Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rumi steps through the iron gates, and the world shifts around her. The air carries a weight she didn’t know she could feel—dense, heavy with something like expectation, like memory, like the hush before a storm. The gates swing closed behind her with a reluctant groan, and a chill creeps along her spine. The courtyard stretches ahead, vast and empty, bordered by soaring stone buildings whose spires seem to pierce the dull grey sky. Gargoyles perch along the edges, twisted faces frozen in silent screams, their stone eyes somehow tracking her every hesitant movement.

The ground beneath her boots is cobblestone, worn smooth by centuries, uneven in places, sending little tremors up her legs. Shadows pool between the stones, deeper than the light allows, and she feels them tugging at the corners of her awareness, nudging at something buried, something wary. She stops, eyes sweeping the courtyard. A fountain sits at the center, its stone cracked and dark with age. No water moves in it, yet she hears a whisper of trickle, almost like the memory of water. A single leaf drifts down from nowhere and settles on the rim, perfectly still.

The buildings themselves are impossible. Some are impossibly tall, others squat and sprawling, with arches that twist as if reluctant to meet the earth. Windows are tall, narrow, leaded with diamond panes, most dark, some glowing faintly with a candle or lantern, though no figure stands near any. Ivy crawls across the walls, black-green and glistening with wet, as if the stone itself sweats. Rumi runs a fingertip along one cold, damp brick and feels it pulse ever so slightly, subtle but undeniable, as if the wall is aware of her touch.

She moves forward, drawn along a narrow path between two buildings. The path twists, though she is sure it was straight moments ago. Leaves crunch beneath her boots, though no wind stirs the air. A crow caws somewhere in the distance, low and hollow, and she flinches, her body tensing without her will. The sound echoes off the stone in impossible directions, looping, folding back on itself. Her chest tightens.

The gates behind her seem to have vanished. A shadow moves across the courtyard, long and thin, stretching like smoke, but when she blinks, there is nothing. She tells herself it is her imagination. The campus is old. Older than her mind can measure. Older than her kind should even be aware of. And yet, somehow, it waits for her.

She rounds a corner and enters a narrow archway that opens into a covered corridor. The ceiling here is a lattice of timber and stone, carved with motifs she cannot name—creatures she does not recognize, some winged, some limbed, some both. They seem to squirm in the corners of her vision when she looks away. The corridor is dim, lanterns flickering along the walls. Shadows stretch and shrink with each flame’s pulse. She keeps walking, boots echoing softly. The echo does not follow a predictable path; it lags, jumps ahead, and then falls behind again. She slows.

Every surface hums faintly, a low vibration that settles into her chest. It is subtle, almost imperceptible, but it reminds her that she is not alone. Not yet, anyway. She wonders if the building itself is alive. Not sentient in a human way, but aware. Responding. Anticipating. She catches her reflection in a darkened windowpane—a pale, angular face, eyes wide, heart hammering—and the reflection lingers a heartbeat too long after she has turned.

The corridor opens into a vast hall, cathedral in scale, with vaulted ceilings that disappear into darkness above. Rows of tables run the length of the room, polished dark wood etched with scratches and initials that look centuries old. Candles float above them in glass globes, motionless in the absence of wind, casting pools of amber light that do not touch the shadows clinging to the corners. The walls are lined with bookshelves, packed with volumes bound in leather, vellum, and materials Rumi cannot identify. Some spines are embossed with symbols that twist when she looks away. When she dares a closer look, the letters seem to rearrange themselves, spelling words she does not know.

A chill drifts over her, not from any draft, but from the presence of the hall itself. It is waiting. Watching. Expecting. Her skin prickles. She feels exposed and infinitesimally small in a room that has surely held beings older than time. A faint scent drifts from the shelves, like dust, ink, and something metallic—iron, blood, memory. Her fingers twitch to reach out and brush a book, but she stops herself. The air hums louder here, a vibration that presses against her chest and throat.

She turns toward a stairway at the far end. Each step is carved stone, worn smooth by countless feet. The handrail is cold, impossibly smooth, and the pattern in the ironwork seems to writhe as her fingers trail over it. She ascends slowly, each step reverberating in the silent hall. The stairwell twists unnaturally, narrower in places, wider in others, as if measured to her own stride, though she has never been here before. Shadows cling to the corners, deeper than they should be, and she senses the weight of eyes she cannot see.

At the top, a long corridor stretches into the distance. Doors line both sides, each heavy and carved with runes she cannot decipher. Some doors are slightly ajar, revealing darkness within; she senses warmth, or movement, or maybe just the memory of both. The corridor tilts subtly, though she is sure the floor is level. She walks carefully, boots whispering against stone. The air tastes faintly of iron and something sweet, like honey gone sour.

She passes one door and feels a pulse beneath the wood, faint but rhythmic. She presses a hand against it. The pulse quickens. She jumps back. Her heartbeat pounds in her ears. She wants to run, and yet the corridor stretches endlessly ahead, drawing her forward with a magnetic pull she cannot name.

She reaches a window set into the wall, a high slit that offers a view of the courtyard below. The gargoyles have shifted subtly since she first saw them, heads turned toward her, wings extended as if frozen mid-flap. The fountain glows faintly in the pale afternoon light, though she knows there is no water moving within it. Shadows stretch from the building’s corners, dark and deep, and something flickers in the fountain—her reflection? Something else? She cannot tell.

The castle-like expanse seems to breathe around her. She walks on, down a hallway lined with statues of creatures she cannot name. Each statue is impossibly detailed, sinews and feathers and scales captured in mid-motion. Some seem almost alive; she swears she sees a head twitch, a finger twitch, but when she blinks, they are motionless again. Her footsteps echo. She is alone. She is not alone.

She passes another staircase spiraling downward, stone steps slick with damp. The handrail is carved in the shape of a twisting serpent, its eyes glinting faintly. She touches it. The serpent seems to shiver beneath her fingers. She jerks back. She tells herself it is just the play of shadow and light.

The air grows colder as she descends, the hum beneath her feet deeper, like a heartbeat of the building itself. Her loneliness settles heavier around her shoulders. Every shadow, every whispering echo, every quivering candle seems to remind her that she is utterly alone in a place that has existed longer than she can measure. And yet… she feels drawn in, compelled to keep walking, to keep exploring. To see every corner, every darkened archway, every whispering shadow.

She passes doors etched with symbols of fire, water, air, and blood. Some doors are chained. Some are open, revealing nothing but endless darkness. Occasionally, a faint light flickers behind a door, like a candle someone has forgotten. She hears a murmur in the distance—footsteps? Breath? Perhaps a voice—but when she rounds the corner, there is nothing. Only the building. Only the pulse beneath her boots. Only the cold stone pressing against her skin.

Finally, she comes to a grand hall, circular and impossibly high. A domed ceiling rises above, painted with stars that shift when she looks at them. The light from the windows glints across the polished stone floor, fractured into a thousand slivers. In the center, a single stone pedestal holds an open book, pages fluttering though no wind moves them. The words inside rearrange themselves, glowing faintly, pulsing like the heartbeat of the building. She steps closer, compelled, and the hum beneath her feet rises, filling her chest, wrapping around her ribcage, settling like molten metal in her bones.

She stops, finally, at the center of the hall. She feels the full weight of the academy pressing in on her: alive, ancient, aware, waiting. It knows she is here. She cannot hide. She cannot retreat. The walls pulse with the memory of those who have come before, and the possibility of those who will come after. She shivers, the loneliness and awe mingling, a bitter-sweet taste on her tongue. She is small. She is insignificant. And yet she is seen.

She takes a deep breath. The air is heavy, thick with centuries of magic and memory, and something else she cannot name—anticipation. She moves forward, hands brushing along the cold, living stone. The academy waits, and she walks into it, alone, but tethered already to its endless, breathing heart.

And in the quiet hum beneath her feet, in the twisting corridors, in the shadowed corners, she feels a strange flicker of recognition, of something almost like belonging. She does not belong here yet. Perhaps she never will. But the building knows her name already, whispered through the stone and shadow, and it is waiting for what comes next.

24 hours earlier…

Rumi sat cross-legged on the edge of the creaking attic floor, the moonlight slicing through the cracked windowpanes, pooling across her unnatural hair — strands that shimmer violet and silver in the light, too long for any human head, tumbling past her waist like living water. Her cat-like eyes occasionally showing as she shifts her focus, narrowing as they catch the moon, the faint flash of gold against her dark irises, and she bares her small, sharp fangs in a reflexive pout.

Celine stands across from her, robes swaying with the quiet movements of a woman used to commanding rooms without raising her voice. She tilts her head, grey strands catching the moonlight as her eyes, pale and precise, lock onto Rumi’s. There’s a subtle edge to her gaze — the wariness of someone who knows the dangers of demons firsthand. She crosses her arms.

“You’re going to the academy tomorrow,” Celine begins, voice calm but carrying a weight that makes Rumi stiffen. “I don’t want excuses. I don’t want tantrums. I want you to behave.”

Rumi’s lip quirks, a faint defiance glinting in her feline gaze. “I know how to behave,” she says, voice soft, but there’s a tremor — not fear, exactly, but the echo of all the times she’s been told she’s dangerous, un-trustable, unnatural.

Celine steps closer, hands clasped behind her back. “You may know, Rumi, but the world doesn’t. You’re a demon. A creature with instincts that even you barely understand. And everyone… witches especially, feel you the moment you step near. Regardless of where I send you, people will be watching. Waiting. For you to do something, to slip up, to cause an accident, to corrupt someone.”

Rumi tenses. Her claws dart out, hidden behind her like a shadow of her mood, tensing once. “They’re just… people. They don’t know me.”

“People?” Celine’s laugh is quiet, without humor. “Yes, technically. But most don’t survive an encounter with one of your kind unscathed. Demons are not like other supernatural’s Rumi, you have to remember that. You are… adaptive, cunning, impulsive. You feel too much, and you take what you want when you want it. You have power you barely understand, and even the most respected creatures can be corrupt by their desires—” she gestures vaguely at Rumi, “—even I cannot always control the ways it manifests.”

Rumi swallows. Her hands curl around her knees. “I won’t cause trouble. I’ll—”

“You will cause trouble,” Celine interrupts softly but firmly, letting no room for argument. “It’s in your nature. That doesn’t make you bad. But it does make you dangerous to anyone unprepared. And the academy is prepared for it. You must—must—control yourself. Temper your hunger, your curiosity, your… flashes. You can not reveal more than the minimum until you know exactly what you’re dealing with. Specifically with your roommates.”

She kneels slightly to meet Rumi’s eye level. “Your hair, your eyes, your teeth… they’re not just quirks. They’re signals. Some will be intrigued, some fearful, some cruel. Do not let them see you emotional, that’s when things get dangerous.”

“So why not have me dorm alone? Or with my own kind?” Rumi whispers, eyes shining with fear.

“Because Rumi,” Cline sighs, “Even with my connection to the board, I was only able to pull so many strings. You are being accepted under the ‘interspecies integration program’. It’s designed to test how well different species can be housed together, for future generations.”

Rumi brushes a violet strand from her face. Her reflection in the moonlight makes her own fangs catch briefly. She hates how obvious she feels, how much she stands out. Celine reaches out, a hand hovering near her shoulder before settling gently. The touch is firm, grounding, maternal—but not soft.

“You will arrive a day before the other students,” Celine says. “They will not notice. They will not care. But you, Rumi… you need this time alone to familiarise yourself with the campus. You need to learn how to move among other supernatural’s, without revealing more than necessary. Do not fight it. Do not flaunt it. Just… exist, observe, and adapt. It will be easier if you have a day to acclimate.”

Rumi’s cat-like pupils dilate briefly, a golden shimmer passing through her gaze as she nods. “A day early…”

“Yes,” Celine says. “You are stronger than you think, and sharper. But you are still young. You need guidance. I cannot always be there to stop you from… from doing what your nature wants. So consider this a gift. A chance to prepare yourself.”

The room falls silent except for the distant whisper of wind through broken panes.

Celine steps back, letting the space between them stretch. “Do not fail, Rumi,” she says quietly. “Do not give them reason to fear you. And remember… no matter what the world thinks of your kind, there are those who care. There is one who will always care.” Her hand lifts slightly, brushing briefly through Rumi’s hair, the strands catching the moonlight. “Learn control. Learn patience. And for now… learn how to survive among them.”

Rumi exhales, a small, sharp breath that smells faintly metallic. She curls her fingers around her knees again. “I’ll… try.”

“You won’t just try,” Celine says, voice firm, almost a growl. “You will succeed. Or you will learn the consequences firsthand. I am giving you the tools to survive. You take them, or you suffer. There is no in-between.”

The witch’s grey eyes soften for a moment, the edge of sternness giving way to a sliver of warmth. “Remember, Rumi… they don’t know your history. They don’t know how you came into this world, how you have been raised, or who your father was. Let that be a blessing, a fresh start.”

Rumi nods again, slower this time, letting the gravity of it sink in. She is more than a girl, more than she knows. And tomorrow, alone among strangers, she will have to be more than herself.

Celine steps back fully, robes brushing the floor. “Now,” she says, “pack your things. You leave at dawn. Do not waste it.”

Rumi rises, hair falling like molten violet over her shoulders, fangs catching the dim moonlight, eyes briefly flashing gold as she looks toward the window. She does not yet understand it fully, but she feels the pulse beneath her skin, the stir of power in her veins. And she knows… she is ready, or she will learn soon enough if she is not.

Celine watches her for a long moment, letting the silence stretch. “Go,” she finally says, voice quiet but absolute. “And do not embarrass me Rumi.”

Rumi bows her head slightly, and with that, she leaves the attic, stepping into the shadows that will carry her to the gates of the academy, a day early, alone, and entirely untested.

Present day…

Rumi freezes mid-step, the echo of her boots swallowed suddenly by a silence that feels thicker than the shadows clinging to the stone walls. The faint hum beneath the corridors vibrates against her chest, a pulse she has grown to feel as part of herself, and yet something about it shifts. A presence. Something else. Something heavy, deliberate, breathing with her rhythm.

She whips around.

There, leaning against the wall across the corridor, a figure appears in the dim glow of the flickering lanterns. Tall, impossibly so, broad as the hall itself seems narrow. A dark beard frames a face that might have been sculpted from shadow and sunlight, though the green of his eyes catches the lantern light like flame. They burn against her vision, bright and impossible, unnatural, yet almost human. Muscles ripple beneath the dark fabric of his fitted navy three piece suit as he moves slightly forward, a subtle flex of limbs that makes her pulse tighten reflexively.

The air carries a scent, layered, sharp, rustic and earthy, with a hint of pine and something warmer beneath — instinctive and immediate. Rumi inhales sharply, eyes narrowing. She knows that scent. Werewolf. Her stomach tightens.

A low chuckle rumbles through the corridor. “Relax,” the man says, voice deep, warm, yet authoritative, reverberating against the stone. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Rumi tilts her head, cat-like pupils flashing gold for the briefest instant, fangs glinting in the lantern light. “You’re a werewolf,” she mutters, more to herself than to him, scent and instinct confirming it.

The man straightens, smiling faintly. “Jin Choi,” he says, extending a hand, though she doesn’t take it immediately. “Headmaster of this… unusual institution. You can refer to me as Headmaster, or Doctor Choi. You must be Rumi Ryu, Celine’s ward.”

Her eyes flicker across his face again, scanning the strength and certainty in his posture, and she can feel the weight of power in him, hidden behind sharp features and an attractive smile. He has to be at least fifty, yet he carries himself like a man in his twenties. She nods once, cautious. “Yes.”

He inclines his head. “I’ve been expecting you. The academy has been preparing for your arrival, we don’t get many demons these days. Come. Let’s get you settled.”

Something about his tone is so different from Celine’s that it makes her stomach twist with confusion. Calm, confident, not wary, not harsh, not withholding. She’s unused to this. She follows, boots echoing softly on the stone floors, shadowing him as they move. Every step she takes feels like testing the hallways, yet she senses his presence at her side even when she doesn’t see him. Protective, attentive, but never overbearing.

The corridor twists again, narrowing slightly, and Rumi feels the pulse beneath the floor intensify. The building hums louder, almost welcoming. Doctor Choi speaks, voice low, steady, not breaking the silence but filling it with a kind of warmth that makes the air feel less oppressive.

“Tomorrow, your classmates arrive,” he says, walking just slightly ahead. “But tonight is about settle in for you. You’ll have the chance to adjust, to acclimate, and to understand the corridors without the pressure of others’ expectations.”

Rumi glances up at him, eyebrows knitting together. “The corridors are alive aren’t they?” she asks, cautious. “I thought I was imagining things.”

He chuckles softly, a low, reassuring sound. “Yes. The corridors respond. But it is more than that. The academy has existed for thousands of centuries, observing, adapting, learning. It responds to every inhabitant individually, sometimes to guide, sometimes to test. You will find it challenging, sometimes overtly emotion provoking. But you are stronger than most who arrive. You will not falter.”

Her hands tense, irritation and apprehension mingling. His certainty unnerves her. “Stronger?” she echoes. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough,” Choi says, voice unwavering, eyes glinting with that impossible green. “My best friend is a demon, over two-hundred years old and one of the calmest creatures I know. He will be one of your mentors here, but you will come to find the staff here do not care what you are, just that you try your best.”

“There are other demons here?” Rumi finds herself asking, before can stop herself.

“Of course,” Choi huffs, “Not as many as when I attended college here, but we have six active demon students, one professor. With you being the only female, that makes eight in total. Trust me you wont miss them, the glowing patterns usually give you all away – and the horns.”

He laughs, winking as he looks over Rumi, eyes taking in how she covers her patterns with a oversized hoodie and jeans.

“I don’t like showing them,” Rumi mumbles, “And my horns get itchy if I leave them out.”

Choi hums, like he can see the inner turmoil of the girls brain. Yet he doesn’t comment, just keeps them walking down another corridor.

He pauses at a heavy, arched door, carved with runes that pulse faintly in the dim light. He glances at her, noting the slight tension in her shoulders, the sharp flash of her fangs as she lifts her chin defensively, the way her eyes shift between him and the door as if measuring threat.

“This is your room, Banshee Hall, number 77,” he says. “Your space for the next year. You will have no roommates tonight. Tomorrow, the others will arrive. You will find them interesting, I think. I hand picked your roommates, a werewolf and a vampire.”

Rumi steps closer, trailing a hand along the carved wood. The runes shimmer faintly under her touch. She jerks her hand back. “It’s… alive?” she asks.

Jin smiles. “In a way. The room is linked to you. Your DNA, your energy, your… essence. The door will only open for you. Do not fear it. Do not resist it. It is part of the academy’s preparation for your presence.”

Her eyes narrow, mind racing. “Preparation for… me?”

“Yes,” Jin says. “I have arranged your electives for this term. Your training will be tailored to your abilities, to your demonic nature. You will master your demonic instincts, your strengths, and your impulses. The academy’s aim is to guide you, not to suppress you. You are safe here. You are welcome. You may be yourself, fully, and there is no judgment, no fear for your survival only growth.”

Rumi falters, just slightly. Her mind flashes to Celine’s warnings: “control, temper, hide, survive…” and she feels the dissonance twisting inside her. This man… this werewolf, a creature whose kind her adoptive mother would have advised her to mistrust, is telling her exactly the opposite. Safe. Free. Allowed to exist fully. The contradiction makes her stomach churn.

She traces a finger along the runes again. “Safe?”

“Yes,” he says, voice firm but gentle. “I know your kind. I know your history. And the academy exists to ensure that what you are… is not punished here. You may study, you may train, you may explore, and you may be yourself. Nothing more. Nothing less. The hallways will adjust to you as needed, and the building will watch over you as required. But you are not alone.”

Her fangs flash faintly again, the faintest gold flicker in her eyes, as she studies him. “I don’t… understand. You don’t seem cautious. Like Celine.”

Jin’s gaze softens, though the strength behind it does not waver. “Celine prepares you for survival, for the dangers outside. I prepare you for mastery, for life within. There is a difference. One protects you from harm; the other teaches you to grow, to become something more. Both are valuable. Both are necessary. But here… you can breathe.”

Rumi blinks, almost overwhelmed. The weight of centuries seems to press from the walls, but the words, the presence, the reassurance… they create a strange kind of space in her chest. Not comfort, exactly. Not trust. But the stirrings of curiosity, of something like tentative hope.

Jin steps aside, gesturing to the door. “Try it,” he says. “Wave your hand over the handle.”

Rumi hesitates, hand hovering above the cold iron, fingers twitching uncertainly. The runes pulse faintly, sensing her. With a breath, she swipes her hand over the handle, and it clicks softly, unlocking with a faint shimmer of green light that flows across the carved patterns. The door swings open, revealing a room both elegant and austere: polished stone floors, tall arched windows, soft candlelight floating in glass globes, shelves along the walls lined with blank journals, scrolls, and odd instruments that hum faintly, alive with potential.

“Welcome,” Jin says, stepping aside. “This is your space. Unpack. Settle in. Make it yours. You get the first pick of the rooms.”

Rumi steps inside, boots echoing against the stone. The air smells faintly of parchment, warm wax, and the faintest metallic tang, almost familiar. She glances back at him, uncertain. “Should I be careful wandering the castle?”

