The night the kingdom began to die, it rained like the sky was grieving.
The forest road was nothing but mud and shadows. Thunder split the clouds open, revealing a white horse tearing through the dark—its hooves slick with blood and rain. Upon its back clung the King and Queen of Edevane, their royal cloaks torn, crowns abandoned somewhere in the chaos behind them.
"Faster!" the Queen cried, her fingers digging into the King's armour.
"They're still following us."
The King did not answer. He couldn't. His breath came out broken, his chest burning as if something invisible had already sunk its claws into his heart.
Behind them, the forest moved.
Not footsteps.
Not wolves.
Something darker.
A shadow peeled itself from the trees. Then another. And another. Their shapes were wrong—too tall, too thin, like nightmares pretending to be human.
The horse screamed.
In one violent moment, the night swallowed the crown.
Steel flashed. Blood sprayed against pale bark. The Queen's cry was cut short. The King fell to his knees in the mud, his eyes wide with the kind of terror no throne could protect him from.
And then—
Silence.
By morning, only rumours remained.
No one knew who had killed the royal couple.
No one knew why they had been hunted.
And no one dared to whisper the word blood magic out loud.
Three Years Later
Nyx Blackthorne walked through the iron gates of Ravensmere Academy like a ghost.
The school buzzed with laughter and magic—students glowing faintly with their powers, light flaring at fingertips, whispers of spells curling in the air. Everyone belonged to something here. A house. A circle. A friend.
Everyone except her.
Black dress. Black eyes.
Shadow clinging to her steps like it knew her name.
Desks filled quickly as students rushed into the classroom. The seat beside Nyx remained empty, as always. No one sat near the girl with blood in her magic. No one wanted to risk being seen too close to the dark.
At the front of the room, Elara Whitmore laughed, her voice light as bells. White hair fell like silk down her back, her blue eyes shining as students gathered around her. She didn't look at Nyx. She never did.
Nyx kept her gaze on the window.
We share the same blood, she thought bitterly.
But she lives in the light… and I live in the shadow of her existence.
The door creaked open.
Two boys stepped inside.
The room shifted.
Whispers followed them—new faces always did—but these two carried a presence that made the air feel heavier. Dark coats, sharp features, eyes too knowing for their age.
"Transfers," the teacher announced. "Lucien Ashcroft. Rowan Ashcroft. Take any empty seats."
The classroom offered many.
They ignored all of them.
Lucien's gaze moved once around the room—then stopped.
On Nyx.
Something dangerous flickered in his eyes, slow and deliberate, like a predator recognizing its prey. Rowan noticed it too, his expression tightening, though his eyes softened when they met Nyx's distant stare.
Without asking, without hesitation, they walked toward her.
The entire class went silent as Lucien dropped into the seat beside Nyx.
Rowan took the one behind her.
No one had ever chosen to sit there.
Nyx felt it before she saw it—the shift in the air. The heat of someone else's presence in her space. Her fingers tightened around her pen.
"You don't belong here," she said quietly, not looking at him.
Lucien leaned closer, his voice a whisper meant only for her.
"Neither do you. That's why I chose this place."
Her breath caught.
Rowan spoke from behind, softer. "We're not afraid of shadows."
Nyx finally turned to look at them.
And in that moment, something ancient stirred inside her blood.
Across the room, Elara looked up.
Her smile faded when she saw where the transfers had chosen to sit.
For the first time in years…
someone was looking at Nyx Blackthorne.
And for the first time—
Nyx felt seen...