand Refectory was a cathedral to excess. Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, painted with frescoes of mythical beasts and celestial battles. Three massive crystal chandeliers, each holding a hundred real candles, cast a warm, dancing light over the scene.
Long tables groaned under the weight of silver platters laden with food that looked like art: intricately carved fruits, glistening roasts, towers of delicate pastries. A string quartet played something classical in a corner, the notes barely audible over the din of laughter and conversation.
The air was thick with the mingled scents of expensive perfume, fine wine, and magic. It was the magic that set Lia's teeth on edge—a low, background hum of power, different flavors and strengths brushing against her senses. Some felt cold and sharp (Vampyre), others warm and earthy (Wolfblood), others still like the crackle of static (lesser sorcerer lines). She kept her own senses tightly leashed, a dull, blank wall. A mouse feels nothing.
The student body was a study in casual, breathtaking wealth. The boys wore tailored blazers or designer sweaters with an effortless grace. The girls were visions in silk, cashmere, and jewels that glittered under the candlelight. They moved in tight, laughing packs, their eyes constantly scanning, assessing.
Lia and Chloe stuck to the periphery, near a table holding glasses of sparkling water. Lia took one, her fingers leaving faint smudges on the crystal. She made herself small, her eyes downcast, observing everything from behind the shield of her glasses.
She saw him almost immediately.
Kane Wolfe held court at the center of the room like a king holding an informal audience. He'd changed into dark trousers and a black turtleneck sweater that stretched across the formidable width of his shoulders and chest. He held a cut-crystal tumbler of amber liquid, ice clinking softly as he listened, with an air of profound boredom, to a group of older male students who were laughing too loudly at something one of them had said. He wasn't smiling. His winter-sky eyes scanned the room with a detached, predatory laziness.
Elara was his shadow, a vision in emerald green silk that matched her eyes. She stood slightly apart, holding a champagne flute, holding a separate court of her own with a coterie of flawlessly beautiful girls who hung on her every word. Her laughter was a bright, sharp sound that cut through the noise.
Lia watched as a first-year boy, emboldened by cheap punch, stumbled toward Kane's group, trying to join the conversation. He didn't get a word out. Kane's gaze slid to him, held for a fraction of a second, and then moved away as if the boy had simply ceased to exist. The boy faltered, his face flushing crimson, and melted back into the crowd. The dismissal was absolute, bloodless, and more effective than any shouted insult.
Power, Lia thought. Not just wealth or strength, but the absolute certainty of your own dominance. He doesn't need to assert it. It just is.
She was so focused on observing the dynamics of power that she didn't see the threat approaching from her blind side.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in. Or should I say, what the dog didn't bother to bury?"
The voice was male, sneering, and too close. Lia turned to see a tall, wiry boy with slicked-back dark hair and a sharp, fox-like face. He wore a smug expression and a velvet jacket that probably cost a fortune. Two of his friends flanked him, smirking. Chloe shrank back, almost disappearing behind Lia.
"You're the new scholarship project, right?" the boy continued, looking Lia up and down with open contempt. "The one who bumped into Wolfe. Bad start, sweetheart. Very bad start."
Lia kept her eyes on the floor. "It was an accident."
"Accidents have consequences here," he said, taking a step closer. The smell of his cologne was overpowering. "See, you're already causing problems. My friend Marcus here"—he jerked his head toward one of the smirking boys—"was trying to get a moment with Elara to discuss a family matter. But she's been in a foul mood ever since the… incident. Distracted. You distracted her."
This was absurd. A feudal system of blame based on perceived slights to nobility. Lia's fingers tightened around her water glass. "I apologized."
"Not to me, you didn't." The boy's smile turned nasty. "I think you owe us an apology. A proper one. Maybe on your knees."
A cold fury, sharp and clean, shot through Lia. It was the same fury that had fueled her through years of grueling training, that had honed her body into a weapon. For a split second, the mouse façade threatened to shatter. She could see the precise moves: a stomp to the instep, a driving palm-heel strike to the nose, a knee to the groin. He'd be on the ground before his friends could blink.
But that would be the end. Of her mission, of everything.
She forced a tremble into her lower lip. "Please," she whispered, the word tasting like ash. "I just want to be left alone."
"Tough luck," the boy said, reaching out to flick the rim of her glasses. "You're in the big leagues now. Time to learn the—"
"Corbin."
The single word, spoken softly, froze the boy's hand in mid-air. The sneer vanished from his face, replaced by instant, pallid fear.
Kane Wolfe stood a few feet away, having appeared as silently as a ghost. He hadn't raised his voice. He hadn't moved quickly. He'd just… arrived. His tumbler was still in his hand. His expression was one of mild, weary irritation, as if he'd been interrupted while watching a mildly interesting but ultimately tedious play.
Corbin swallowed audibly. "K-Kane. I was just… welcoming the new student."
"Did it require your pack?" Kane's gaze flicked to Corbin's two friends, who immediately found something fascinating to look at on the far wall. Then his eyes—those pale, terrifyingly intelligent eyes—settled on Lia. He looked at her for a long moment, taking in her hunched posture, her white-knuckled grip on the glass, the way her cheap blazer seemed to swallow her whole.
He looked back at Corbin. "She's beneath your notice, Corbin. And currently, she's in my line of sight. You're creating a stain on the floor. Remove yourself."
There was no threat in the words. Only absolute certainty. Corbin's face went from pale to grey. He nodded once, jerkily, and scuttled away, his friends following like chastised dogs.
The little bubble of space around them grew quiet. Chloe had vanished. The string quartet played on.
Kane took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving Lia. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Lia kept her gaze fixed on the polished toes of his black leather boots.
"You're a distraction," he said finally, his voice a low rumble. It wasn't an accusation. It was a clinical observation.
Lia dared a glance up. His face was impassive, but the intensity in his eyes was like a physical pressure. "I didn't mean to be," she whispered.
"Intent is irrelevant." He took a step closer. He was so tall, so broad, he seemed to block out the light from the chandeliers. Lia caught the faint, clean scent of him—soap, expensive wool, and something else, wild and elemental, like a forest after a lightning strike. Wolfblood. "You are a variable in a controlled environment. Variables cause friction."
He reached out. Lia flinched, expecting a blow, a touch, something.
He didn't touch her. His hand stopped inches from her face, his fingers moving to adjust the frame of her glasses, which had gone slightly crooked during her confrontation with Corbin. The gesture was shockingly intimate, performed with a detached, almost surgical precision. His fingertips brushed the sensitive skin by her temple. A jolt, electric and entirely unwelcome, shot down her spine.
"Better," he murmured, his eyes locking with hers through the lenses. For a heartbeat, she felt utterly seen, utterly exposed. He wasn't looking at the mouse. He was looking for something. "Stay out of the way, little mouse. The wolves here don't play with their food. They devour it."
He lowered his hand, turned, and walked back toward the center of the room without another glance. The spell—if that's what it was—broken.
Lia stood rooted to the spot, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her temple burned where his skin had brushed hers. The touch hadn't been cruel. It hadn't been kind. It had been… proprietary. A warning and a marking, all in one.
She looked down at the water in her glass. It trembled. So do I, she realized with a cold, sinking dread.
The mixer continued around her, a swirl of light and sound and predatory grace. But for Lia, the room had suddenly become a cage, and she had just been measured by the keeper.