“Yes, please,” he says, voice calm. “There are permanent residents. Scholars, caretakers, spirits, others… some who are not students and do not take kindly to interruptions. Observe, do not disturb. Explore with care. Think before acting. But no one will harm you. That I promise.”

She hesitates near the center of the room, eyes sweeping over the furnishings. “Permanent residents?”

“A few actually, who live here year round,” he says. “Two of which are demons like yourself. Others are scholars who have dedicated lifetimes to the study of magic, of monsters, of the building itself. Respect their space. You will need your rest for tomorrow, when your classmates arrive, and when your training begins.”

Rumi swallows, fingers brushing the surface of a desk carved from dark oak. She feels the hum of the academy beneath her fingertips, subtle and guiding, and wonders how much of what he said is truth, and how much is hope. Still, the presence of Jin, solid and unwavering, radiates reassurance she did not think she could feel from a stranger, especially one who smells so primal, so dangerous.

He moves to the door, placing a hand briefly on the frame. “Remember Miss Ryu… the building is yours tonight. Respect it. It respects you. Use this time wisely. The corridors are curious creatures; they will adjust to your moods, your needs, and your impulses. But never presume to command them until you understand them fully.”

Rumi nods slowly, a shiver crawling down her spine that is equal parts anticipation and trepidation. Jin tilts his head, the green of his eyes catching the candlelight one last time. “I will leave you now. Rest, explore cautiously, and remember… You may be yourself, fully and without fear.”

She watches him go, the echo of his boots fading down the corridor, leaving her alone with the hum of the building and the shadows stretching along the walls. The pulse beneath her feet throbs in quiet rhythm with her own heartbeat. She steps fully into the room, closing the door behind her, and runs a hand along the smooth iron handle, feeling the warmth of the enchantment linked to her alone.

Her chest tightens, mind spinning, and for the first time since she arrived, Rumi allows herself to breathe slowly. She is safe. She is welcome. She may exist as she is, and the academy will hold her.

The central living space unfolds before her in quiet symmetry, lit by soft lanterns suspended from wrought iron brackets along the stone walls. The room feels alive, humming faintly beneath her boots, as though the building itself is exhaling in her presence. Two large couches, dark leather worn and supple, face each other across a polished stone hearth. Shadows cling to the edges, pooling in the corners where the light from the flickering flames does not reach. Their cushions are plump and slightly indented, suggesting recent use, though she sees no sign of anyone here. The smell of wax and faintly aged fabric fills her nose, grounding her in the tangible reality of this space.

To her right, a small kitchen space perches against the wall, modest but practical. Stone counters gleam faintly under the lantern light, and dark wooden cabinets are etched with runes similar to those on the dorm door. A faint hum resonates from within them, as if the cupboards themselves are aware of their contents, adjusting to Rumi’s approach. Brass handles gleam faintly, reflecting the firelight, and she can almost feel the warmth of meals long prepared by students past, though the air is cool and still. She imagines shelves stocked with preserved fruits, jars of strange powders, and utensils that seem ordinary until they catch her eye, as if sensing her gaze, then subtly rearranging themselves so she sees what she needs.

A shared bathroom sits adjacent to the kitchen. The door is simple but sealed with the same faintly glowing runes as the dorm door. Rumi recognizes the pattern immediately. She traces a finger along the surface, feeling the pulse beneath the carvings — protective, adaptive, responding to her presence. The hum beneath her feet intensifies as she approaches, resonating faintly like the heartbeat of a giant creature, reminding her that the building watches and waits, even in quiet moments.

On the left side of the living room, three doors stand in sequence, identical in design, their surfaces etched with glowing runes. Each is sealed, a promise of private sanctuaries waiting beyond. Rumi’s eyes flicks nervously as she approaches the nearest door, hand hovering over the handle. The runes pulse faintly, sensing her touch, then the latch clicks softly. She pushes it open, the door swinging on silent hinges to reveal her room.

Her eyes widen. The space is vast, taller than she anticipated, the ceiling vaulted with dark timber beams crisscrossing above. A queen-sized bed dominates the room, centred against the far wall. The headboard is carved from deep oak, intricate patterns curling like vines, some of them subtly shifting under her gaze as if alive. The mattress is thick and inviting, draped with deep purple linens embroidered with silver thread that glints faintly in the candlelight. Pillows are piled generously, each embroidered with subtle arcane symbols, soft but with an underlying firmness that promises comfort even in restless nights.

Along the wall nearest the entrance, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stretch almost impossibly high, packed with volumes bound in leather and labelled per class, and materials she does not recognize. A sliding ladder is attached to a rail, polished from centuries of use, allowing access to the highest shelves. She can already imagine herself running her fingers along the spines, feeling the hum of knowledge thrumming through her fingertips. The air smells faintly of parchment, ink, and a subtle metallic tang that reminds her faintly of Celine’s attic, grounding her in memory.

Beside the bed, twin bedside tables gleam with polished mahogany, each with a single drawer and a small surface perfect for lanterns or personal items. One holds a floating candle, suspended in a glass orb, flickering softly without ever melting, its glow casting delicate shadows across the floor. The other table is bare, waiting for her possessions, yet somehow it feels familiar, like it knows what she will place there before she does.

Against the opposite wall, two large dressers stand, carved from dark oak, deep drawers gliding smoothly as she tests them. The handles are wrought iron, cold under her fingers, etched with subtle sigils of protection and preservation. She opens the top drawer of the nearer dresser, noting the faint vibration beneath her hands as if the wood is assessing her, learning her habits, her preferences. Each drawer seems to hum softly, a low resonance that fits into the thrum beneath her boots and the walls themselves, a subtle, constant awareness.

Near the window, a large desk stretches across the wall, polished dark wood with carved legs curling into claw-like feet that grip the floor. The surface is expansive, uncluttered except for a few journals and writing implements suspended above the wood as if waiting for her to command them. The chair is heavy, upholstered in deep purple velvet that seems to hug her shape, offering comfort but also stability. She drags it forward, testing the resistance of the caster wheels, noting the quiet hum that rises from the floor and resonates through her spine, a subtle whisper from the building beneath.

The window dominates the far wall, tall and arched, providing a view of an eerie lake beyond the academy grounds. The water is dark, almost black, with occasional silver ripples reflecting the moonlight. Fog hovers just above its surface, curling and twisting like tendrils of smoke that react subtly to her movements, drifting slightly toward the building as if acknowledging her presence. Trees line the far edge, skeletal and bare, their branches clawing at the sky, silhouettes sharp and jagged against the dark sky.

She sets her bags down, and begins to unpack. The act feels almost ceremonial, each item claiming a space in the room, each drawer, shelf, and surface attuning to her presence. Her uniforms fold neatly into the top dresser, fabrics sliding smoothly over each other. Books she brings with her, thin and heavy alike, find places along the lower shelves, the runes glowing faintly where the leather touches the wood. The building hums softly beneath her touch, responding to her movements with a subtle, almost imperceptible shift of air and shadow, like the exhalation of a creature breathing quietly in sleep.

Her personal items — a small mirror, a trinket from Celine, a worn journal that was her mothers — she places carefully on the desk and bedside table. Each seems to resonate slightly with the room, a faint warmth creeping up her fingers when she touches them, as if the space itself is welcoming the presence of her life, her identity, her habits. The floating candle above the bedside table flickers, casting shadows that stretch across the floor, climbing the walls, reaching the bookshelves and curling back again as if exploring, testing the limits of its illumination.

She sets her bedspread straight, running a hand over the embroidered silver threads, feeling the hum of magic in the threads, faint but constant. The sheets feel unusually soft yet structured, woven with spells of comfort and rest, promising nights of undisturbed sleep even if her instincts would normally keep her restless.

Rumi moves to the window, pressing a hand against the cold glass. The lake beyond seems to respond subtly, ripples forming as if in acknowledgment of her gaze. She leans slightly forward, catching a flash of movement in the shadows among the trees. A bird? A creature of the lake? She isn’t sure, but the pulse in the floor beneath her feet quickens slightly, matching her own racing heartbeat.

After a long moment, she turns back to the room, surveying what she has done. The space is slowly becoming hers — a room that is alive, responsive, and yet completely private. The hum beneath her feet is steady now, a constant reassurance that the academy watches, guards, and adjusts, even when no one else is here. She places the last of her personal items on the desk and steps back, letting the room breathe around her. The bed, the bookshelves, the dressers, the window, even the floating candle, all pulse faintly with acknowledgment, a soft whisper of welcome in the darkened space.

The room, this dorm, Banshee Hall, Fenric Academy itself, is strange, alive, and infinitely watchful. And yet, as she looks around at the meticulous arrangement of furniture, the echoing hum of protective enchantments, the subtle pulse of magic in every surface, she feels a rare spark of calm. For the first time since arriving, she senses that this is a space where she can exist fully, even if only for a night, even if only in small, careful ways.

She sits on the edge of the bed, letting her hair spill over her shoulders, violet and silver catching the candlelight. The bookshelves seem to lean slightly closer, as though curious, alive, breathing. Her eyes catch the gold flash in her own reflection in the window, and she feels a thrill of recognition — a sense that, finally, she belongs somewhere, even if it is strange, shadowed, and alive.

“I guess I just wait?” She hums to herself, looking around quietly.

Rumi’s fingers brush along the spines of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, trailing over bindings that pulse faintly under her touch. The hum beneath her boots resonates, almost anticipating her curiosity. A sharp vibration thrums through the wood, and before she can pull back, a book shoots forward, flipping through the air with a soft whoosh. Reflexively, she catches it. The leather cover is warm under her palm, bound with silver filigree that glints in the candlelight.

She blinks. The title shimmers faintly, etched in letters that twist and shimmer: “Fenric Academy: Daily Guide.” She opens the book, pages rustling like whispered breaths.

The guidebook feels alive in her hands, the words settling under her gaze almost immediately, as if aware she needs to know them. Skimming quickly, she absorbs the essentials: class schedules etched with elegant precision, hallways listed with their sentient quirks noted in footnotes, rules emphasizing safety and respect for permanent residents, and a detailed campus map spread across several pages.

Her violet hair catches the flickering candlelight as she leans closer. She finds the dining hall on the map, a wide room glowing faintly even in the tiny illustration. Relief warms her chest, chasing away the tension knotted in her shoulders. Please be open today, she prays silently. Her stomach tightens — hunger gnaws at her, subtle but persistent — and the thought of an empty dorm room and self-prepared rations makes her spine shiver.

With a careful glance at the shelf, she mutters, “Thanks,” softly, the words awkward, unfamiliar on her tongue. The bookshelf hums back faintly, a low vibration beneath her fingers, as if acknowledging gratitude, before the hum fades to its usual background pulse. She sets the book down on the desk, spine aligned perfectly with the polished surface, and takes a deep breath.

Boots echoing on the stone floor, she leaves. The corridors shift subtly around her — a floorboard dips slightly under her weight, the stone walls pulsing faintly, guiding her steps without intrusion.

Her eyes dart around as she follows the pulse of the building toward the nearest exit. Lanterns sway gently along the hall, shadows pooling like liquid. The hum of the academy beneath her feet grows stronger as she descends a flight of stairs, each step whispering against the stone. The air grows cooler, fresher, faintly scented with the earth beyond the walls.

She pushes open a heavy, iron-bound door leading outside. The hinges creak softly, then adjust themselves silently as the door swings, almost eagerly, to accommodate her exit. She steps into the courtyard. Fog curls low over the cobblestones, thickening the shadows at the edges of the garden beds, where strange, gnarled trees twist toward the sky. Their skeletal branches sway in a wind she does not feel, and the mist seems to part in delicate eddies as she walks, parting as if allowing her passage.

The courtyard is expansive, a blend of manicured stone and wild, creeping vines. Statues of creatures she does not immediately recognize — some human-like, others clearly monstrous — peer from pedestals, eyes seeming to follow her movements, though none move. She feels their scrutiny but ignores it, letting the pulse beneath her feet and the hum in the stones guide her. Fenric Academy is alive in every inch, from the cobblestones to the distant towers, and it seems almost aware of her need, nudging her along the safest path.

Ahead, she spots a faint glow through an archway — warm, steady light spilling onto the mist-covered path. Consulting the map from memory, she confirms it: the dining hall. Her stomach clenches in gratitude. As she approaches, the fog thins, and the castle walls rise tall and imposing around her, their ancient stonework etched with runes that shimmer faintly as if sensing her passage.

The heavy doors of the dining hall stand before her, carved with a pattern reminiscent of the dorm doors but larger, grander, etched with protective runes intertwined with images of creatures — a wolf, a bat, a dragon-like silhouette, all watching silently. She steps closer, hands brushing over the surface. The runes respond to her touch with a faint glow, a warm acknowledgment rather than a lock. With a soft push, the doors swing inward, revealing the interior.

Light spills into the courtyard as she steps across the threshold, and the first scents of food hit her — roasted meats, baked bread, and something sweet, perhaps spiced fruit. The room is larger than she expected, vaulted ceilings with timber beams stretching overhead, chandeliers dripping with soft candlelight. Long tables stretch across the hall, polished wood gleaming under the warm glow.

She freezes briefly at the doorway, scanning the room. She isn’t alone. Her instincts scream caution, but something steadier, gentler, reassures her. Safe here. You are welcome. Jin’s words echo in her mind. There are about ten students, all sitting together on one long table, eating quietly.

Carefully, she steps forward, boots clicking softly against the floor. She moves toward the far end of a table near the wall, away from the busiest clusters of students. The room hums, alive in its own way: the chandeliers flicker subtly in response to movement, the tables seem to exude warmth where she passes, the air shifting to accommodate her presence. Even amidst strangers, the dining hall feels… aware, accommodating, but not obtrusive.

She notices one boy – man? – in particular. Dark hair, yellow cat-eyes, bright pink lightning shaped patterns, horns, a tail. A demon. Openly showing himself in his true form. Sure, he’s sitting alone, eyes down cast on a book he has splayed on the table, but he isn’t hiding. And no one here seems to care…

A server approaches — humanoid, with faintly pointed ears and eyes that glint in the candlelight — offering a tray of steaming food. She nods almost imperceptibly, still absorbing the overwhelming sensation of the room, the building, and the life around her. The aroma alone makes her stomach tighten painfully, and she reaches instinctively, pulling a simple loaf of bread toward her plate. The warmth seeps into her fingers, grounding her in reality even as the server places a bowl of stew in front of her.

Rumi shifts slightly on the bench, watching the others. Her mind flashes to a life she could build here, one where she doesn’t need to feel shame. Yet as she makes small bouts of eye contact with the students on the other table, she watches them look away quickly, and thinks… maybe no.

And as she takes a careful bite of bread, the exhaustion of the day hits. She suddenly doesn’t want to be here. To be alone. Knowing no one, going back to an empty dorm, in a place she doesn’t know.

She misses Celine. She misses her brewing cauldron, her herbs drying in the kitchen, her snarky eye when Rumi would try to steal extra portions of food. She misses it all.

Chapter Text

Zoey shifts uncomfortably in the carved oak chair, glancing from her father to the man sitting across the massive, rune-etched desk. The sunlight streams through tall windows behind him, catching the faint glint of his bright green eyes and making his dark beard appear almost luminous at the edges. Jin Choi, headmaster of Fenric Academy, sits perfectly straight, hands folded across the desk, his presence calm and steady, like the heart of a storm.

Her father beams, hand gripping Zoey’s shoulder for just a moment before releasing it. “Jin, I can’t thank you enough for welcoming her. Zoey’s… well, she’s always been curious, stubborn, sometimes chaotic,” he says, chuckling, voice warm and rich. “But I know she’ll do wonderfully here. Your guidance, the electives you’ve arranged, the structure… it will help her find herself.”

Jin inclines his head slightly, the green of his eyes catching the light like emerald fire. “She has promise. Fenric Academy has the resources and the guardianship to ensure that promise is realized. Her abilities will flourish here, and she will be safe while she discovers her potential.”

Zoey swallows, feeling a familiar mix of excitement and apprehension coil in her chest. She glances up at her father, she feels her inner wolf pacing, like it can’t wait to be moving again. “Thanks, Uncle Jin,” she says softly, her words almost hesitant. Then, in a rush, she leans forward and hugs her father tight, squeezing him in a momentary bubble of reassurance before stepping back, flashing a bright, eager smile. “I’ll make you proud. Don’t worry.”

Her father ruffles her hair fondly. “You already do. Just be yourself. That’s all we ask.”

Zoey turns her gaze back to Jin, who nods once, almost imperceptibly. “Your room is ready. You may go and settle in before the rest of the students arrive. You’ve already been here plenty of times, but let the castle adjust to you. Be aware of the other residents, but otherwise, you are free to explore.”

Zoey nods, voice bright. “Got it! Thanks, Uncle Jin.” She spins on her heel, practically skipping out of the office, leaving the two men smiling in quiet amusement.

The campus is alive with the energy of arrival. Students pour across the courtyards, laughter echoing off stone walls and bouncing from the ornate towers that stretch skyward. The air hums with anticipation: parents waving, students hugging, suitcases rolling over cobblestones, magical creatures fluttering or prowling nearby. A thin fog swirls just above the ground, parting in delicate groups as she moves, curling around her boots as if to welcome her personally.

Zoey dodges between clusters of families, waving quickly to students she recognizes from letters or brief introductions in passing. She hears snippets of conversation: laughter, gossip, quick warnings, and eager greetings. One boy with faintly pointed ears and gold-tinged eyes grins at her, calling out, “New wolf?” before darting off with a friend, chasing a floating book that spins in midair like a frisbee. Zoey laughs, brushing a lock of hair from her eyes. This is going to be chaotic, she thinks, grinning.

Her father’s parting hug still warms her chest as she navigates through the throng of students. She pulls the small campus map from her bag, tracing the familiar route from the main gate to Banshe Hall. Room 77 is clearly marked. She jogs along the cobblestones, excitement sharpening her senses. Every sound is amplified: the clack of her converse, the faint scrape of furniture being dragged inside, the low hum of the academy beneath the stones. She inhales deeply, savoring the scent of old stone, mist, and distant smoke from the kitchens, all layered with faint traces of magic and otherworldly energy.

Banshe Hall rises before her, gothic arches framing the entryway. Lanterns flicker against the walls, shadows stretching across the courtyard as though trying to catch a glimpse of the newcomer. Zoey pauses for a fraction of a second, catching the pulse beneath the stones — the quiet awareness of the building, the subtle hum of energy responding to her presence. She grins, stepping forward boldly, hand brushing against the heavy iron door. The runes recognize her almost immediately, glowing faintly, then unlocking with a soft click.

She bursts into the central living room, boots echoing, voice ringing with unrestrained energy. “Roomie!” she calls, spinning in a small circle, eyes sparkling with mischievous delight. “Prepare yourself for the newest, fiercest, absolutely unstoppable—”

Her words die in her throat.

Her roomie?

She screams.

The volume is almost comical, high and jagged, her voice bouncing off the stone walls as she leaps backward with a force that would send a normal human skidding across the floor. Her book bag tumbles to the side, knocking into the edge of the couch, spilling a few notebooks and a pencil case onto the stone. Every muscle in her body tenses, her breath rapid, as if the sudden intrusion has set off some deep, primal alarm.

Zoey freezes, taking a careful step back, hands raised in mock surrender. “Whoa! Okay! Okay! I didn’t mean to scare you! Sorry!” she says, voice melodic but quick, bouncing like a ball off the walls. “I’m Zoey. That’s me. I just—well, hi! I’m your roommate. You probably weren’t expecting me.”

Rumi swallows audibly, still wide-eyed, trying to regain control of her breathing. Her body hums with overstimulation, every sound and shadow amplified, every scent of the room colliding with the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Her pulse races, causing the objects in the room to begin vibrating. She stammers, words caught somewhere between irritation, fear, and a desperate need to recalibrate. “Y-You… you can’t—! Don’t just—just—!” Her voice cracks slightly before she clears her throat, trying to regain composure. “I—I… oh god.”

Zoey tilts her head, studying Rumi with a curious smile, undeterred. “Okay, that was a solid reaction. High marks for drama, by the way. But really, I’m not here to eat your brains or anything. I promise. I just got here, too!” Her grin widens, mischievous and contagious. “So, uh… Room 77, right? That’s us. Hi!”

Rumi blinks, eyes narrowing, the room still spinning slightly in her perception. Her hands tremble faintly as she adjusts a few scattered notebooks, trying to gather herself. She inhales sharply, fighting the overstimulation, every nerve ending buzzing with awareness of Zoey’s sudden energy, her scent, and the chaos of arrival. “Y-You… just… appeared! I—”

“I know, I know!” Zoey interrupts, bouncing lightly on her heels, eyes bright. “Classic entrance, right? I move pretty quietly for a loud person. But hey, I come with snacks if you ever forgive me.” She winks, sliding a small satchel off her shoulder.

Rumi flinches at the scent, eyes flicking toward the satchel, and then back at Zoey, her mind racing. Her pulse beneath the floor quickens in warning, but she forces herself to inhale and try to stabilize. Breathe. She’s not a threat. Not yet. Just… loud, obnoxious, chaotic… but not a threat.

Zoey steps closer cautiously, peering at the toppled books on the floor. “Oh! Uh… sorry. I can help. I’m surprisingly strong for my size,” she adds, grinning nervously. She kneels down, gathering the scattered notebooks with dexterous fingers, handing them back to Rumi in a way that feels playful but careful.

Rumi stiffens but accepts the items, brushing dust from the covers with trembling hands. Her breathing gradually slows, though her golden eyes still flicker nervously toward Zoey, scanning her movements, gauging her presence. Zoey, undeterred, flops dramatically onto one of the large leather couches, throwing an arm over the back. “So… wow. Roommate! This place is amazing. And you… seem… intense. In a good way, I think. Hopefully. Maybe. Anyway!”

Rumi blinks, feeling simultaneously overwhelmed, amused, and slightly irritated. Her room, which moments ago had been her private sanctuary, now seems alive with an added energy she didn’t anticipate — Zoey’s chaotic presence amplifying the subtle magic humming through the floors and walls. She swallows, hands twitching faintly in a way only she notices, and mutters, “Me… intense? You’re… a walking hurricane.”

Zoey laughs, bright and unrestrained, the sound bouncing across the stone walls. “Hurricane! I’ll take it.” She leans back, arms behind her head, chair tilting slightly on the polished floor. “I promise not to break anything.”

Rumi exhales sharply, fangs glinting faintly in the candlelight as she settles onto the edge of the bed, surveying Zoey with suspicion and curiosity. Every nerve in her body buzzes — the room alive, the halls alive beyond the door, and now this… human whirlwind occupying her space. She’s not sure whether to flee or laugh.

Zoey grins, catching the unspoken question. “Relax. Really. So… hi. Sorry for freaking you out again, can we have a re-do?”

Rumi just blinks, overwhelmed, and mutters, “…Yeah. Sure. Hi, I’m Rumi.”

“Rumi the roomie, adorable,” Zoey laughs.

Rumi shuffles her weight from foot to foot, giving Zoey the change to take her in. The girl is taller than her by about a foot, but that isn’t hard to do. She has light purple hair, pulled back into a tight braid that hangs low, well past her thighs. She has no make up on, yet there are white striped lines on her neck and boarders of her face. The patterns are unfamiliar to Zoey, who decides a quick sniff test isn’t too rude, given that they have just met. The air she breathes in is light, it swims with lavender and chamomile, mixed with something darker. An almost burnt smell swirling in with the sweet scents, leaving Zoey even more confused.

She’s never been one to beat around the bush, always straight to the point. So she doesn’t even hesitate to ask.

“Hey Rumi?” She smiles, tilting her head, “What are you?”

Rumi visibly sours, her eyes shoot up, her shoulder tense, and her scent changes to display pure fear.

“Oh – ugh I’m – god how do I explain – I’m a –,” Rumi struggles.

“HEY GIRLS!” A friendly voice burst their bubble from behind Zoey, standing in their open door.

In the open doorway is a short man with hair the colour of midnight, streaked with silver where it catches the corridor light. He looks too young to have that much silver, though. His face is plump and symmetrical, his eyes a dark brown, like the wood of a elm tree. His clothes are simple — a dark waistcoat over a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, faint gold embroidery trailing down the cuffs like vines. And his smile… his smile hums with something alive.

“Good morning, Miss Ryu, Miss Choi,” he says, bowing slightly, though it looks more like a fluid movement of air than a gesture. “I’m Professor Bobby Lu. I teach Music — or perhaps, more accurately, I teach students how to express themselves.”

Zoey blinks at him, her grin slow and delighted. “Wait—uncle Jin didn’t tell me the teachers were this cool. Are you… like… Fae-Fae? Or just a little bit?”

Bobby’s grin widens, his canines just a shade too sharp. “I suppose that depends which side of the melody you’re listening to.”

Rumi, still standing stiffly by the couch, stares. She can feel the hum of him, thrumming at the edges of her mind like wind through glass. Fae magic — bright and old and wild — presses gently against her own darker, ember-burning pulse. Her instincts twitch; her body tells her to stay alert. Fae are not known for being honest.

But Bobby only looks amused, eyes sparkling as if he’s reading every one of those thoughts. “Relax, Miss Ryu. You’re quite safe. The wards around Fenric make sure no one’s tricked into giving away their secrets without consent.”

Zoey snorts a laugh. “Wait, is that a real rule?”

“It’s more of a… strong suggestion,” Bobby says lightly, stepping further into the common room. The air seems to shift around him, carrying faint echoes of sound — windchimes, maybe, or strings being tuned. “Now then. How are we settling in?”

Zoey throws herself onto the couch, arms spread wide. “I like it! Cozy, mysterious, possibly haunted. Rumi screamed at me when I came in, though, so that was fun.”

“I did not scream,” Rumi mutters, mortified.

Bobby raises an elegant eyebrow. “Ah, introductions under duress — always memorable. Don’t worry, Miss Choi. Every roommate pairing starts with some manner of chaos. Keeps the stories alive.”

He wanders toward the bookshelf, trailing a finger along its edge. Wherever he touches, faint light follows for a heartbeat before fading again. “These rooms are quite something, aren’t they? They remember what their occupants need. Yours seems fond of books and stormlight.”

Rumi’s pulse stumbles. “You can tell that?”

Bobby glances at her over his shoulder, eyes glinting. “Everything here has a rhythm, Miss Ryu. Even the walls. The key is learning to listen. Which, conveniently, is what my class is all about.”

Zoey leans forward. “So, like… magical music?”

“Music is magic, Miss Choi. It’s vibration. Intention. A language that doesn’t need to ask permission to be felt.”

He turns back toward them, tucking his hands into his pockets. The faint scent of petrichor and oak drifts around him, like rain on bark. “Now, I don’t mean to interrupt your settling in, but orientation begins soon in the main quad. Headmaster Choi grows terribly antsy if the opening ceremony starts without a proper chorus of applause.”

Zoey groans theatrically. “Orientation already? I haven’t even unpacked!”

“Ah, the tragedy of youth,” Bobby says, smirking. “Don’t fret, Miss Choi. Orientation at Fenric is rarely dull. There’s usually an explosion or a duel before lunch. Keeps everyone alert.”

Rumi’s eyes widen. “A duel?”

“Nothing fatal,” he assures her smoothly. “Not since the Ghoul incident of ’86, anyway.”

Zoey perks up. “Was that here?!”

Bobby’s grin flashes, bright as the flicker of a candle. “You’ll find Fenric has many stories, Miss Choi. Some still walking around to tell themselves.”

Rumi swallows, unsure whether to laugh or pack her bags immediately. Bobby notices, his tone softening. “Don’t worry, Miss Ryu. You’ll learn quickly. No one here bites—” he pauses, then adds with a wink, “—unless invited.”

Zoey bursts out laughing. “You’re officially my favourite teacher and I haven’t even been to your class yet.”

Bobby inclines his head graciously. “Flattery is an ancient art, and you wield it well. Now, do me a favour and make your way to the quad before the Headmaster sends the senior werewolves to round up stragglers. The courtyard will show you the way if you ask nicely.”

Rumi frowns. “Show us the way?”

“Mm-hmm. Just walk out the front doors and think I need to get to orientation. The paths here are alive enough to understand intention.”

“That’s… unsettling,” Rumi murmurs.

Bobby grins. “Then you’re in the right place. Fenric is built to unsettle. That’s how it teaches.”

He heads toward the door, pausing in the threshold. Light from the hall outlines him like a halo of gold dust. “Oh, and one more thing—your other roommate, she may be late, don’t take it personally. I expect her to be rebellious type, the whole campus is a-buzz about her.”

Zoey salutes. “Got it, Professor Fae. No haggling the newbie.”

Bobby chuckles, the sound like wind through reeds. “It’s Professor Lu, technically, but I’ll accept either.”

He’s gone before they can reply, the air closing behind him with a faint shimmer.

For a long moment, the two girls just stand there. The room feels subtly different now, as if it had inhaled and hasn’t yet decided to exhale.

Zoey breaks the silence first. “Okay, that guy’s amazing.”

Rumi nods slowly. “Yeah. I could feel it. His magic. It’s… bright. Loud.”

“Like him.”

“Of course you would.”

Zoey hops up, brushing off her jeans. “Well, come on then, Roomie. Let’s go to orientation before we get hunted down by seniors. I don’t plan on spending my first night of college being hunted.”

Rumi blinks at her. “You’re actually taking him seriously?”

“Uh, yeah. Orientation will be mandatory, safety talks, blah blah blah, but my uncle will notice if I don’t show soooo.”

“Uncle?” Rumi stops, piecing together the words, “Your uncle is Doctor Choi?”

“Yep,” Zoey hums, letting the P pop.

“Oh god,” Rumi whines, “Ok fine, let’s go, before I change my mind.”

As they step into the hallway, she glances back once. The room looks peaceful again — sunlight slanting across the bed, the book still open on her desk where she left it. But for a second, she swears she sees one of the candles flicker in what could almost be a wink.

Then Zoey grabs her wrist, tugging her forward. “Let’s go, screamo girl. Orientation awaits.”

Rumi groans but lets herself be dragged. Somewhere deep in the stone of Banshe Hall, faint laughter echoes — the kind that sounds like wind chimes and thunder and music waiting to begin.

The courtyard hums with life, a living heart at the center of Fenric Academy.

Stone arches curve overhead, tangled with ivy that glows faintly under the morning sun. The quad stretches wide, a mosaic of pale cobblestones and dark grass, dotted with long benches and marble fountains that pour silver water into basins carved with runes. Flags ripple overhead—deep blue and silver, the crest of Fenric stitched in shimmering thread: a stylized quill and a flame bound in a circle.

Rumi and Zoey move through the crowd like a strange echo side by side, each drinking in the atmosphere in their own way.

There are hundreds of students here.

Rumi’s gaze flickers from face to face, overwhelmed by the flood of energy. She can see it, the subtle pulse of magic running through every person: fae with eyes like cut glass, vampires whose movements are too smooth to be human, witches carrying familiars on their shoulders or charms hanging from their belts. There are shapeshifters with feathers dusting their hair, sirens whose laughter sounds like chords played on strings.

It’s chaos. Beautiful, terrifying chaos.

Zoey’s tail—figuratively speaking—would be wagging if she had one visible. She practically vibrates beside Rumi, her grin enormous. “This is so cool. Look at them all! Is that guy made of smoke? Oh my god, he’s literally smoke.”

Rumi elbows her gently. “You’re staring.”

“I’m admiring.” Zoey bumps her back. “You should try it. Some of these vampires are gorgeous.”

“I don’t think you should be admiring,” Rumi mutters, glancing nervously at a tall girl with onyx hair and pupils like pinpricks who seems to hear every word.

“Oh don’t be a prude,” Zoey huffs, “Interspecies relations are very much accepted and normalised these days. I’ve love to get my hand on a vamp.”

Rumi nearly trips but they manage to find a spot near the back of the rows of benches—close enough to see the stage, but far enough that Rumi feels she can breathe.

The stage itself is an ornate platform beneath an ancient oak whose branches spread wide enough to shade half the courtyard. Lights dangle from its boughs like glowing orbs, and the faint shimmer of protective wards can be seen when the sun hits them right.

Headmaster Jin Choi stands at the center, hands clasped behind his back. In daylight, he looks both more human and more impossible: a man carved from old forests, tall and broad, his beard trimmed neatly, his sharp green eyes sweeping over the crowd with pride.

Beside him stand several other professors—Rumi recognizes Bobby instantly, radiating a soft golden glow even when standing still. There’s also a tall woman with snow-white hair and skin like frost, a stoic man with scales dusting his neck, and a witch whose robes shift colours like oil on water.

Zoey leans in, whispering, “Who do you think the one with the frost hair is?”

“Art professor?” Rumi mutters, watching as a patch of grass near the woman’s feet freezes in delicate patterns.

The murmuring fades when Jin steps forward. His voice carries easily, resonant and commanding, the kind that vibrates through bone more than air.

“Welcome,” he says simply.

It’s enough to quiet hundreds of students.

Jin’s smile warms, the edges of his sharp features softening. “To those of you returning—welcome home. To those new to Fenric Academy—welcome to your next great beginning.”

Applause ripples through the courtyard. Zoey claps enthusiastically; Rumi manages a small polite tap of her fingers together.

“This year,” Jin continues, “marks Fenric’s 413th cycle of learning, growth, and—on occasion—controlled chaos.” That earns a laugh from the students. “You are here not simply to study magic, power, or tradition. You are here to understand who you are among others who share the burden of being extraordinary.”

Zoey hums softly beside Rumi. “He’s always been a good talker. He’s got the inspirational speech thing my dad.”

Rumi nods faintly, though her eyes are fixed on Jin’s face. There’s something in his tone—warmth wrapped around authority—that feels safe. Strange word, for her. But true.

“You will find friends here,” Jin goes on, “and rivals. You will test your limits, and you will fall. But I promise you this: no one here walks alone.”

That line hits something deep in Rumi’s chest. She glances down, fiddling with the bracelet Celine gave her before she left. The one with runes carved into it, designed to mask her demon scent.

“Now,” Jin says, his tone lifting, “before we turn you loose upon the campus, a few announcements. Our annual Opening Gala will be held at the end of your first month. It is a celebration of your arrival and a showcase of your talents. You are all encouraged to attend—and, preferably, to avoid starting any feuds until at least after dessert.”

Laughter rolls through the crowd again.

“Additionally,” Jin continues, “throughout the year we will host a number of team events and challenges. These are opportunities to test your collaboration, resilience, and resourcefulness. Some will be announced. Some… will not.”

Zoey’s grin widens. “I love games.”

Rumi stifles a smile. “You actually wanna compete?”

“Of course I do! I’m a champion online gamer, I’ve got this is the bag.”

“That doesn’t count.”

Jin’s tone shifts subtly, becoming deeper, more measured. “However,” he says, and the air seems to cool, “with freedom comes responsibility. And at Fenric, there are rules—rules that exist not to limit, but to protect.”

The courtyard grows still.

“There are some transgressions,” he continues quietly, “that will not be forgiven.”

Rumi feels the shift instantly. Even the air tastes different—thick with power, the kind that makes her demon blood stir in recognition.

Jin’s eyes sharpen, catching the light until they flash a wolfish green. “The first rule,” he says, “is simple. No student will feed on another. Not with consent, not by accident, not in jest. The act is forbidden. We live together here; we do not prey on each other.”

A low murmur ripples through the vampire section of the crowd, quickly hushed. Rumi’s stomach twists at the memory of her own hunger that hits rarely—raw, sharp, endless. She looks down, jaw tight.

“The second rule,” Jin continues, “concerns the Siren’s Maze. It lies in the east gardens. You will hear it before you see it. You will feel it calling your name. Never—ever—enter it alone.”

Zoey leans close. “That sounds… like something you’d enter on a dare.”

“Don’t,” Rumi says flatly.

“Noted.”

“The third rule,” Jin says, his voice resonant, “is perhaps the most important for your safety. The dungeon beneath the main hall is strictly forbidden to students. It is ancient, older than this academy, and there are things below that even your professors would struggle to save you from.”

Even the laughter dies completely this time. The fountains seem quieter, the air heavier.

Rumi can feel something deep in the ground hum—an echo of something sealed and vast.

“The fourth,” Jin says, “concerns the Kraken Forest in the north village. It is forbidden to enter without explicit permission from staff. The creatures there do not distinguish between intruder and student, you will die a painful death if there unaccompanied.”

“Okay,” Zoey whispers, “so basically half the map is off-limits. Good to know.”

Rumi murmurs, “I wonder what’s in the other half.”

Jin takes a slow breath, his gaze sweeping over the sea of faces. “And finally,” he says, “all creatures possessing rare or abnormal abilities are to register them with the staff. You will receive guidance in their control. Use your gifts appropriately, and you will thrive. Abuse them…”

He lets the silence fill the rest.

Rumi feels the weight of his eyes pass over her, not stopping, but lingering just long enough for her to shiver. She wonders if he knows what she is capable of.

“Fenric Academy,” Jin says at last, straightening, “is a sanctuary. But it is also a crucible. What you do here will shape you, test you, and reveal what lies beneath your skin. We are proud to have you here. Make us prouder still by surviving with grace.”

The last word earns a mix of laughter and nervous murmuring.

Then Bobby steps forward, clapping his hands together, and music blooms out of the air itself—strings and drums and something that sounds suspiciously like birdsong woven through it. “And that, my little symphonies,” he says brightly, “concludes our terrifying introduction! You’ll now be herded—politely—into your Houses for schedules, keys, and probably snacks.”

Zoey cheers, jumping to her feet. “Snacks!”

Rumi sighs but can’t stop the small smile that sneaks across her face.

The courtyard erupts into chatter as students stand, stretch, and start to move toward the paths that shimmer faintly with magic, leading to different halls.

Rumi and Zoey linger a moment, watching the chaos unfold. A fae boy with silver tattoos glides past. A pair of witches argue over broom models. Somewhere, a shapeshifter shifts halfway into feathers before sneezing himself back into human form.

“It’s kind of… beautiful,” Rumi admits softly.

Zoey grins. “Told you. Come on, Roomie. Let’s see if we can go back to the dorms yet.”

They start down the winding path, the one that gleams faintly with blue light — the marker for Banshe Hall students. The ivy seems to shift as they pass, curling out of the way, the stones beneath their feet humming faintly.

Behind them, Jin Choi watches, speaking quietly to one of the professors. “They’ll be good together,” Bobby says beside him, following the two girls with his luminous eyes.

Jin smiles faintly. “What did you think of them? When you visited for me?”

“Unsure?” Bobby’s grin tilts. “Their scents mixed well, if the prophecy is correct, there is still a third to come.”

The Headmaster’s gaze stays on the girls as they vanish into the shade of the arches. “Then let’s hope they’re strong enough to handle what’s coming. I am curious to see how it plays out, the triad doesn’t surface more than once a millennium, if they are it, gods help us.”

The bells begin to toll overhead — a deep, resonant sound that echoes through every corridor, every tower, every hall of Fenric Academy.

By the time the last bell fades over the campus, the courtyard has emptied, the energy of arrival replaced by the soft hum of settling. Banshe Hall breathes again, its corridors alive with returning students, the walls vibrating faintly with laughter, footsteps, doors opening and closing, magic crackling faintly like static in the air.

Rumi and Zoey make their way back slowly, half lost, half following instinct. The path remembers them—stones lighting faintly underfoot, the faint shimmer of blue leading them home.

When they step back into Room 77, the sunlight has mellowed into a honeyed gold that spills through the window overlooking the lake. The reflection ripples against the far wall, fractured light gliding across bookshelves and the unlit candle that still sits patiently on Rumi’s desk.

Zoey throws her jacket onto one couch and flops backward onto the cushions with a groan. “Okay, that was… actually amazing. I thought orientation would be boring speeches and pamphlets, not warnings about krakens and dungeons.”

Rumi drops her bag near her door and leans against the frame, arms folded. “You’re too excited about all the dangerous parts.”

“I’m excited about everything.” Zoey grins up at her. “This place feels like it’s alive.”

“It is alive,” Rumi mutters, glancing around the room. “That’s kind of the problem.”

Zoey rolls onto her side, watching her. “You’re not used to that kind of magic, huh?”

“Not… this kind,” Rumi admits quietly. “Celine—my guardian—kept me away from anything this strong. She said too much power attracts trouble.”

Zoey sits up, cross-legged. “Celine. She’s a witch?”

Rumi nods, pacing slowly toward the window. The lake outside is still, mirror-smooth, but the mist gathering over its surface glows faintly in the setting sun. “She raised me after my mother died. I don’t remember much about my mother. Or my father.”

Zoey hums softly. “That’s rough.”

Rumi shrugs, though the motion feels heavier than it should. “Celine did what she could. But witches aren’t exactly the maternal types.”

Zoey tilts her head. “Is that why she sent you here?”

A pause. “Probably. She said Fenric might ‘fix’ what she couldn’t.”

Zoey frowns. “You’re not broken.”

The words hang there, simple and solid. Rumi blinks at her, uncertain how to respond. No one’s ever said that to her before — not without a sneer, not without the shadow of fear. Not having only known her for a few short hours.

Zoey shrugs when Rumi doesn’t answer, standing and stretching. “My dad said Uncle Jin runs this place like a refuge. He probably saw something in you Celine couldn’t.”

Rumi glances away. “Maybe.”

They fall into an easy rhythm after that.

Zoey’s version of unpacking is chaos. She drags her suitcase into her room, emerges five minutes later with an armful of mismatched clothes, and immediately begins hanging them wherever she finds space. The shared living room quickly acquires the comfortable clutter of new ownership—Zoey’s denim jacket over one couch, Rumi’s half-open book on the armrest, two mugs waiting near the kitchenette waiting for them as their unpacking day begins.

Too many hours later, the air outside shifts as the sun begins to sink. Light fades from gold to violet, then blue, the lake outside darkening until it reflects only the stars beginning to wake.

They talk as they work—easy, simple conversation that fills the silence.

Zoey tells her about her father, a quiet man who teaches combat magic to young wolves. About her older brother, who’s off traveling somewhere in the southern clans. About growing up between two worlds: too wild for human schools, too human for the old packs.

“I figured Fenric might be the middle ground,” she says, leaning against the kitchen counter as she rummages through a snack tin she found in one of the cupboards. “You know, a place where everyone’s weird enough that I don’t have to explain myself.”

Rumi gives a soft laugh, curling up in the armchair opposite her. “That’s very fair.”

“What about you?” Zoey asks, tossing her a small wrapped biscuit. “Why’d you pick Fenric? Or did Celine pick it for you?”

Rumi hesitates before answering. “I read about it once. In a book she kept locked away. It said Fenric was founded as neutral ground. No species wars, no hierarchies. I wanted to see if that was true.”

Zoey nods slowly, chewing thoughtfully. “So… you wanted freedom.”

“Something like that. But she encouraged it, which surprised me.”

They lapse into silence again, but it’s comfortable now. The kind of quiet that doesn’t demand to be filled.

By the time the stars have brightened and the candles along the bookshelves have lit themselves one by one, both girls have drifted toward the couches in the main room. Zoey’s sprawled across one, a pillow under her head, one leg hanging over the edge. Rumi sits curled up on the other, knees to her chest, a book open but mostly forgotten in her lap.

Outside, crickets sing softly, the faint hum of magic in the walls blending into the night’s rhythm.

For the first time since she arrived, Rumi feels the tension in her shoulders start to ease.

Then it happens.

A sound tears through the peace—a raw, mechanical roar that doesn’t belong in this world of runes and candlelight. It starts distant, then builds, echoing across the lake and up the hill like thunder rolling far too fast.

Rumi sits upright instantly, the book sliding from her lap. “What was that?”

Zoey bolts upright too, eyes wide. “That sounded like an engine?”

The noise grows louder—closer—and then, impossibly, a motorbike bursts into view through the arched gates of the academy courtyard, the sound so jarring it rattles the windowpanes.

The bike glows faintly under the moonlight, streaks of dark pink and chrome cutting through the night as it vaults past the gate with impossible speed, landing in a spray of gravel before disappearing around the far side of the main building.

Zoey is halfway to the window before Rumi can speak. “Holy hell—did you see that?!”

Rumi stares, her mind struggling to connect what she’s seen with the rules of this place. “That’s human tech. It shouldn’t even work here.”

“Tell that to whoever just made the coolest entrance of the year.”

The sound fades, leaving behind only the ringing echo of combustion and defiance.

Rumi’s pulse is still racing. “What kind of creature rides a motorcycle into Fenric Academy?”

Zoey grins, eyes gleaming with thrill. “Someone I wanna meet.”

Before Rumi can respond, the faint hum of magic fills the room again — a low, resonant vibration that always comes before the doors of Banshe Hall react. Both girls feel their skin prickle, a warmth spreading across there chest, and the urge to take a deep breath. Like coming home. Like a final puzzle piece was slotting into place.

Then comes the sound. A quiet click. The lock on their door turning.

Both girls freeze.

Zoey’s expression flickers between excitement and disbelief. “No way…”

Rumi’s voice drops to a whisper. “You don’t think—?”

The door handle glows faintly blue, the same pulse of magic as before when Rumi first arrived. It turns slowly, deliberately.

Rumi’s heartbeat stutters. The hum of magic threads through the air, meeting the faint, residual scent of smoke and engine oil now drifting in through the window.

Zoey edges toward the couch, bracing herself. “Rumi, if that’s the motorbike person, I’m officially in love.”

Rumi gives her a look somewhere between exasperation and alarm. “You can’t be serious.”

“You will realise very quickly I show all my emotions openly, you learn to love it.”

The handle clicks again. The door creaks open.

The last of the daylight dies beyond the window, leaving the dorm washed in candlelight and shadows. And from the hall, the sound of bootsteps — steady, confident, and definitely heading inside.

Rumi’s hands curl on instinct, heat prickling under her skin, her demon senses stirring as the air thickens with the scent of fuel and something acidic. Whoever’s on the other side of that door smells both amazing, and dangerous.

The door swings open fully.

Chapter Text

The house smells like cedar smoke and something stupidly expensive. It always does.
Everything here gleams — marble floors polished to mirror sheen, gold-trimmed frames catching the afternoon light, the faint hum of magic woven into every surface like an invisible brand. The Kang estate isn’t a home. It’s a statement.

And Mira hates it.

She stands at the base of the staircase, her reflection fractured in the marble below her boots. The faintest smile curls her mouth as she adjusts her black leather jacket — fitted, creased at the elbows, silver zip halfway undone. Beneath it, a simple shirt, dark gray and cut close, the fabric soft and worn. Her jeans are torn at the knees. Her boots — scuffed and dusted from last night’s ride — track faint prints over the spotless floor.

She looks out of place in every way. Her pale skin catches the chandelier light, the faintest trace of rose underneath it betraying her pulse. Her hair — pink, bright as a bruise blooming under moonlight — tumbles past her shoulders in deliberate chaos. It clashes horribly with the gold decor, the silk curtains, the portraits of her ancestors glaring down with perfectly neutral expressions.

Her mother hates that hair.

“Mira.” The voice slices through the quiet — sharp, familiar, and lined with disappointment.

Her mother stands in the archway of the parlor, one hand on the doorframe like she’s bracing herself. Every inch of her is composed — silver hair in a tight knot, flawless pale dress, rings that catch the light just so. Beside her, Mira’s father sets down his glass of brandy with a heavy sigh.

“Please tell me that’s not what you’re wearing to the Academy,” he says, not looking up yet.

Mira crosses her arms. “It’s what I’m wearing to leave this place.”

Her brother is slouched in one of the armchairs, long legs stretched out, expression amused in that detached, superior way that only older siblings can pull off. “You’re really going through with it then? Fenric?”

“Yeah.” Mira meets his eyes. “Got a problem with that?”

He shrugs. “Not my problem if you want to waste your life with—”

“Don’t.” Her voice cuts through his with quiet, dangerous precision. “Don’t finish that sentence or I’ll snap your neck. Again.”

Her mother steps forward. “Mira, darling, we just want what’s best for you. Fenric Academy is… not the kind of place our family attends. It’s—” she hesitates, choosing the word with surgical care “—inclusive.”

Mira snorts. “Oh, gods forbid I go somewhere that actually lets people breathe.”

Her father’s gaze sharpens. “Watch your tone.”

She does, but not the way he wants. “My tone’s the only thing genuine in this house.”

Her mother exhales, long and tight, the sound of patience fraying. “You’re being dramatic again.”

“Am I?” Mira takes a step forward, her boots echoing against the marble. “You think I want to sit in some pureblood vampire academy where everyone talks about lineage and who drank whose bloodline centuries ago? You think that’s living?”

Her brother’s smirk fades. “You’re a Kang. That name means something.”

“Yeah,” she fires back. “It means dead people with money and too much time on their hands.”

Her father stands, his height still managing to be intimidating despite how calm his movements are. “You will not disgrace this family by running off to an interspecies school.”

“Too late.”

“Mira.” His voice deepens, commanding. The sound vibrates through the air, the kind of tone that used to freeze her when she was little. “You have responsibilities. Expectations.”

“I didn’t ask for them.”

“You don’t have to ask, you were born into it.”

She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. It’s sharp, broken at the edges. “Of course I don’t get a choice. I get that vampires who are born not bitten are different, our powers are sacred or whatever. But I don’t care, you always see me as a mistake. Pink hair, too much taste for violence, too much attitude in my veins. Can’t be a proper Kang if I go on a killing spree every other day.”

Her mother’s eyes flash with something that might almost be pity. “You’re not wrong, Mira. You’re just confused. This phase—”

“Phase?” Mira’s laugh is louder now, raw. “You’ve been calling my life a phase since I was twelve. Since I said I didn’t want to go out with a weird rich boys you picked out for me. Since I started asking why we don’t just use out abilities to hide our needs. Since I said maybe, just maybe, I wanted to learn something outside of blood alchemy and heritage curses.”

Her brother leans forward. “You think the Fae or the demons or whatever other creatures are crawling around Fenric will accept you? You’re a vampire. One with a vicious taste. They’ll never see past that.”

Mira tilts her head, smile biting. “Maybe. But at least they’ll see me.”

Her father’s voice booms now, sharp enough to rattle the chandelier. “You are throwing away your future!”

“No,” she says, stepping back, chest rising fast. “I’m finally taking it back.”

Her mother reaches for her, as if she can still pull her back with touch alone. “Mira, please. You’re too young to understand—”

“Stop talking to me like I’m broken! I’m 22, not a child mother,” The words explode from her, and for a heartbeat the lights flicker — the old chandelier groaning as if reacting to her pulse. The air shifts, electricity crackling faintly, like the house itself flinches from her.

Silence follows. Heavy, suffocating.

Her mother’s voice is barely a whisper. “You’ve been spending too much time on that human contraption.”

Mira smirks. “At least it does what I tell it to.”

Her father’s eyes narrow. “You walk out that door, Mira, and you’re no longer under our protection.”

She hesitates just long enough to feel the weight of it. The finality. The kind of threat that’s not an empty one.

Then she smiles. Small, sharp, and entirely hers. “Good. I was getting tired of pretending it was a home.”

She turns on her heel before any of them can answer. The echo of her boots against marble follows her down the hall — click, click, click — as if marking the seconds until freedom.

The front door slams open with a flick of her wrist. The late afternoon wind rushes in, carrying with it the scent of rain and engine oil. Her motorcycle waits in the courtyard, half-buried in shadow, the paint dark pink with black detailing, her one rebellion made metal.

Her helmet sits on the seat. She snatches it up, the reflection of her family’s perfect mansion warped across its surface. For a moment she just stands there, staring at the door behind her — hearing the muffled argument beginning inside, voices rising like ghosts she’s already buried.

Then she swings her leg over the bike.

The key slides into the ignition, her fingers trembling just once before twisting.

The engine roars to life, wild and alive, a living contradiction against the manicured silence of the estate. She feels it through her bones — the pulse of power, the vibration that says she’s not stuck anymore.

Her father bursts through the doorway, shouting her name. Her mother stands behind him, hand to her mouth, eyes wide. Her brother’s shadow fills the window above, jaw tight and blood red eyes shining.

Mira looks back once, eyes flashing beneath the visor. “It’s my life. I’ll ruin it however I damn well please.”

Then she revs the engine.

The tires squeal against the stones, spitting gravel as she shoots forward. The gates — carved iron and centuries old — creak open at the last second, sensing her bloodline and begrudgingly allowing her through.

She doesn’t look back again.

The road stretches ahead, dark and winding, cutting through the forest like a scar. The air bites against her skin, sharp and cold, but it feels like breathing for the first time.

Trees blur. The sky turns to bruised purple, the first stars breaking through.

She accelerates. Faster. The sound of the engine drowns out everything else — her family’s words, the years of expectation, the ache in her chest.

All that remains is motion.

And the faint flicker of pink hair streaming behind her like fire.

The road winds through a sea of pine and shadow, the hum of Mira’s motorbike the only sound brave enough to disturb the dark. The air grows colder the farther she rides, the mist thicker, curling around her like fingers trying to pull her back.

She doesn’t slow down.

Not until the hunger hits.

It starts as a tremor behind her ribs — faint, almost familiar — then rolls outward in waves. Her jaw tightens. The wind cuts sharper, the engine’s vibrations digging into her bones.

She grits her teeth, trying to ignore it, but it builds and builds until every heartbeat echoes like a drum in her head.

Damn it.

Her fingers twitch against the throttle. The scent of life is everywhere now — the forest teeming with small creatures, the faint pulse of distant towns. Every breath feels like temptation.

It’s always like this after an argument — like her emotions are gasoline and her hunger the match.

When the road levels out, she slows the bike, letting it purr into a near-silent crawl. Ahead, faint lights glow through the fog — a small town nestled at the base of the mountain that leads to Fenric Academy. Shops are closed, the streets mostly empty. Just enough life to make her hunger curl tight and low in her gut.

She parks the bike in a dark ally between two buildings, kills the engine. The silence that follows hums with the sound of her own pulse as she takes off her helmet.

Her boots are soundless on the cracked pavement as she walks. Every sense is sharp — too sharp. She feels the hum of electric signs flickering above, smells perfume, sweat, fear.

And then she hears it — footsteps, quick and uneven, a heartbeat racing.

Her head turns toward the sound automatically. Down the street, a woman hurries toward a parked car, clutching her bag tight to her side. Behind her, a man follows — too close, too quiet.

Mira’s hunger twists into something else — colder, darker.

She stays in the shadow of a narrow alley, watching. Her eyes adjust instantly, the street stretching and sharpening in detail. The man calls out something she can’t hear, his tone slick and mocking. The woman fumbles with her keys, glancing over her shoulder.

Mira’s tongue presses against her fang, the ache in her throat unbearable now.

She doesn’t think — she moves.

One second she’s in the alley; the next she’s gone, the air splitting around her as she crosses the distance in a heartbeat.

The man barely has time to react before her hands grip the hair on the back of his head and throw him. She follows instantly, her body trapping him against the side of a near by, dimly lit, building. She feels her eyes shift as she smiles at him – the black taking over her, across her eyes, the little black veins seeping out of them and around her eye socket. He’s greasy, a creep, yet some sick part of him briefly thinks she’s hitting on him, before registering she’s a predator.

“Oh,” Mira sighs, almost like a moan, “I’m going to enjoy this one.”

He tries to scream, to yell, his eyes darting around to look for help. But Mira’s hand wraps around his throat before he can manage a whimper. She leans in close, her whol body pressed to his,, her lips on his ear.

“Tell me,” She hums, “Do you enjoy scaring women? Making them run to their cars? Hurting them? Do you like their pain?”

He chokes, no sound coming out.

“Yes or no baby, it’s not a hard question, you can be honest,” She smiles again.

He nods.

“Good boy,” Mira chuckles, leaning back in, “I enjoy watching men like you die… very, very, slowly.”

She feels his panic, she smells it, his whole body leaking with fear. It’s intoxicating.

She shifts her hand lightning fast, moving to grab a hand full of greasy hair and yanking it to the side to expose the man throat. She doesn’t wait, she hears her hiss, before feeling her fangs sink deep into the soft human flesh.

The world narrows to heat and pulse. Mira feels the rush of energy flood through her like fire under skin — sharp, intoxicating, alive. The craving that had been clawing at her for hours finally begins to quiet, replaced by warmth that blooms behind her ribs. It’s power and peace at once; the ache softens, the noise in her head dims.

Every sense sharpens, then steadies — the colours of the night deepening, the air tasting richer, her mind finally clear. For a heartbeat, there’s only stillness and breath, her own pulse echoing steady and strong again, in time with the fading pulse of the man below her.

She feels his struggling, like he could ever out match her. But it begins to fade. His vein slowly emptying, his pulse vanishing. The minute he goes limp in her arms she pulls back, mouth coated in fresh, warm blood, yes black as night. She grips his jacket, looking down into lifeless eyes. And smiles.

One less creep in the world.

Looking over her shoulder, Mira sees a small manufacturing facility. Wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her jacket, she hoists the man up, and with all her strength, throws him. She watches and listens as his body lands in one of the large machines outside, likely to be shredded or ripped to pieces in the morning when they turn it on.

Body disposed of.

She doesn’t always kill her meals, but tonight she feels no guilt for ending a human life to sustain her own.

She heads back to her bike like smoke leaving a fire, quick, and undetectable. She throws her gear back on, mounting the machine and ripping off into the streets once again. The bike hums beneath her, every vibration a pulse against her legs, her back, her chest.

She speeds up without hesitation, tires catching the winding road as she ascends the mountain, the valley below disappearing behind a misty veil. The moon hangs low, pale and silver, reflecting off the wet pavement in scattered streaks like broken light. Trees line the road, dark silhouettes reaching toward the sky, their leaves rustling softly in the cold breeze. Mira leans into each curve, arms steady, fingers gripping the handles with ease. The thrill of speed mingles with the lingering warmth of her hunger recently sated — a reminder of power, of control regained, of the chaotic freedom she lives for.

The descent into the valley is swift. Fog curls along the roadside, silver tendrils swirling past her tires, clinging to her boots as if trying to pull her into shadow. The lights of the town fade behind her, the wind carrying the faint scent of smoke and distant campfires. She doesn’t slow — the world blurs into motion, adrenaline blending seamlessly with magic.

At last, the spires of Fenric Academy rise from the mist like dark fingers clawing at the sky. The castle looms over the valley, its towers etched in sharp angles, runes flickering faintly along the edges of windows and walls. Magic pulses along the gates, strong and protective, but Mira feels no hesitation. The academy doesn’t intimidate her — it calls to her. Like something wants her there.

She approaches the gates, the engine thundering through the night. As she hits the crest, the enormous iron bars swing open with a reluctant groan. The bike lunges forward, gravel scattering under the tires as she lands in the courtyard beyond. The castle seems to shiver with recognition as she rolls to a stop near one of the closest entrances, the wind carrying the faint hum of energy through the stone walls.

She kills the engine and listens to the soft settling of the courtyard, the echo of her own breathing the only sound aside from the faint rustle of distant trees. The helmet in her hands feels heavy, though not from weight. She removes it, running a hand over the scratches and scuffs it has accumulated from the journey. It is hers, hers alone, and no one here would dare touch it — the student here likely already intimidated by her family name and heritage alone.

She draws a breath and reaches into an inner pocket, fingers brushing the folded piece of paper she retrieved from her pack earlier. Fenric Academy may be ancient, but the system still relies on paperwork, and she has her instructions.

Banshee Hall, Room 77. She checks it once, then twice, memorizing the layout in her head. Even with magic guiding the halls, she prefers to know where she’s going. Her boots whisper against the stone floor as she begins the ascent, the staircase winding upward in a gentle spiral at first before tightening, twisting into more familiar territory.

The air is thick with the scent of the academy — old wood, candle wax, and faint magic that smells like ozone and iron. Each step she takes feels deliberate, every footfall marking her claim to this place she’s chosen. The walls hum faintly, responding to her presence, as if the castle itself is noting her arrival. She can feel it watching, aware, alive.

Upstairs, the halls stretch outward. Her footsteps slow as she nears Banshee Hall, letting her senses stretch outward, reading the space before her. She pauses at the door to Room 77, the air vibrating faintly through the stone. She knows immediately she is not alone. Heartbeats. Multiple.

One quick, erratic — she recognizes it instantly: lycanthrope. The pulsing, irregular rhythm of fur, muscle, and the heightened metabolism of a wolf in early excitement. Her lips twitch, faintly amused. Teasing wolfs has always been fun.

The other is slow, measured, deep. Maybe cold-blooded? A predator of some kind definitely. Calm, but deadly. Mira inhales, tasting the tension. A lycan and a siren? Or perhaps a vampire and a lycan. She isn’t sure.

She lingers just a heartbeat longer, letting her senses settle and assess. The curiosity in her mind buzzes faintly against the hum of magic. Her fingers twitch. The anticipation builds, a thrill running along her spine.

Finally, Mira steps forward. Her hand brushes against the door handle, and the lock responds instantly — as if it knows her touch, or perhaps the aura she radiates. She eases the door open with barely a whisper.

The room greets her with a wave of warmth, the faint glow of candlelight from the shelves casting gentle shadows across the walls.

Mira pauses at the threshold, taking it all in.

Before her are two girls. One, short, the lycan definitely. She’s got this dopey smile stretching across her face, eyes taking in Mira’s form immediately. She’s in a green crop top and grey sweats, her black hair in space buns. She radiates excitement. It’s nauseating.

Beside her is the other one. The one that her instincts scream danger at. She’s taller, but not taller than Mira. Her hair is braided back, and her white hoodie and jeans cover most of her skin. Modest. She watches at the girls eyes examine her, her nostrils flaring on instinct when Mira’s scent must hit her.

“Hi!” The bubbly one screeches, “I’m Zoey, your roomie. And this is Rumi, she’s also your roomie.”

Mira blinks slowly. Gods this may have been a mistake. Yet she step in and closes the door anyway. 

“I’m Mira,” She offers, looking around the space.

“Wait,” Zoey hums, sniffing the air, “You’re a vampire, called Mira. Like Mira Kang? The heiress?”

“The one and only,” Mira sighs, already annoyed.

“NO. WAY.” Zoey exclaims, squealing and shaking Rumi’s arm.

“It’s not a big deal,” Mira snaps, watching Rumi’s eyes narrow at her tone.

“The Mira Kang, dam, we are with royalty Rumi,” Zoey laughs, still clinging to Rumi’s arm.

Mira’s eyes flick to Rumi with something like amusement coiled into contempt. “You two look cozy?” she asks, voice slow and soft and dangerous. “Don’t worry. I won’t bite… unless you ask me to.”

Zoey snorts and rolls her eyes at the joke, but Rumi doesn’t laugh. The book slides from Rumi’s hand and falls to the floor with a soft thud that sounds disproportionately loud. She has the expression of someone holding their breath because they know if they exhale the wrong way the world will notice.

“You’re kind of rude,” Rumi says, small and precise, the words delivered like tacks. “You ride in like an explosion and then make jokes like nothing happened.”

Mira’s lips twitch. “Says the girl who snaps at guests who just got here, great first impression.”

It’s a tease but there’s an edge. She moves fluidly across the floor, boots whispering, as she moves to stand in front of Rumi. “What, did you expect? Someone kind? Someone quiet? Another furry little freak to play fetch with? Not gunna happen.”

Rumi’s fingers tighten around air, forming fists quickly. “I didn’t expect anything,” she says. “And I don’t appreciate being made—”

“—into a punchline?” Mira finishes, smiling, eyes glittering. “Cute. So, how long have you been here? A minute? An hour? Should I time how long it takes you for your vampire prejudice to take over for the semester?”

Zoey holds up a hand. “Okay, okay. Let’s—” She’s all calm peacemaker energy, face flushed but steady. “Guys. We don’t need to start the semester with a duel over insults. We can like, get to know each other. You both seem like fun people to—”

“To what?” Mira cuts in, voice silky. “Befriend? Befriend the girl who looks at me like I’m about to rip her throat out?”

“Watch your tone.” Rumi’s voice is low for the first time, coiled and dangerous in its own way. It’s not a scream; it’s a clawed whisper. “You don’t ‘get’ to talk to her like that—”

Mira laughs, and it’s a sound that does not reach her eyes. She shifts between the two, eyes watching them and how Rumi seems to step in and defend the smaller girl.

“Oh – oh I get it. Of course I’d get stuck rooming with two furies,” she says, and she says it like a verdict rather than a complaint.

That’s the word that lands like a thrown stone—furies. Rumi’s whole frame snaps toward her, and the small, brittle thing she’s been holding together splinters.

“Oh f—” Rumi explodes. The first syllable becomes a bark of fury, the book at her feet forgotten. “Oh fuck you,” she spits. “I don’t even have fur, you goddamn flea.”

For one fractured second the air is simply sound: the clack of Zoey’s jaw as she inhales, Mira’s amused intake, Rumi’s breath like a bell.

Then Mira snaps back. “FLEA?! I will fucking kill you, you little freak.”

The threat drops into the room like dropping ice into water—immediate, cold, and dangerous. It’s ugly, honest, animal, and it has Mira’s red eye flashing brighter before bleeding into black as the veiny ink trickles out around her eyes. Zoey starts to move between them before either of the other two can do anything, palms up and wide as if to press the world back into peace.

“Hey—” Zoey’s voice is fast and pleading, a lifeline. “Mira, stop. Rumi, breathe. This is ridiculous. We don’t—”

Rumi doesn’t respond with words. She answers with a motion: deliberate, vertical, the kind of movement that is small and therefore terrifying. The pretty jar of self-control she had balanced on for her whole life topples. Her spine elongates with a strange, feline grace and something changes in the room that those who spend life among monsters recognize immediately.

Horns push. They break through the skin along her hairline, dark and glinting, sharp as accusations. They’re small at first—two dark stalks—but they lengthen and curve like fading storm bolts until they’re undeniable. Her nails split into tips of shadow and bone; claws unfurl at her fingertips with a dry sound like silk tearing. Her patterns flare to life, taking on a dark pinky purple shade that glows like a warning light.

The light catches her eyes and Rumi’s irises are gone—they aren’t human looking anymore. They roll into slate-yellow orbs, pupils thinning vertical and predatory, catlike and luminous in the candlelight. The room recoils in sensation: Zoey’s breath leaves her in a small, frightened gasp. Mira’s muscles prime.

A low sound issues from Rumi’s chest — not a growl used as a threat but an animal’s deep rumble, resonant enough to make the glass on the window quiver. It vibrates the floorboards. It vibrates the bones.

Mira freezes, the smile falling from her face as if someone clipped it away. “Oh, fuck,” she says, and it’s a small, sharp syllable that contains equal parts intrigue and alarm.

Zoey’s hands fly out, palms showing, the universal sign of submission. “Rumi. Hey. Hey, breathe. Talk to me. Don’t—don’t do anything,” she says, her voice too high, too eager to be steady. “We’re roommates. We’re supposed to be friends, remember?”

Rumi’s form is not monstrous in the way the old stories frame monsters; she’s tragic and beautiful and terrifying all at once. Horns glint and catch, claws flex through the air. Her patterns pulse with a pink fire, fractal and glowing like a map of volcanic veins. Her shoulders coiled like springs. Her tail flicks around like it’s got a mind of it’s own, the sharp barb on the end clipping the coffee table occasionally.

Mira’s hand moves to her jacket, as if to reach for a weapon. The threat she made is not idle — she has teeth as well, and the memory of blood in her mouth is not just hunger, it is ancestry. The room’s magic hums like a reprimand, aware and watchful.

“You—” Mira starts, then stops because this presence across the room is not a child’s tantrum; it is a wall of living, ancient danger. Her own fangs show in a brief, reflexive flash.

“You will not,” Rumi says, and the sentence is small but it contains an entire world. The most efficient way to make herself understood is not shouting — it’s presence. She lowers her chin, yellow eyes boring into Mira, and the room leans with her. “You will not threaten, me. Or Zoey. Never again.”

For a beat the two of them simply look at each other: one a vampiric grin coiled at the edge of violence, the other a demon’s simmering wrath. Zoey stands in the slow, tense center of it, shuffling between mediator and human shield.

“Okay, ok,” Zoey says, voice shaking but bright, flinging a smile like a hand over a spark. “We don’t have to—like—to kill each other. I mean, this is literally day two? Maybe day one point five of knocking people’s heads together is… a bit premature?”

Mira’s jaw tightens. “I don’t need mediation,” she snaps. Her eyes flick rapidly, noting the pink flares across Rumi’s skin, the way the horns catch candlelight. “I need—” she starts. But she stops because she’s also, stupidly, amazed. The sight of Rumi’s full form is… enthralling. It’s a power that sings to something old and dangerous in Mira, a chord that vibrates along her own fanged instincts. Seeing her like this intrigues Mira instantly.

“You need chaos,” Rumi says softly, and it sounds like an accusation and a diagnosis. “You barrel in like you own the world because you’re afraid someone will own you first.”

Mira lashes back. “Bold claim from the girl who’s practically a walking warning label.” The barb lands but fails to pierce any armor; it only sharpens the exchange.

Zoey, ever the buffer, takes a step in between, putting both hands up in an awkward, earnest gesture. “Right—enough with the evisceration metaphors, you two. Look, Mira, Rumi—both of you—this is going to be a semester of stress and homework and probably haunted textbooks and also, like, team events? So maybe we should be strategic. Friends on paper, neutral alliance off paper? You know, roommate diplomacy?”

Mira huffs a sound that is almost an incredulous snort. “Oh, I love diplomacy. It’s one of my favorite things. Right after being misunderstood and then called names.” Her eyes are flat and angry.

Rumi’s shoulders twitch — she’s fighting for restraint like someone trying to hold a storm at bay with their bare hands. “Because your kind have a history of starting fights just to feel something,” she says, too fast. “Because your kind like breaking things and calling it art. Because you never learn—”

“Gods, you talk too much about ‘your kind’ and ‘my kind,’” Mira spits. “Because you like to file people into tidy boxes and then you’re surprised when one of us cuts out.”

The words are sharpened with hatred and experience and the kind of hurt that lives in people who are always told to be smaller. It’s a desperate, lovely thing and awful. Zoey watches them both, her face taut and pleading and increasingly useless.

“You both are—” she says, floundering for something like authority and coming up with a lily-livered, “incredibly difficult but so stupidly attractive, god dam,” She tries for optimistic, lands somewhere between apologetic and weirdly flirty. “We can be a gang. Or a truce. Or roommates who don’t stab each other. Possibly all of the above.”

Rumi laughs once, a brittle sound, then drops it like a curtain. “I don’t need a truce, I need trust,” she says. “Listen, I don’t want to fight you. I’m done getting punished for existing. But I’m not going to be toyed with.”

Mira steps forward a half pace, so close the air between them tastes like new storms. “Oh, I’m not a toy,” she says, dull and dangerous. “I’m walking weapon, seems pretty similar to you sweetheart.”

The room holds its breath. The hum of the academy outside presses a little harder at the windows, the stone listening.

Zoey moves from the couch and lands into the small space between them, placing one hand on Rumi’s forearm and the other on Mira’s sleeve, anchoring both with ridiculous certainty. “Both of you—look at me. Please. On three—deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.” She barks the instructions like a drill sergeant and it’s absurd and effective. Miraculously, both of them follow the count. Even Mira’s shoulders lower a half inch, the edge of her anger softened by the ridiculousness of Zoey’s seriousness.

“One, two, three,” Zoey says. Her palms are cool and solid. Rumi’s claws retract with a soft, wet click and the horns slowly start to slide back to their hiding place. The patterns on her skin cool from volcanic flame back to the pale ridges beneath. Her yellow eyes shift and contract, reflexively humanizing as adrenaline ebbs.

Mira exhales long and slow, a small laugh bubbling up that sounds almost like a sob. “You really just jumped between a demon and a vampire, to do breathing exercises. You’re insane,” she says to Zoey, but there’s warmth there now, or at least the smallest fissure that could let warmth through eventually.

Rumi bites her lip and then lets it go. “I don’t like being called names,” she whispers, and it’s not a challenge so much as an explanation. “And as you now know, I’m not a furry. I don’t have fur.”

Mira studies her, expression complicated. Her fingers ghost the seam of her jacket, a small, nearly human gesture. “Fine,” she says finally. “Sorry. How about stripes? Or maybe horns? Oh, I know, lava lamp!”

Zoey slaps her hand on her forehead, wishing she could vanish into thin air. “Okay! That’s—progress? Maybe? We’ll set ground rules, like no insults that threaten death for at least—what—three days? Emergency vetoes?” She looks earnestly between them, hopeful and absurd.

Rumi lets out a sound that might be a snort. “Three days is generous.”

Mira’s mouth quirks into a smirk. “I could manage three days of not trying to kill you,” she says. “If you, demon, promise not to—” she waves her hand— “go full apocalypse when someone insults your hairstyle.”

“I don’t have a hairstyle problem,” Rumi snaps, then catches herself and breathes. She allows a small, stiff smile, the first real one of the evening. “Fine, for you Zoey.”

Zoey beams, triumphant like a child who’s just brokered world peace with stickers. “Okay, okay. So we’re good?”

Mira laughs, something bright and ringing and irreverent. “Sure. But regardless, sorry I’m so late. I didn’t feel like sitting through orientation.”

Rumi’s laugh is quieter, more private, but it’s there. She picks up the book from the floor and tucks it under her arm, an offering and a boundary both. “Typical,” she says. “Prett easy rules. Stay out of the dungeons. Don’t touch the siren maze. Register your powers. Don’t eat people.”

Mira’s grin sharpens, a flash of fang and promise. “Oh bummer. I was hoping one of you would be willing to be my blood bag for the year.”

“What?” Rumi snaps around.

“I’m kidding demon girl, settle down. I prefer my blood willing, or at least not spiked.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rumi quirks a brow.

“Don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy some interesting blood types. Sirens are fun, Fae will fucked you up for a bit. But demons? I hear demon blood is down right addictive. I don’t need that in my life,” Mira smirks.

“Addictive?” Rumi casts her eyes down.

“Likely because it’s rare. You’d have a hard time getting a demon to consent to being drained, let alone holding one down to take it,” Mira laughs, looking over to see Zoey wide eyed and confused.

“Oh don’t fret Zoey,” Mira smiles, “Wolf blood isn’t toxic, that’s an old witches tale used to scare young vamps away from packs. You smell delicious, I’d be happy to have a taste.”

Zoey somehow manages to giggle, like a school girl.

“That would be breaking a rule,” Rumi cuts in.

“Oh I know sweetheart,” Mira smiles sickly, “I read the handbook too. But I promise, no feeding on you guys. I have other ways to keep my self sustained.”

“Don’t tell me,” Rumi commands, crossing her arms over her chest.

Zoey claps again, delighted with the truce at last. “See? Roommates. We’re going to get along just fine I think.” She winks at both of them like the future is a puzzle she’s already solved.

For a long moment the three of them sit in the small orbit of the couch and the low table and the helmet on the floor. The room is warm now, lit by candlelight and something else—an electricity that’s not anger but the thrill of possibility. The edges are raw, the truce tentative, but it exists. They are three dangerous things learning to live in one small, breathing space.

Yet the here of them all fail to notice how their heart rates have slowed, their anxiety has settled, and they have all gravitated towards one another. Like magnets, they end up standing less than a foot away from each other. Well that is before Mira realises and excuses herself to go shower and sleep.

It’s going to be a long year…

Chapter Text

Morning light seeps through the arched windows of Banshee Hall, hazy and pale, spilling over the room in strips of gold. Dust motes dance lazily in the beam above Rumi’s bed. The dorm is quiet except for the faint hum of the enchanted lantern on her bedside and the rhythmic breathing of her two roommates.

Rumi blinks awake before the sunrise fully breaks. She lies still for a moment, eyes fixed on the carved ceiling beams, her mind oddly blank. Then the reality of the day presses in — first day of classes. She sighs softly through her nose, pushing back her blanket and sitting up.

Zoey’s soft snoring comes from the couch across the room — she must’ve fallen asleep there— while Mira’s door is shut tight, faint classical music drifting from inside, muffled and almost eerie.

Rumi rolls her shoulders and swings her legs over the side of her bed, the cool wooden floor shocking her feet awake. She pauses, running her fingers through her hair. It’s tangled from tossing and turning all night, still faintly smelling like the lavender oil she uses to calm herself before bed. It didn’t work.

“Alright,” she mutters under her breath, voice low. “Let’s not mess this up.”

She stands and stretches, reaching until her joints pop. She doesn’t bother trying to hide the faint markings glowing across her skin — thin traces of her demonic heritage that pulse gently when she’s tired. They fade as she exhales, forcing control into her aura. She can’t afford any accidents on the first day.

The uniform hangs neatly on the back of her chair: a crisp white shirt tucked under the deep charcoal-grey blazer embroidered with Fenric’s sigil. The matching trousers are pressed perfectly, and the tie, a deep maroon, sits coiled like a serpent beside it. The uniform is only required for classes, not being needed for any extra curricular activities or practical lessons. But it still feels painfully formal for a university. The handbook refers to it as an “equaliser”. Sure.

She dresses quickly, pulling on the uniform piece by piece, smoothing every wrinkle. The blazer fits snugly across her shoulders, its fabric warm and enchanted to adjust to body temperature. The moment she fastens the buttons, a faint shimmer crosses the crest — an unspoken seal that identifies her as a registered student.

Her reflection in the mirror is sharp and neat: gold-flecked eyes, the faintest hint of pointed teeth when she presses her lips together, and a composure she doesn’t entirely feel. She grabs her brush, tugging it through her long lavender hair, wincing when it snags. Then she braids it tight and secure down her back — a long, neat braid that keeps her looking disciplined, controlled.

Once she’s dressed, she kneels to lace up her boots — heavy, black leather Doc’s with reinforced soles. They’re not part of the uniform technically, but the academy requires their shoes to be enclosed. She pulls them tight, tucks the ends of her trousers in, and stands again.

Her leather book bag waits by the desk, already packed: notebook, spare pens, a thin box of pencils, her enchanted ink bottle, and the “Fenric Academy: Daily Guide” she got from the bookshelf yesterday. She hesitates before slipping the guide inside, as if it might come alive again, then shrugs and slings the strap over her shoulder.

The common room is still dim when she steps out. The faint hum of the dorm’s magic is ever-present, like the building itself is breathing. She glances toward the other girls — Zoey sprawled half off the couch, Mira’s door still closed — and decides she’s not waiting.

“Class starts in twenty minutes guys,” she mutters, pulling the front door open and stepping into the hall.

The corridor is quiet this early. A few senior students drift past, all in similar uniforms but with different coloured trim depending on their division. Some nod at her politely, most don’t bother. Rumi’s fine with that.

She walks briskly, her bootsteps echoing faintly on the stone floor, until she exits into the courtyard. The air is crisp and cold, smelling faintly of dew and oak. Fenric Academy stretches around her in grand gothic arches and towers, dark stone veined with veins of glowing silver magic. The banners and flags flutter in the wind above the center of the courtyard; the national flag, the Fenric flag, and the interspecies alliance flag.

The Magical History wing isn’t far — one of the few buildings connected directly to the main hall. Rumi crosses through a smaller courtyard where a group of first-year witches huddle over a floating map, laughing nervously. She ignores them and continues on, her pace steady.

By the time she reaches the classroom, the great bronze clock above the door reads 7:59 AM. Perfect timing.

The room is large, circular, with tiered seating and a wide platform at the front where a pale woman with sharp cheekbones arranges a stack of parchment. Professor Varrin, according to the schedule. The walls are lined with portraits of past headmasters, their eyes faintly glimmering with sentience.

Only a few students are seated so far — mostly quiet ones like her. Rumi climbs the steps to the second row and chooses a seat off to the right, near the window. The sunlight filters through the stained glass beside her, painting the desk in shades of red and violet. She pulls out her notebook and pen, flips to the first page, and writes at the top:

“Magical History I: The Founding of Fenric Academy.”

When the professor starts speaking, her voice is clear and deliberate, every syllable crisp but with a obvious French accent. “Good morning, class. Welcome to your first lecture of the year. If you’re here to pass time or doodle in the margins, do it elsewhere and do not waste my time. History at Fenric is not ornamental — it is survival.”

Rumi listens carefully, her hand already scribbling notes. Professor Varrin begins talking about the foundation of Fenric during the early days of interspecies integration — how witches, humans, and fae formed the first magical accords to prevent extinction-level wars.

The material is interesting, in that heavy, important kind of way. Rumi writes everything down, even side comments. Her handwriting is neat and small, each letter precise. Like the neat words will define who she is as a person.

About fifteen minutes in, the door creaks open.

Mira slips in first — silent as shadow. Her hair, bright pink and impossible to ignore, is tied back in a loose bun, and her expression is cool as ever. She slides into the seat beside Rumi without a word, adjusting her gold wire glasses with grace Rumi envies. Rumi glances sideways, but says nothing.

Then Zoey bursts in.

The door slams against the wall with a bang that makes everyone in the room jump. Zoey freezes mid-step, blinking like a deer in headlights. “Uh— sorry! Sorry!” she blurts, clutching her books to her chest. “I— got lost. Like three times. And the walls moved. They actually moved, like— that shouldn’t be allowed—”

Professor Varrin stares at her flatly. “You must be Miss Choi.”

Zoey straightens her blazer and nods sheepishly. “How’d you know?”

“Take a seat,” the professor says, dryly. “Preferably quietly.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Zoey hustles up the aisle, practically tripping over her own feet before spotting Rumi and Mira. She waves, earning a few amused looks from nearby students, and hurries over to them. She drops into the empty seat beside Rumi with an exaggerated sigh of relief.

“Why didn’t you wake us up?” she whispers loudly, leaning toward Rumi.

Rumi doesn’t look up from her notes. “Didn’t know I had been deemed dorm mom.”

Zoey frowns. “You could’ve said something.”

“I didn’t know I needed to,” Rumi mutters. “I assumed you had a different schedule to me.”

“Yeah, but like, I printed all our schedules. They’re on the fridge.”

“Oh, I didn’t see that. Either way, not my problem.”

Mira lets out a quiet, derisive sound that might be a laugh. Zoey shoots her a glare.

“Oh, you’re enjoying this?” Zoey whispers.

“I’m enjoying watching little wolves suffer,” Mira murmurs without looking up, her voice silky and sharp.

“Ladies,” Professor Varrin warns, not even turning around. “If you’re finished disrupting, I would appreciate your attention on the lesson, not each other.”

Zoey ducks her head, cheeks flushed. Rumi stiffens in her seat. Mira just smirks.

The rest of the lecture goes smoother. Rumi stays laser-focused, jotting down every name, date, and quote. When the class ends, the bell rings with a deep chime that echoes through the hall. Students start gathering their things, murmuring to each other as they file out.

Zoey’s the first to stretch and stand. “Okay, so maybe next time you could, I dunno, wake us up like a nice person?”

Rumi snaps her notebook shut. “You’re 22 Zoey, you’re an adult. You can handle an alarm.”

Zoey huffs. “Actually I’m 21, graduated early.”

“Wow, how’d that happen?” Rumi jokes.

Mira finally rises, smooth and unbothered. “You two sound like an old married couple.”

Zoey groans. “You sound like my mother.”

Mira raises a brow, smiling faintly. “I take that as a threat.”

Rumi doesn’t join in. She slings her bag over her shoulder and starts down the steps, head held high. She can feel the faint thrum of eyes following her — half curiosity, half suspicion. She knows she doesn’t look entirely human, even when she tries. But she’s here to learn, not to be liked.

Outside, the sunlight has brightened, warming the cold stone corridors. Rumi exhales slowly, the tension in her chest easing just a little. First class — done.

The corridors between classes hum with noise the second they step out— laughter, footsteps, the chatter of students navigating their first day. Fenric feels alive now, its sprawling halls brimming with life and energy. Rumi sticks close to the wall as groups pass, her pace steady and deliberate. She doesn’t like the crowds.

Zoey walks beside her, buzzing with a kind of restless excitement that makes Rumi’s temples ache. “Okay,” Zoey says, flipping through her schedule. “Magical Theory, room twenty-three, east wing. That’s near the potion labs, right?”

Mira hums behind them, arms folded, her expression bored but observant. “Yes. Try not to explode anything on the way.”

Zoey scowls. “I don’t explode things.”

“You look like the kind of person who would,” Mira says smoothly.

Rumi exhales through her nose. “What did you say before about married couples?”

“Oh shut it, demon girl,” Mira snaps, eyes on the hallways.

They weave through the hallways, following signs etched in silver script that shift slightly when approached. Fenric’s architecture moves in subtle ways — corridors that stretch, stairs that fold or vanish entirely. The girls finally reach the east wing, where the smell of chalk and incense fills the air.

Room twenty-three is a wide, open classroom lined with floating lanterns. Intricate runic diagrams are carved into the floor and walls, glowing faintly with stored energy. The desks form a semicircle around a raised dais where the instructor stands — a tall man with silver hair pulled into a low ponytail, wearing long robes that shimmer faintly with enchantment.

“Good morning, everyone,” he says, voice calm but carrying. “I am Professor Sutton, your Magical Theory instructor. Please, take your seats.”

The girls find a spot midway along the back row. Rumi takes the seat furthest from the center, setting her notebook out in precise alignment with the desk’s edge. Mira sits beside her with her usual poise, while Zoey plops down next to Mira, already fiddling with her pen.

Rumi lets her gaze wander over the classroom. Most students are still whispering, adjusting their uniforms, scribbling names on parchment. She’s halfway through scanning the room when her eyes catch — and stop.

Two boys sit together across the room, in the front-left corner.

Both have that same underlying aura she recognizes instantly — demonic, unmistakable. It hits her like static in the air, something in her gut tightening before she even understands why. Their presence hums against her senses, too familiar, too raw.

The one on the left — tall, sharp-featured, with bright pink hair, cropped short — leans back in his chair with casual confidence. His horns curl back along his skull, matte black with faint pink lines like cracks glowing from within. His demon markings trail down his throat and the sides of his neck in jagged streaks, pulsing faintly under the lantern light. His tail, long and whip-thin, curls lazily around one leg of his chair.

The other — slightly shorter, broader shoulders, wild purple hair — sits more upright but no less intimidating. His horns curl forward, shorter and thicker, gleaming like polished bone. His patterns are softer, almost floral in design, glowing faintly purple. When he turns to murmur something to his friend, the motion is smooth, predatory, practiced.

Rumi’s heart kicks hard against her ribs. She can’t help it. Demons. Real ones. Like her.

She hasn’t seen another of her kind since she was a child, Celine never allowed it. Not openly. Not without punishment.

The first boy’s eyes flicker toward her — dark gold, catching light like polished glass. The faintest smirk plays across his lips, like he can feel her watching. The second follows his gaze, and their eyes lock on her.

Rumi looks away immediately, pulse pounding.

Don’t react. Don’t draw attention. Just breathe.

She forces herself to focus on the board as the Professor begins the lecture. “Magic, as you all know, is the manipulation of raw energy,” he begins, sweeping a hand. A burst of light flares, forming a rotating sigil above the class. “But what few understand is that magic is not only used — it is negotiated. Energy demands balance, intention, and will.”

Rumi tries to take notes. Her handwriting starts neat, then falters. Her attention keeps slipping back to the demons. Every time she risks a glance, they’re both watching her — not constantly, but enough. It’s the kind of gaze that feels deliberate, like they’re testing her reaction.

She knows that game. She grew up with it.

The taller one finally leans over his desk, resting his chin on his hand, eyes narrowing slightly — assessing her.

Her stomach knots. She feels heat creeping into her chest, that faint hum of energy stirring under her skin, trying to answer theirs. She clamps it down immediately, forcing calm.

“Rumi,” Mira whispers.

Rumi blinks, realizing she’s been staring too long. “What?” she mutters, too quickly.

Mira tilts her head slightly, studying her. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah, fine,” Rumi says, too sharp. She flips her page as if that will make her seem normal. “Just paying attention.”

Mira glances toward where the demon boys sit, one brow arching. “Paying attention to what, exactly?”

Rumi’s pen freezes mid-sentence. “The lecture,” she says tightly.

Mira doesn’t look convinced but lets it go. Zoey, too absorbed in doodling little winged creatures in the corner of her notes, doesn’t notice anything.

Rumi tries to focus again as the Professor moves on to practical demonstrations. He flicks his wrist and conjures a swirling orb of light, describing the flow of mana from body to external focus. Rumi writes everything down. Every word. Every sigil. She forces her breathing to slow, counting heartbeats until the energy inside her calms.

When she finally risks another glance, the two demons are no longer watching her — at least not openly. The taller one leans back, arms crossed, looking bored. The other one yawns. But she still feels it — that faint pull of familiarity. A magnetic thread she can’t explain.

Her fingers twitch involuntarily beneath the desk, the tips of her claws threatening to slip through her control. She hides them quickly, pressing her palms flat to her thighs.

You’re not like them, she tells herself. You don’t have to show your whole form. It’s a personal choice.

Professor Sutton’s voice cuts through her thoughts. “—and that, students, concludes our theoretical foundation for this term. Next week, we begin controlled casting sessions. Attendance is mandatory. Questions?”

A few hands go up. Rumi doesn’t hear the questions, just the sound of her own pulse.

When the class finally ends, the professor dismisses them with a curt nod. “Remember — theory shapes reality. Neglect one, and the other will destroy you.”

Students begin filing out, chattering excitedly. Zoey stretches and groans dramatically. “Okay, that was so much information. My brain’s leaking.”

Mira rolls her eyes. “It’s been two hours.”

“Yeah, exactly!”

Rumi gathers her things in silence. She can feel the demon boys moving behind her, the air shifting as they stand. She doesn’t look back. She doesn’t want to.

“You sure you’re okay?” Mira asks again, tone quieter now.

Rumi zips her bag shut and forces a small nod. “Fine.”

“You’re lying,” Mira says flatly.

Rumi shoots her a look sharp enough to cut glass. “You gonna make that your hobby now? Reading me?”

Mira smirks. “You’re not that hard to read.”

Zoey steps between them before things can escalate. “Alright, love the banter roomies. We survived one class, let’s not murder each other before lunch.”

Mira shrugs, amused. “No promises.”

They leave the room together, though Rumi lingers half a step behind. As they walk down the corridor, she risks one last glance over her shoulder.

The taller demon — Abby, she’ll later learn — stands near the door, talking quietly with the other one, Mystery. For a split second, his gaze flicks up and meets hers again.

He smirks. And vanishes.

Rumi blinks, sure she must be imagining things. Before she feels a puff of air behind her, and the distinct sound of someone breathing in.

Abby, the tall one, has teleported directly behind her.

And he’s scenting her…

Rumi hears a growl. She briefly freaks out, thinking it’s her own. Only to look to her right and see Zoey, fangs bared, and Mira beside her, eyes dark.

“Have some manners you piece of shit,” Mira hisses.

“Even little pups know it’s rude to scent someone without permission,” Zoey growls.

Rumi doesn’t react. She can’t. She’s frozen in place as she feels the other demons pheromones settle over her. A sharp, metallic tang threads through the air — smoke and iron and something darker, slick like oil on fire. It hits her before she even looks up, thick and invasive, clawing down her throat. Her stomach twists.

His nostrils flare slightly as he leans in, inhaling like he’s tasting her scent.

Rumi feels her heartbeat speed up.

“That’s… unusual,” he murmurs, voice low, almost amused. His gaze drags over her face, down her neck, lingering too long. “You barely have a scent, yet...”

The sound of his voice grates like gravel against her nerves. His scent is overwhelming now — heat, blood, and burning coal. It stings the back of her throat, makes her vision shimmer at the edges.

He leans just a little closer, eyes dark with interest. “You smell—”

“Stop,” Rumi chokes out, voice raw.

It comes out quieter than she means it to, almost a whimper. The noise surprises her as much as it does him. Her body betrays her — instincts screaming, magic shuddering just beneath her skin — and she stumbles backward, trying to escape the invisible pull of him.

She hits something solid — someone — and cold hands catch her waist before she can fall.

“Breathe,” Mira whispers behind her, tone cutting and firm.

“Stop it, right now,” Zoey snaps, standing between Rumi and Abby.

Rumi blinks hard, shaking her head, breath coming fast. Abby’s grin only widens, slow and deliberate.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, babe,” he says, the mockery soft and poisonous. “We’ll be seeing more of each other.”

Mira’s eyes flash — not the usual crimson of a vampire, but something colder. “Move.”

For a heartbeat, Abby hesitates. Then Mystery’s voice calls from near the door, lazy and bored: “Abby. Leave it.”

Abby’s smirk fades to a shrug. “Whatever.” He turns and follows his friend out, tail flicking lazily behind him.

Rumi stays frozen until the door shuts. Her pulse hammers in her ears.

Mira’s grip eases slightly. “You good?”

Rumi nods, but the lie tastes bitter.

She doesn’t look back at the door again.

Rumi’s stomach twists. She snaps her eyes forward and keeps walking.

They exit into the open courtyard again, where students spill between classes in waves. The sun is higher now, gilding the stone towers and banners with light. A group of fae girls laugh as they pass, the air around them scented with flowers. A few shapeshifters stretch lazily in the grass, tails flicking.

Rumi tightens her grip on her bag strap.

Zoey checks her schedule. “Okay — next up, electives. I’ve got Physical Conditioning.”

Mira smirks faintly. “Glamour and Illusion Arts.”

Rumi nods, distracted. “Infernal Control.”

Zoey’s eyes widen slightly. “Wow. That’s… intense.”

Rumi shrugs, forcing a calm smile. “It’s mandatory for all infernal beings.”

They pause where the paths split — one leading toward the training grounds, another toward the illusion halls, and a darker trail descending into the underground wings.

“Meet back for dinner?” Zoey suggests brightly.

“Sure,” Rumi says.

Mira gives a graceful nod, already turning away. “Try not to attract anymore unwanted weirdo’s.”

“Try not to snap anyone’s neck,” Rumi mutters.

Mira laughs softly, her boots clicking against the stone as she disappears around the corner. Zoey waves and jogs toward the athletic fields, her buns bouncing behind her.

Rumi stands alone for a moment, the crowd moving around her like a tide. She glances once toward the main tower where the demons had gone, then down the path toward her elective.

A cold wind brushes her cheek, carrying faint echoes from somewhere deep in the academy — whispers, distant laughter, the pulse of old magic.

Rumi exhales, straightens her blazer, and starts walking.

Rumi doesn’t remember walking to the next building.
Her body moves on autopilot — through the corridors, past the laughing clusters of students, her hands gripping the strap of her book bag so tightly her knuckles ache. Her head is still full of that scent — burnt metal and ash — and the low rumble of his voice replaying like static in her skull.

She can’t shake it.

By the time she reaches Room B-12, she’s already late. The door is open, though, and the faint hum of power in the air makes her pause. It’s different here — thicker, heavier, like the walls themselves are breathing.

She steps inside.

The classroom is smaller than she expected, with only seven desks arranged in a semicircle around a large obsidian podium. The air smells faintly of sulfur and ink. Behind the podium stands a woman — tall, elegant, and impossibly composed.

Her horns are long and smooth, curling up and back like the spires of a crown. Her hair, black as ink, falls down her back in a sleek cascade. Her eyes — molten gold — sweep over Rumi as she enters.

“Ah,” the woman says smoothly. “Miss Ryu, I presume.”

Rumi blinks. “Uh— yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” The woman’s lips curve into a polite, sharp smile. “I am Professor Kendrick. Take a seat, dear. We’ve only just begun.”

Rumi nods stiffly and slips into a desk near the back, trying to make herself smaller. Her palms are still clammy.

Professor Kendrick turns back to the class, her voice steady and rich, like velvet over stone.
“As I was saying — this course will serve as your foundation in understanding the Infernal Lineages. It’s particularly useful,” her gaze flicks briefly toward Rumi again, “for those of you who’ve been… raised apart from their kind.”

Rumi’s stomach drops. She doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe.

Across the room, the two demon boys from Magical Theory — Mystery and Abby — share a look. Abby’s grin curls, slow and knowing. Mystery just watches her with a lazy curiosity that makes her skin crawl.

Kendrick continues, unbothered by the tension threading through the air. “Now then. Let’s begin with the basics.”

She waves a hand, and the blackboard lights up with glowing script, each letter pulsing faintly with heat.

Lesson One: The Nature of Demons.

“Demons,” she begins, pacing elegantly across the room, “are beings of dual essence — bound by both the mortal plane and the Infernal Realms. We are not born in fire and brimstone as human myths suggest, but rather… birthed between worlds.”

Her words echo softly, each one sinking deep into Rumi’s chest.

“Each demon has two forms,” Kendrick continues. “A human-presenting form, and an infernal-presenting one. The latter is not simply cosmetic — it is the true shape of your soul. It’s where your magic manifests most purely.”

She gestures gracefully to her own horns, the faint shimmer of pink patterning blooming across her cheekbones for emphasis. “Our infernal form reveals what we are. What we feel. It is our truth, stripped bare.”

Rumi stares down at her notebook, heart hammering. She writes every word down, even as her hands tremble.

“Your patterns,” Kendrick continues, “reflect the flow of your energy. They can shift or glow depending on emotion or strength of will. You may have noticed this yourselves.”

Across the room, Abby snickers under his breath. Rumi doesn’t look up.

“Each lineage,” Kendrick goes on, “possesses distinct traits. For instance — succubi and incubi often manifest pheromonal influence or emotional manipulation. Hellhounds display physical resilience, heightened aggression, and the ability to channel flame. Shadowborn, like myself, draw strength from the unseen, weaving illusion and fear.”

Her eyes linger on Rumi again. “And hybrids — rarer still — often carry unpredictable traits of multiple lineages.”

Rumi’s pen stills. Her throat tightens. Hybrids.

She’s never had a name for what she is. Never known if there were others. But Celine had mentioned her “Mixed breeding” often enough for the words to hit too deep.

Professor Kendrick keeps speaking, her tone sharp but patient, like a sculptor carving truth from stone.

“Our kind are drawn to chaos, not because we seek it, but because we are made from it. Demons are creatures of intensity. We crave sensation, emotion, movement. We are difficult to contain — and that, my students, is both our curse and our gift. You will find over your years, you have craved certain things. Most likely anonymity, power in whatever form you can find it, and intimacy in the form of physical touch.”

Her words hum in the air, sinking into Rumi like molten glass. Physical touch. Something she’s never been privy to. Celine refused to touch her the moment she was self sufficient. She hasn’t been hugged properly in years… it used to hurt, physically. Now it just aches.

She’d spent her whole life pretending she wasn’t like this. Hiding the pink glow beneath her skin. Suppressing the fire when it burned too hot in her chest.
And here — in this quiet, heavy room — she learns in a single sentence that it was never wrong.

That it was just her nature.

Professor Kendrick moves on to demon hierarchies, sketching glowing symbols in the air with a casual flick of her wrist. Rumi tries to follow, but her head spins. Every few seconds, she feels it again — eyes on her.

Abby’s, sharp and amused. Mystery’s, heavier, quieter, as though he’s studying her rather than mocking. The other one she recognises is the boy with black hair, from the cafeteria on her first day. His eyes are gentler, yet no less predatory when they take in her body. It feels like being hunted in the worst, most public way possible.

And worse — every so often, one of them inhales. Subtle. Almost hidden. But she feels it. The faint ripple in the air as they scent her again.

Her chest tightens. Her breath comes shallow. She doesn’t understand why they keep smelling her, it feels so wildly inappropriate yet she can’t place why.

Kendrick’s voice fades into a background hum as Rumi’s pulse pounds louder in her ears. She grips her pen tighter, tries to focus on the notes.

“Demons form packs, or courts, depending on their preferences,” Kendrick says somewhere far away. “Though some, particularly those raised among humans, lack this sense of belonging. Without a pack, a demon may struggle to control their infernal nature. Isolation weakens the tether.”

The word isolation strikes her like a blade.

She feels it in her bones.

Her hand cramps from writing, but she doesn’t stop. She can’t. The information feels like oxygen — painful, necessary, overwhelming.

She wants to ask a thousand questions. About lineage. About control. About the way her patterns ache under her skin when she feels too much. But every time she considers speaking, she catches Abby’s smirk from the corner of her eye and swallows the urge.

Kendrick finishes her circuit of the room and rests her hands on the podium. “Now, before we finish up — remember this above all else: Infernal magic thrives in honesty. Deny your nature, and it will manifest in the worst possible way.”

The silence that follows is absolute.

Rumi’s pen hovers uselessly above the page. Her chest feels tight, like she’s forgotten how to breathe.

Across the room, someone shifts — a faint scrape of a chair. Then a sniff. Another.

She freezes.

It’s not her imagination this time. The boys are leaning forward slightly, noses tilted, eyes narrowing. They’re smelling her again — faintly, curiously, like they can sense something wrong. Something out of place.

Her pulse spikes. Her magic stirs, restless and sharp beneath her skin, begging to react. But she forces it down.

Professor Kendrick doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe she chooses not to. She waves her hand, and the glowing script vanishes from the board. “That’s all for today. I expect your written reflections by next week. Dismissed.”

The class stirs.

Chairs scrape. Bags rustle. Voices start low and quiet, demons murmuring to one another in a tongue that makes Rumi’s head throb. She stays still until most of them have gone — except for the two boys.

She can feel their gaze, heavy on the back of her neck.

Her heart beats faster.

Abby mutters something under his breath — a word she doesn’t catch — and Mystery hums in response, low and considering.

Rumi stays frozen in place.

The classroom empties slowly, leaving only the lingering smell of sulfur and ink.
Rumi stands frozen near her desk, her bag half-slung over one shoulder, staring at the blackboard that now sits dark and still. The words are gone, but the weight of them lingers — infernal essence, human form, honesty, chaos.

She swallows hard. Her pulse still hasn’t steadied.

Professor Kendrick finishes stacking her notes into a neat pile and looks up. Her golden eyes find Rumi immediately, sharp but not unkind. “Miss Ryu,” she says, her voice smooth as velvet. “Would you stay a moment?”

Rumi hesitates, then nods, the strap of her bag slipping further down her shoulder as she walks forward.
The door closes softly behind the last student, sealing them into a silence that feels suddenly intimate — heavy with power and something older.

Kendrick leans back against her desk, arms crossing loosely. “You seemed unsettled today.”

Rumi tries to laugh it off, but it comes out brittle. “Just a lot to take in, I guess.”

“Mmm.” Kendrick’s gaze doesn’t waver. “That, I can understand. But I suspect there’s something else.”

Rumi’s throat tightens. She stares at the edge of the podium. “The other demons. They… they keep sniffing me.”

Kendrick’s brow arches slightly. “Yes,” she says. “I noticed.”

Her calm makes Rumi’s stomach twist. “Do you— do you know why they’re doing that? It’s—” she hesitates, searching for the right word, “—it’s gross. And kind of creepy.”

The professor’s lips twitch, not quite a smile. “It’s instinct, my dear. Demons rely heavily on scent — it’s how we identify lineage, rank, and presentation.”

Rumi blinks. “Presentation?”

Kendrick pushes away from the desk, circling slowly around to stand beside her. Up close, her presence feels immense, controlled. “You’ve been raised outside demon society, haven’t you?”

Rumi nods mutely. “My dad was a demon. He left before I was born. My mother was a witch, but she died when I was little.”

“Then it makes sense.” Kendrick studies her carefully, eyes tracing the faint shimmer under Rumi’s skin where her patterns sometimes threaten to show. “You don’t smell like a proper demon. Not yet.”

Rumi frowns. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Kendrick says gently, “you barely have a scent at all. To the others, you smell… unfinished.”

Rumi stiffens. “Unfinished?”

“Yes. Like your essence hasn’t settled. Demons can read each other through scent — whether you’re dominant or submissive, aggressive or passive, pure-line or mixed. It tells us everything.” Her tone remains clinical, not mocking, but the words hit like cold stones in Rumi’s stomach.

“So they were— what? Trying to figure out what box to put me in?”

“In a sense, yes,” Kendrick admits. “You intrigue them because you’re unfamiliar. But also because you feel… restrained. Your magic is caged inside you, and they can sense that too.”

Rumi looks down at her hands, her knuckles white around her book. “I’m trying to control it,” she mutters.

“I don’t doubt that,” Kendrick says softly. “But I’m telling you to stop. The more you hide yourself, the more your natural desires will lash out.”

Rumi glances up sharply. “You think I should just— what? Let it out? Start glowing and sprouting horns in the middle of class?”

That earns a quiet chuckle from Kendrick. “Not quite. But you should occasionally let your natural form show. Slowly. Safely. The longer you suppress it, the more your body will fight you.”

Rumi opens her mouth, then closes it again. She can feel her pulse thrumming in her throat. “It’s not that easy,” she says finally. “When it comes out, it’s— it’s too much. It hurts. And people stare.”

Kendrick’s expression softens. “Of course they do. Power unsettles those who don’t understand it.” She moves closer, resting one elegant hand on the edge of Rumi’s desk. “But this isn’t just about strength, Rumi. It’s about health. When a demon hides her true form too long, the energy begins to turn inward. It eats at her. Flares of temper, exhaustion, even illness.”

Rumi blinks, startled. “That’s a thing?”

“Very much so,” Kendrick replies. “It’s why we teach young demons grounding techniques and form exercises. To prevent the buildup. You, however…” She tilts her head slightly. “You’ve never been taught, have you?”

Rumi shakes her head.

Kendrick sighs quietly. “Then I suggest you start small. Summon your markings when you’re alone. Let them surface for a few seconds. Breathe through it. Eventually your body will stop fighting the change.”

Rumi nods slowly, though her chest feels tight again. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll… I’ll try.”

Kendrick gives her a small approving smile. “That’s all I ask.”

Silence settles again, softer this time. The professor watches her for another moment, then adds, “And Rumi— if any of the others make you uncomfortable again, tell me. I may not be able to change instinct, but I can remind them of decorum.”

That almost makes Rumi smile. “Thanks, Professor.”

“Of course.” Kendrick’s golden eyes gleam with something like pride. “You’re doing well, considering. Most first-years spend the first month crying in the bathrooms.”

Rumi lets out a quiet laugh, half-real. “Give me a week.”

Kendrick chuckles. “I’ll hold you to that. Now, off with you. You’ve had enough lessons for one day.”

Rumi gathers her things, the conversation still spinning in her head. Before she leaves, she hesitates at the door. “Professor?”

“Yes?”

“When you said ‘presentation’… what exactly does that mean?”

Kendrick’s expression flickers — a hint of amusement, maybe sympathy, or shock. “That’s a conversation for a later lecture,” she says. “For now, just know that it’s about your bodily functions. How your energy reads to others. You’ll understand it when it’s explained properly, but that can wait.”

Rumi wants to press further, but something in the professor’s tone tells her she won’t get more right now. She nods. “Okay. I’ll look it up.”

“Good girl,” Kendrick says, and her voice holds no mockery — just approval. “Now go on before you miss your next class.”

Rumi slips out, the door closing behind her with a quiet click.

The hallway feels colder. The air thinner. She exhales, realizing she’s been holding her breath since she left her seat.

She walks slowly, her shoes echoing softly on the polished floor, replaying the conversation in her head. Barely has a scent. Intriguing. Unfinished. The words sting more than she expects.

She doesn’t want to be intriguing. She just wants to blend in — to be another student in a too-tight blazer, scribbling notes and trying not to get burned by the people around her.

But Kendrick’s words linger. Let it out. Start small.

Her hands twitch with the thought. The faint pulse under her skin hums, pink and restless. She flexes her fingers, feeling the magic answer — hot, familiar, impatient.

When she finally steps outside, the late-afternoon sun has dipped low, washing the courtyard in gold and shadow. The air smells faintly of damp stone and cedar.

Rumi slows, clutching her notebook to her chest. She stops beside one of the stone benches that line the path and sinks down, letting her bag fall beside her.

She opens her notebook to a blank page and scrawls a few quick lines, her handwriting uneven from the tremor still in her fingers:

Research: Demon presentation — scent hierarchy — hybrid classification — control methods.

She taps the pen against the page, thinking of Kendrick’s words again. Your magic is caged inside you, and they can sense that too.

Rumi exhales through her nose, a small, tired laugh escaping her. “Yeah,” she mutters under her breath. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

For a moment, she just sits there, staring at the page. The quad around her hums with distant noise — laughter, footsteps, the faint ring of a bell from the far tower.

She closes her eyes.

Maybe Kendrick’s right. Maybe she should try. Just a little.

Rumi opens her hand, palm up. The magic comes faster than she expects — a ripple of heat under her skin, then a faint shimmer of light tracing up her wrist. Her patterns flicker pink for half a second before she clenches her fist and forces them away.

It feels like swallowing fire.

She gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. Her heart hammers.

It takes a full minute before the burning subsides, leaving her flushed and shaken.

“Better for my body, huh,” she mutters, breathing out a humorless laugh. “Feels like I’m gonna explode.”

Still, she writes another note beneath her earlier ones:

Practice infernal form — slowly — when alone.

She stares at it for a long time, then snaps the notebook shut and stands. The sky is darker now, the edges of Fenric Academy glowing faintly under enchanted lanterns.

Rumi slings her bag over her shoulder and starts walking back toward the dorms. Each step feels heavier, but clearer somehow.

She’s exhausted, still uneasy — but for the first time since she arrived, there’s something else threading through the fear.

Curiosity.

By the time she reaches Banshee Hall, the lamps have turned silver, casting long shadows across the stone steps. She hesitates at the door, taking one last breath of cool night air before stepping inside.

Tomorrow, she’ll have to face them again — the boys, the stares, the whispers.
But tonight, she has a page full of questions, a spark of power in her veins, and the faint echo of Kendrick’s voice reminding her to stop hiding.

Chapter Text

The door clicks softly behind her, muffling the murmur of voices from the courtyard below. The smell of something herbal — tea, maybe — drifts from the kitchenette, warm and grounding.

Zoey sits cross-legged on one of the couches, a mug balanced precariously on her knee, while Mira lounges sideways across the other, reading a leather bound book. Both glance up as Rumi steps in.

“Hey, there she is!” Zoey grins, tail flicking lazily behind her. “Thought you got lost in the maze of academia.”

Rumi snorts. “Almost did.” She drops her bag beside the coffee table and collapses onto the rug, stretching her legs out with a sigh. “Long day.”

Mira hums without looking up. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks, I missed lunch,” Rumi mutters.

Zoey giggles. “How were classes? Did you blow anything up yet?”

“Not yet,” Rumi says, tugging her blazer off and folding it over the back of a chair. “But it’s early.”

They settle into an easy rhythm — the kind that only comes from mutual exhaustion. Zoey launches into a story about almost punching a guy in Physical Conditioning who wouldn’t stop flexing his claws mid-drill, while Mira adds her own dramatic commentary about how the glamour professor clearly hates her because she refuses to “tone down the hair.”

Rumi listens, half-smiling, half-drifting.

Eventually, Zoey turns the attention toward her. “What about you, Rumi? How was your infernal class?”

Rumi hesitates. She’s not sure she wants to unpack that conversation right now. “It was… fine,” she says slowly. “We went over demon basics — history, physiology, control methods. Stuff like that.”

Mira glances up from her spot, eyebrow raised. “And?”

“And nothing,” Rumi shrugs, picking at a loose thread on the rug. “Just… a lot of new information.”

Zoey leans forward, grinning. “You sound suspiciously vague.”

Rumi rolls her eyes. “I’m not being vague.”

“Yes, you are,” Mira says flatly. “Even for a demon.”

Zoey nudges her foot. “C’mon, what’s one thing you learned today? Impress us.”

Rumi sighs, giving in. “Apparently, demons can ‘present.’ Whatever that means.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Zoey chokes on her tea. Mira bursts out laughing so hard she nearly drops the book on her own face.

Rumi stares at them, completely lost. “What?”

Mira wheezes, “Oh my god, you are kidding right?”

Rumi scowls. “No, what?”

Zoey wipes her mouth, still giggling. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“Stop calling me that and explain!”

Mira smirks, swinging her legs off the couch. “Presentation, dear infernal baby, is how your body signals what role you play in, you know—” she twirls her hand vaguely, “—mating cycles.”

Rumi blinks. “…Mating?”

Zoey laughs again, but her tone is gentler. “It’s kind of like what werewolves have, actually. Alphas, betas, omegas — you know, hierarchy stuff. But for demons, it’s more… scent-based. Aggressive.”

Rumi frowns, folding her arms. “That’s barbaric.”

“It’s biology,” Mira says with a shrug. “Your scent tells others what you are. Dominant, neutral, submissive. It’s all pheromones and power exchange.”

“I don’t—” Rumi rubs her temples. “How would they even know that just by smelling me?”

Zoey’s eyes soften. “Because each type smells different. You’ll learn to pick it up eventually.”

Rumi groans. “Great. Another thing I’m behind on and it’s only day one.”

The room lapses into a comfortable silence again, punctuated only by the clink of Zoey’s mug. Then, with a mischievous smile, Zoey sets it down and says, “Wanna test it?”

Rumi blinks. “Test it?”

“Yeah.” Zoey tilts her head, pushing her hair aside to expose the smooth line of her neck. “You can scent me. Just so you get what I mean.”

Mira snickers. “You’re really gonna let her sniff you?”

Zoey shrugs. “It’s educational.”

Rumi’s eyes go wide. “I am not smelling you.”

“Why not?” Zoey grins. “You said you don’t get it. This’ll help.”

Rumi opens her mouth to protest, but Zoey’s already leaning closer, her scent wafting through the air before Rumi can even think. The pulse of her neck stands out immediately, the glands beneath her skin calling the second Rumi’s eyes lock onto them. It’s subtle at first — then hits all at once, dizzying and warm.

The smell is sweet, but not in a cloying way — like ripe melon on a summer day mixed with the faintest trace of jasmine. It curls through the air and catches at the back of Rumi’s throat, soft and inviting. There’s an undertone too, something earthy and soft that makes her chest tighten.

Her body reacts before her mind does. She inhales again, tilting her face towards the younger girls skin — deeper this time — and something low in her stomach twists pleasantly. The sound that escapes her isn’t quite a sigh, but it’s close.

Zoey watches her with a raised brow, smiling knowingly.

Mira watches with her chin propped on her hand, thoroughly entertained.

Rumi blinks, dazed. “You… smell nice.”

Zoey chuckles, her cheeks pink. “Thanks. Most people say that.”

“I mean— not like—” Rumi stammers. “You just smell… calm.”

“That’s kind of the point,” Zoey says gently. “Omegas usually smell comforting. It’s how we defuse tension. You probably noticed it before — people tend to relax around me without realizing.”

Rumi nods slowly, still fighting off the hazy pull in her head. Then she notices Mira’s amused smirk and realizes what’s happening.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she demands.

“Because your fangs are showing, demon girl,” Mira says smugly.

Rumi freezes. Her hand flies to her mouth. Sure enough, the sharp tips of her fangs press against her lip, fully-extended. She hadn’t even felt them slide out.

“Oh my god,” she mumbles, mortified.

Zoey’s ears twitch, but she only smiles, a little flustered herself. “It’s fine. Happens sometimes when you smell pheromones you like. Your instincts react first.”

“I don’t— I wasn’t—” Rumi sputters. “I don’t like—”

Mira cackles. “Relax, demon, nobody’s accusing you of anything. But wow, that was interesting to watch. Your heart rates are through the roof, and you both smell… hot.”

Rumi groans and drops her face into her hands. “Kill me now.”

“Can’t,” Mira says. “Orientation rules. Murder’s still on the forbidden list.”

Zoey giggles again and leans back on the couch. “At least now you get it. Presentation is all about how your energy reads to others. You don’t really have one, well not a strong scent. I could only smell it when you got close to me — which is why the other demons keep sniffing around. You’re like a question mark to them.”

Rumi peeks at her through her fingers. “A question mark?”

“Yeah,” Zoey says. “You don’t have a solid scent. It’s confusing. Makes them curious. And some of them probably take that curiosity too far.”

Rumi frowns. “So they’re sniffing me because I’m… incomplete?”

“Pretty much,” Mira says with a shrug. “Unpresented demons are rare. Usually, it happens in hybrids or those who’ve suppressed their magic too long. Or infants who haven been through a cycle yet.”

That hits closer than Rumi wants to admit. She leans back against the couch, rubbing her arm. “Professor Kendrick said something like that. That my magic’s caged.”

Zoey tilts her head. “She’s probably right. You still holding back?”

“I’m in control.”

Mira chuckles. “Figures. You’ve got control issues written all over you.”

Rumi shoots her a glare. “You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t have to,” Mira replies smoothly. “It’s obvious. You sit on the edge of every room like you’re waiting to bolt.”

Zoey eyes her. “Be nice.”

“I am being nice,” Mira insists. “She should know she’s transparent.”

Rumi mutters, “You’re a bitch.”

“Thank you,” Mira says sweetly.

Zoey sighs, stepping between them — metaphorically, if not literally. “Okay, okay, let’s not start another round of ‘who can make Rumi combust first.’ We’re supposed to be bonding.”

“Bonding?” Mira snorts. “I don’t bond.”

“Yeah, you do,” Zoey says. “You just complain while you do it.”

Rumi can’t help the small laugh that escapes her. Mira throws a cushion at Zoey, who catches it easily, grinning.

The tension breaks like a soap bubble.

For the next hour, they talk — about classes, about professors, about how weirdly alive the castle feels at night. Mira complains that her illusion teacher made her practice invisibility spells until her nose bled. Zoey admits she nearly fell asleep mid-lecture in Magical Theory. Rumi keeps quiet about the demon boys and Professor Kendrick’s warning, just nodding and smiling when appropriate.

But despite the laughter, the talk of presentation still hums at the back of her skull.

She can’t stop thinking about the way Zoey smelled. The way her instincts had jumped to the surface before she even realized it. It hadn’t been hunger, not exactly — more like… a pull. A strange, comforting gravity.

She sneaks another glance at Zoey, who’s laughing at something Mira just said.

Rumi quickly looks away, cheeks burning.

She focuses instead on the flicker of lamplight over Mira’s pink hair, the way her pale skin catches the glow like glass. The vampire lounges like a queen even in casual clothes, eyes half-lidded and amused.

It’s strange, she thinks — being surrounded by creatures so sure of themselves. They aren’t best friends, yet today they seem more relaxed. Like it’s easier to breathe in their space than after their first argument.

Eventually, the conversation drifts off. Zoey stretches with a satisfied groan, tail curling around her leg. “Alright, I’m calling it. First day: survived.”

Mira smirks. “Barely.”

Zoey stands, heading for her room. “Don’t stay up too late, you two.”

Rumi snorts. “No promises.”

When the door shuts behind her, Mira glances at Rumi, her tone unexpectedly softer. “You’ll figure it out, you know.”

Rumi blinks. “Figure what out?”

“Whatever’s eating you,” Mira says. “Presentation, power, scent — all that crap. It sorts itself out eventually.”

Rumi tilts her head. “That sounded almost nice.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Mira says, smirking as she stands. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

Rumi laughs quietly as the vampire disappears into her room.

For a while, she sits alone in the dim light of the living room, the silence settling around her like a blanket. She can still smell the faint sweetness of Zoey’s pheromones in the air — that hint of jasmine and warmth that lingers long after she’s gone.

It’s strangely comforting.

Rumi closes her eyes and leans back against the couch, her pulse finally steadying.

Tomorrow will bring more questions. More stares. More lessons she isn’t ready for.

But for now, in this flickering light and quiet warmth, she lets herself breathe — just another student in the strange, living halls of Fenric Academy.

~~~

Days begin to blur into one another — in that steady, comforting way that happens when chaos starts to turn into routine.

Mornings at Banshee Hall are loud, chaotic, and often smell faintly of burnt toast and Zoey’s too-sweet scent lingering on every piece of furniture in the dorm. Rumi wakes up every day to the same soft hum of the bookshelves and the faintest trace of sunlight creeping through the curtains.

She never thought she’d get used to the noise of it all — the clattering in the shared kitchenette, Mira’s music bleeding through her bedroom door, Zoey humming something under her breath as she brushes her hair in the mirror — but she does. Slowly.

It’s not peace, not exactly. But it’s something close enough.

The three of them fall into rhythm like clockwork. Rumi makes coffee strong enough to wake the dead (and sometimes Mira, which is saying something). Zoey insists on cooking breakfast even though she burns half of it. Mira pretends not to care about anything but still ends up fixing Zoey’s hair before class because, in her words, “you look like a gremlin.”

And yet — for all their differences, it works.

Until mornings like today.

“Zoey!” Rumi’s voice echoes through the dorm, sharp enough to rattle the bathroom door. “You’ve been in there for thirty minutes!”

From behind the door, the muffled sound of running water continues — along with Zoey’s cheerful singing.

Mira lounges on the couch, wrapped in her dressing gown, scrolling idly on her tablet. “Thirty-five, actually,” she corrects lazily.

Rumi turns on her with a glare. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to.” Mira smirks, baring the faintest hint of fangs.

Rumi groans and raps on the door again, louder this time. “Zoey! We have class in fifteen minutes!”

The door creaks open a crack — just enough for Zoey’s damp tail to flick out and swat at Rumi’s leg before retreating again.

“Five more minutes!” Zoey calls, her voice sing-song. “I’m almost done!”

Mira raises an eyebrow. “Almost done what? Boiling yourself alive?”

There’s a splash, followed by the sound of bottles clattering. “Self-care!”

Rumi throws her hands up. “I swear to the gods, I’m breaking this door down.”

Mira stretches lazily, the corner of her mouth curling. “Do it. I’ll hold her towel hostage.”

“You two are evil!” Zoey calls through the door, laughing now.

“Then get out!” Rumi yells, pounding her fist against the door.

No answer.

Rumi groans again and leans her forehead against the wood, muttering under her breath. Mira chuckles quietly, entirely too entertained.

“You could just go in there and drag her out,” Mira says. “Surely a demon has the strength to knock a door down.”

Rumi glares at her over her shoulder. “And risk walking in on whatever she’s doing? No thank you.”

“Scared?”

“Respectful,” Rumi corrects pointedly. “You should try it sometime.”

Mira pretends to look offended. “I’m very respectful. I only bite people who deserve it, or ask nicely.”

“Not the reassurance you think it is.”

Mira’s grin widens.

Rumi pinches the bridge of her nose. “I can’t believe this is my life now.”

Before she can complain further, the bathroom door finally swings open — steam billowing out like a fog bank. Zoey steps out wrapped in a towel, her hair dripping down her back, smelling faintly of melon and jasmine and some kind of floral soap that’s definitely hers.

“See?” she says, grinning innocently. “All done.”

Rumi gapes. “We have ten minutes!”

Zoey blinks. “Plenty of time.”

“Not if you—” Rumi starts, but stops when she notices Mira casually watching them, her eyes trailing down Zoey’s exposed legs.

“Mira!”

“What?” the vampire says, smirking. “She looks good. A girl can notice.”

Rumi shakes her head, muttering something about insanity as she finally gets her turn in the bathroom.

By the time they’re all dressed, the dorm looks like a hurricane passed through. Makeup scattered across the coffee table, steam fogging the mirror, and Rumi’s discarded blazer draped over the armchair.

Their uniforms almost make them look like proper students. Almost.

Zoey smooths her coat over her hips. “Do I look okay?” she asks, spinning once.

Mira inspects her like a critic at a runway show. “Well you’re mostly dry, and fully clothed. So Progress.”

Zoey sticks her tongue out.

Rumi fastens the clasp of her jacket and glances at them both. “You two done?”

“Just getting started,” Mira says, picking up her satchel.

Zoey nods enthusiastically. “Let’s go before Rumi yells at me again.”

They head out together, boots clicking against the polished floors of the dorm hallway. The morning air outside is crisp, the sky painted in pale gold. Fenric Academy looms ahead —The campus feels alive, like it’s breathing a sigh of relief as students pile into the courtyard.

Students spill across the paths, a blur of feathers, tails, scales, and horns. Every species imaginable, each dressed in that same faintly glowing uniform that marks them as part of the school’s sprawling ecosystem.

Zoey hums a tune as they walk, hand brushing lazily against Rumi’s side. Mira walks on the other side, gliding more than stepping, as though her boots barely touch the ground. Somewhere between laughter and bickering, the three of them naturally start to huddle close — shoulders brushing, warmth shared without thought.

It’s unintentional. Comfortable. Easy.

“Hey,” Zoey says suddenly, “you two wanna grab lunch at the courtyard after class?”

“Depends,” Mira says. “Are you going to make us eat weird shit again?”

“Maybe.”

“Then no.”

Rumi snorts, covering her mouth.

Zoey gasps. “Wow. Rude.”

“I’m not watching you vomit grubs again Zoey, it traumatised me, and I eat people,” Mira says coolly.

They’re still laughing when they reach the ivy-covered entrance to Arcane Theory, one of the bigger lecture halls on campus. The building smells faintly of parchment, dust, and magic — old and sharp, like static in the air.

Rumi pushes the door open, holding it for the others. The classroom is already half-full — rows of long benches, students murmuring quietly, some already casting idle light spells over their notebooks.

They find seats near the middle, a little off to the side. Rumi sits between Zoey and Mira, trying to ignore the faint prickle that always crawls down her spine in a room this full. Too many scents, too many eyes.

Zoey starts unpacking her bag — notebooks, glittery pens, and an absurd number of stickers. Mira leans back in her seat, crossing one leg over the other, looking utterly bored before the lecture’s even started.

That’s when it happens.

A quiet hiss. A whisper. Laughter, sharp and cold.

Rumi looks up just in time to see a group of vampires at the far end of the room — four of them, mixed genders, all pale and immaculate in that effortless way vampires tend to be. They’re draped over their seats like royalty, fangs flashing as they smirk.

One of them — a tall boy with silver hair and eyes blood red — mutters something under his breath, just loud enough to carry.

“Didn’t realize they let rich kid rejects sit with the rest of us.”

The others snicker.

Mira goes perfectly still.

Rumi feels it before she sees it — that shift in air pressure, the drop in temperature. When she glances sideways, Mira’s eyes have gone faintly black, shimmering like smoke behind her lashes.

“Say that again,” she says softly, knowing they will hear her.

The group just smirks wider. “Touchy.”

Rumi feels Zoey’s hand brush her wrist, subtle but warning. “Mira,” she murmurs.

Mira doesn’t move. Her voice is low, almost a purr. “You must be delusional to talk to me like that.”

The silver-haired boy tilts his head, still smiling. “Delusional? That’s a big word for a highschool drop out. Or were you kicked out? Father never said what the circumstances were, just that your family are no longer worth our time.”

That earns another round of laughter from his little entourage.

Mira’s smile is sharp enough to cut glass. “You must be so proud. Imagine being so stupidly defined by your parents’ bad decisions.”

Rumi bites back a snort. Zoey does not.

The boy’s smile falters, just slightly.

Mira leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “Tell you what. If you shut the fuck up right now, you can save yourself an ass whooping.”

Silence drops like a stone.

Then — mercifully — the professor walks in, and the laughter dies completely.

The group looks away first.

Mira sits back in her seat, expression returning to that lazy neutrality she wears like armor. But Rumi can still see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers drum against the desk like she’s fighting the urge to lunge.

Zoey leans toward her and whispers, “You okay?”

Mira exhales slowly. “Fine.”

Rumi doesn’t believe her, but she doesn’t press.

The professor begins the lecture, voice echoing through the hall. But Rumi barely hears it. Her focus flicks between the back of the vampires’ heads and Mira’s perfectly composed face.

She can feel Zoey’s energy beside her — anxious but bright, always ready to defuse.

Somewhere beneath it all, Rumi feels the familiar spark of something dangerous. Protective, maybe. Instinctual. She doesn’t like how it feels — hot, coiled, alive — but she doesn’t push it away either.

By the time the lecture ends, Mira hasn’t said another word.

Zoey stands first, stretching. “Food after this?” she asks softly, like it’s an offer of peace.

Mira blinks, her expression softening. “Sure.”

Rumi gathers her notes, glancing once more toward the vampires as they file out — still laughing, but quieter now.

She doesn’t say anything. But if one of them happens to glance her way and immediately look nervous, well — that’s just coincidence.

As they leave the hall together — shoulder to shoulder, steps in sync — Rumi realizes something she hasn’t before.

The cafeteria is a cathedral of noise and light — high ceilings strung with enchanted lanterns, walls alive with ivy that shifts color depending on the hour. The air hums with conversation and clinking cutlery, magic buzzing faintly like static between tables.

Rumi sits wedged between Zoey and Mira at a small table near the window, sunlight catching the faint shimmer in her braid.

Zoey’s chatting through a mouthful of apple slices, Mira’s stirring her drink absently, and Rumi’s trying to make sense of the runes she copied from class.

“You know,” Zoey says, chewing thoughtfully, “I think things aren’t too bad here, I think my classes are going well.”

Mira hums without looking up. “Speak for yourself.”

“I think she was,” Rumi mutters.

Mira rolls her eyes at that.

Zoey giggles, leaning back in her chair. “No, really. It feels nice, doesn’t it? Like… normal school stuff. Friends, homework, existential dread—”

“—Vampires with superiority complexes,” Mira finishes dryly.

Rumi snorts. “That too.”

Zoey grins. “See? Totally normal.”

They share a look — and for a moment, it is normal. Peaceful, even.

Then the peace shatters.

A cold voice cuts through the noise. “Well, well. Of course Kang is still slumming it with the freaks.”

Rumi’s spine stiffens.

Mira’s cup pauses halfway to her lips.

They turn in unison.

The same group from class stands a few feet away — the pretty vampires, their uniforms immaculate, postures dripping arrogance. The silver-haired one is front and center again, eyes glinting like glass under the lanternlight.

Rumi feels Zoey’s hands twitch beside her — a sure sign she’s ready to bolt or bite, depending on which instinct wins first.

Mira sets her cup down with a quiet clink. “Oh good,” she says sweetly. “I was worried my day would be too pleasant.”

The boy’s smile is sharp. “I was just passing by. Thought I’d see if the rumors were true.”

Mira tilts her head. “And which rumors would those be? That you’re compensating for something, or that you’ve got nothing better to do than harass people in the cafeteria?”

Zoey chokes on her juice. Rumi elbows her lightly to keep her from bursting out laughing.

The boy’s expression doesn’t change, but his jaw tightens. “Rumor says they let anyone into Fenric now. Even failures.”

“Ah,” Mira says, nodding slowly. “So you’re projecting. Got it.”

Rumi bites her lip hard to hide a smile.

The vampire steps closer, shadows sliding with him. His fangs flash as he sneers. “Tell me, how’d you even graduate high school, freak? Cheat on your tests? Charm your teachers?”

There’s a collective oooh from nearby tables — a low ripple of tension that draws eyes from across the room.

Zoey freezes, eyes darting between them. “Mira…”

But Mira’s already rising to her feet, smooth and deliberate. She’s not tall, not really — but when she stands like that, chin lifted, fangs glinting, she might as well be ten feet tall.

“We both know I owned that school, I had immaculate grades actually,” she repeats softly, the calm in her tone almost dangerous. “Not all of us have to be total kiss asses to do well in this world.”

The vampire blinks.

Mira takes a step forward, close enough that her voice drops to a low purr. “In fact, if I remember correctly, I did substantially better than you I organic chemistry. I’d actually say I topped that fucking class, just liked I topped your sister in 12^th grade. Gods Ellie was so fine, I can still hear her moaning my name.”

Rumi’s eyes widen. Zoey’s hand flies to her mouth.

Mira smiles, all sugar and venom. “So unless you want me to demonstrate what else I excel at, like fucking your sister again, kindly—” she tilts her head, “—fuck off.”

Rumi and Zoey both spit their drinks out at the same time — Rumi’s water spraying across her notebook, Zoey’s juice narrowly missing Mira’s sleeve.

The silver-haired boy’s mouth falls open. The nearby tables go silent for a heartbeat — and then laughter erupts, loud and unrestrained.

Mira just stands there, utterly composed, wiping a stray droplet of juice from her wrist. “What?” she says innocently, glancing at Rumi and Zoey. “He fucked around, he found out. Maybe those dipshits will leave me alone now.”

Zoey’s trying not to laugh, face buried in her hands. “You can’t just say that kind of stuff Mira!”

“Why not?” Mira replies, unbothered. “Public service announcement.”

Rumi coughs into her sleeve, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “Of what?”

“That I’m not to be messed with, and that I’m a god in bed,” Mira corrects, sitting back down and resuming her drink as if nothing happened.

Rumi’s still grinning. “Remind me never to get on your bad side again.”

“Oh, no I enjoyed arguing with you,” Mira says, sipping her drink.

They all dissolve into quiet laughter again — the kind that lingers, warm and a little breathless. Around them, conversation slowly resumes. The buzz of magic and chatter returns, but the air feels lighter now, crackling with victory.

Rumi smiles into her cup, watching the two of them— realizing, not for the first time, how different her life feels now. How alive it feels.

After lunch, the girls part ways at the courtyard.

The sun hangs low behind the spires of Fenric Academy, streaking the sky in molten orange. Students flow around them — vampires in pressed uniforms, werewolves laughing too loudly, witches floating books beside them. It’s chaotic but rhythmic, like the pulse of the school itself.

Zoey grins, slinging her bag higher over her shoulder. “I’ve got Beast Morphology next. Try not to piss anyone else off while I’m gone.”

“No promises,” Mira deadpans.

Rumi snorts softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Infernal studies for me again.”

Mira grimaces. “You really like torture, huh?”

“Apparently,” Rumi mutters.

They split at the archway. Mira and Zoey head left; Rumi veers right, clutching her books like a shield.

She tells herself it’ll be fine. Professor Kendrick had seemed fair before — sharp, yes, but kind in her own way. Rumi just needs to focus. Keep her head down. Don’t draw attention.

The Infernal Studies building hums faintly under her fingers as she pushes through the door, the air thick with heat and faint traces of brimstone. Class hasn’t started yet. A few demons are already scattered across the room — mostly upper-year students with horns and markings on full display.

She spots an empty seat near the back and slips into it. The wooden desk is warm, faintly vibrating with residual magic.

She’s halfway through opening her notebook when someone drops into the seat beside her.

“Hey,” a low voice murmurs.

Rumi glances up.

The boy beside her is tall and lean, with shimmering skin and black hair that glints under the light. His horns curl back in sleek lines, and his eyes — dark, almost amber — glint like molten gold when he smiles.

“I’m Jinu,” he says, casual, confident. “I saw you in the cafeteria the other wekk.”

Rumi nods politely. “First week.”

“Ah, newbie.” He leans his chin into his hand, grin widening. “Explains why you smell different.”

Rumi stiffens. “Excuse me?”

He chuckles softly. “Relax. It’s a compliment. You smell… interesting.” He inhales slightly, as if to prove his point. “Not like most demons. Softer.”

Her stomach twists. “Don’t—”

Before she can finish, Professor Kendrick sweeps into the room, horns glinting in the low light. The faint rustle of her long black coat fills the silence as she moves to the front.

“Good afternoon, class,” she says smoothly. “Settle in. Today, we begin our study on infernal hierarchy and binding laws.”

The class quiets. Rumi tries to do the same — forcing her attention to the glowing runes Kendrick conjures midair — but Jinu doesn’t stop.

He leans a little closer, voice low enough that only she can hear. “You really don’t know how to control your scent, do you?”

Rumi’s grip tightens on her pen. “I said—”

He grins. “Don’t get mad, I’m just curious. It’s distracting.”

“Jinu,” Kendrick says sharply without looking up. “Pay attention.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, not meaning it in the slightest.

Rumi focuses on her notes, willing her pulse to calm. The professor’s voice weaves through the air — calm, instructive, explaining the social contracts that govern infernal behavior.

‘Demons are bound by power and respect,’ Kendrick says. ‘Those who cannot control their instincts, lose status. Those who weaponize them, rise.’

Jinu leans in again.

“Bet your instincts are wild,” he whispers.

Rumi freezes. “What?”

“You’ve got that look,” he says quietly, eyes dropping for a moment before meeting hers again. “That edge. Bet your horns are gorgeous when you actually let them out.”

Her breath catches — not from the compliment, but the invasion. The audacity.

“Back off,” she hisses.

He only smirks. “You sure you don’t want me to help you figure out what kind of demon you are?”

She can feel him scenting again, that faint hum in the air when he leans closer, eyes hooded. Her magic flares in response — instinctive, sharp, defensive.

Her vision tunnels. The hum of the classroom fades.

He leans closer, close enough that his breath brushes her ear. “Gods, you smell so—”

She snaps.

The growl tears out of her before she can stop it — low, guttural, and distinctly not human. The room goes silent as her fangs flash, eyes flaring gold.

“Back off!” she snarls. “I said stop!”

Jinu jerks back, startled. His smirk falters for half a second before twisting into something uglier — amused, condescending. “Whoa, feisty.”

Before Rumi can even form a response, Kendrick’s voice cuts through the stunned silence.

“Miss Ryu!”

The heat drains from Rumi’s chest. She turns, her heart hammering. “Professor, I—”

“That is not how we conduct ourselves in a classroom,” Kendrick snaps, eyes blazing. “You are not in the pits. This is an institution of learning.”

Rumi flinches. “He was— he kept—”

“I don’t want to hear excuses,” Kendrick interrupts, tone sharp enough to cut. “You will show respect to your peers. Control yourself.”

Her stomach twists. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Apparently, you aren’t as in control as you previously stated,” Kendrick says coldly. “You may have been raised among witches, Miss Ryu, but that is no excuse for such behaviour here.”

The words hit harder than they should.

Rumi’s throat burns. “I— I didn’t mean—”

“Enough.”

Kendrick’s voice brooks no room for argument, the growl of her tone echoing off the walls. The other students are staring now — some curious, some pitying, others barely hiding their smirks.

Rumi feels her cheeks burn.

The air feels too thick, the walls too close. Her patterns pulse faintly beneath her skin — an ache of humiliation and rage — and she knows if she stays, she’ll lose what little control she has left.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, clutching her bag.

And then she bolts.

The classroom door slams behind her as she runs.

The corridors blur around her — voices, footsteps, the faint hum of magic. She barely notices the way the torches flicker as she passes, reacting to the raw energy radiating off her.

By the time she bursts into the courtyard, her lungs are burning. She doesn’t stop.

Up the marble steps. Through the twisting halls of Banshee Hall.

She fumbles her keyless entry, slamming her palm against the handle until it clicks. The door swings open, and she stumbles inside, slamming it behind her.

Silence.

Her breath comes in ragged bursts. Her hands shake as she drops her bag to the floor, books scattering across the carpet.

She sinks down beside them, back against the wall, and finally lets the tears fall.

It’s not fair.

She did everything right. She listened. She stayed quiet. She tried to belong.

And still — still — she’s the one who gets blamed.

Her reflection in the window across the room catches her eye. The faint glow of her patterns flares beneath her skin, rippling pink and white in erratic bursts. Her eyes shimmer with yellow light, cat-like, untamed.

“Stop it,” she whispers to herself, pressing her palms against her knees. “Stop.”

The magic won’t. It hums in her veins, furious and alive, feeding off her emotion like a heartbeat out of sync.

She presses her head against the wall and exhales shakily.

It was just one outburst. She can fix it. She can apologize. She can—

Her throat tightens. She thinks of Kendrick’s face — the disappointment, the edge of disgust.

Her first real mentor here. Gone in an instant.

She wipes at her cheeks roughly, forcing herself upright.

“Stupid,” she mutters. “Stupid, stupid—”

The room is still. The walls pulse faintly, as if listening.

Rumi drags herself toward her bed, collapsing face-first into the blanket. The fabric smells faintly of lavender and soap — hers. Familiar, grounding.

Her claws slip out, so she curls her hands into fists and presses them to her chest.

She stays like that for a long time — breathing, shaking, listening to the faint hum of Fenric’s magic beyond her window.

When the door creaks open an hour later, Rumi doesn’t move. She hears Zoey’s voice first — quiet, worried — and Mira’s sharper tone behind it.

They stop when they see her.

Mira’s scowl softens. Zoey steps closer, crouching by the bed. “Rumi? What happened?”

Rumi doesn’t answer. She just stares at the floor, eyes hollow.

Zoey exchanges a look with Mira. “You don’t have to tell us,” she says softly, “but… we’re here, okay?”

Rumi swallows hard, nodding once.

Rumi sits on the edge of her bed, knees drawn to her chest, eyes clouded and unfocused. The dorm feels smaller than usual—too still, too quiet, like the air itself is holding its breath around her. Her blazer lies crumpled on the floor where she dropped it, and her notebooks are still scattered across the carpet, a chaotic sprawl of ink and half-finished notes.

Zoey moves first. She crosses the room carefully, as though afraid a sudden noise might shatter Rumi completely.
“You can tell us Rumi,” she says softly, crouching down beside her.

Rumi shakes her head. “It’s— it’s stupid.”

Mira leans against the doorframe, arms folded, her usual sharpness muted but not gone. “You don’t look stupid. You look like someone who just got kicked in the gut. Start talking.”

Rumi laughs weakly, the sound brittle. “That’s… not far off.”

Zoey doesn’t say anything else. She just sits on the bed beside Rumi and, after a moment’s hesitation, climbs up fully and wraps her arms around her shoulders. Rumi stiffens—then melts. The dam she’s been holding cracks wide open.

She buries her face against Zoey’s shoulder and sobs. Not delicate tears, but deep, shaking, body-wracking sobs that she can’t hold back anymore. Her whole chest trembles with the force of it. Zoey holds her tighter, one hand stroking her braid, the other tracing soothing circles on her back.

“Shh,” Zoey murmurs, voice soft and warm against her hair. “You’re okay. Just breathe, Ru. You’re okay.”

Rumi tries to speak but the words fall apart halfway out. “He— he kept— he wouldn’t stop—”

Zoey hushes her again, gentle but firm. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

Rumi gasps between sobs, forcing herself to get the words out. “A guy, another demon—Jinu—he kept… scenting me. During class. He wouldn’t stop. He was saying things, leaning close, smelling me—and when I told him to stop, he just—” Her voice cracks. “He laughed at me.”

Mira straightens, her expression going from concerned to murderous in an instant. “He what?”

Rumi wipes her face with the back of her sleeve, trembling. “Then Professor Kendrick— she yelled at me. Said I was being disrespectful, said I should have more control.” A bitter laugh slips through the tears. “Like I was the problem. Like I wanted that to happen.”

Mira’s jaw tightens. “What’s his name again?”

“Don’t,” Zoey says immediately, turning to her. “Mira—”

“No, seriously,” Mira growls. “What’s his name, Rumi? Because I swear to every god listening, he’s not waking up tomorrow if I find him.”

“Mira,” Zoey warns, giving her a look. “We’re not murdering classmates, even if they are assholes.”

“He scented her without consent!” Mira snaps. “That’s— that’s not just rude, that’s feral. He should know better. What’s with these demon boys and their lack of decorum!”

Rumi sniffles, voice small. “I thought you didn’t even like me.”

That makes Mira blink. Some of the anger drains from her face, replaced with something almost sheepish. “What? I— no. You just… irritate me sometimes, and you called me a flea. You’re all quiet and polite and—” she waves a hand vaguely, “—you make me feel like an bitch.”

Zoey lets out a watery laugh, still holding Rumi close. “That’s because you are an bitch, Mira.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mira mutters, rolling her eyes, but her tone softens. She steps closer, crouching beside the bed now. “Look, Rumi. I might be a bit brass, sure—but you’re hard not to like, okay? You’re weird, but in a good way. Like, endearing weird.”

Rumi sniffles again, a shaky smile tugging at her lips. “Endearing weird? That’s nice I guess.”

“Damn right it is.” Mira smirks.

Zoey chuckles and tucks a strand of Rumi’s hair behind her ear. “See? She likes you.”

“Don’t push it,” Mira mutters, standing up. “You two sit tight. I’m gonna make something for us. You both look like you need it.”

Rumi frowns. “You can cook?”

Mira gives her a mock glare over her shoulder as she heads toward the kitchenette. “Please. I’m amazing at everything I do.”

Zoey grins. “She’s doing nice things for us, we are definitely friends now.”

When Mira disappears around the corner, the dorm settles into a softer kind of quiet. The smell of something buttery and savory starts to drift through the air not long after—the comforting kind of smell that makes Rumi’s chest ache in ways she can’t quite name.

Zoey shifts a little, adjusting so Rumi can lean against her properly. Rumi lets her, the exhaustion from the day finally catching up to her.

Zoey keeps playing with her braid absentmindedly, fingers brushing through the loose strands near the end. “You didn’t deserve that,” she says quietly. “Any of it.”

Rumi doesn’t answer right away. Her throat is still raw, but the warmth in Zoey’s voice helps ease the sharp edge of everything. “I thought I was getting better,” she murmurs. “At fitting in. At staying invisible.”

Zoey hums softly, tracing a pattern along her shoulder. “You shouldn’t have to make yourself smaller just so people won’t hurt you.”

Rumi laughs weakly. “Yeah, well… that’s kind of been the story of my life.”

Zoey doesn’t say anything to that—just holds her a little tighter, resting her chin lightly on top of Rumi’s head. For a while, they sit in silence. Rumi can hear the faint bubbling sound from the kitchen, the occasional clink of a spoon, the smell of garlic and herbs spreading through the dorm. The normalcy of it feels strange after everything that happened, but also… safe. Like maybe she can breathe again.

After a while, Zoey breaks the silence. “Hey, Ru?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever think about what you’d do if you didn’t have to hide? Like, if you could just… be?”

Rumi blinks, pulling back slightly to look at her. “Be?”

Zoey shrugs, smiling softly. “Yeah. Be you. Full version. No masks, no filters, no pretending to fit in.”

Rumi thinks about it for a long moment. Her voice is barely above a whisper when she finally answers. “I don’t know. I’ve never really met me before.”

Zoey’s heart aches at that. She brushes her thumb along Rumi’s cheekbone, catching the last stray tear. “You can try it out if you want? Here, with us. We wont mind if you slip up, or if you show your other form.”

Rumi stares at her, startled by the gentleness in her tone, by how easy Zoey makes it sound. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to promise something like that.

“I’m not sure,” Rumi sniffles, “Sometimes it feels so weird to not hold everything back. Like this is how I’m supposed to look, not like…”

“Wanna try?” Zoey giggles, her eyes shining like she believes in Rumi too much.

“I could… I guess,” Rumi hums.

She shifts to sit up, straightening her back and taking a deep breath. When she lets it out she allows her mind to go blank, no restraint, no boundaries, just her body humming with infernal magic. She feels her patterns flare, her eyes heat up with that golden glow. She feels her fangs descend, and her horns poke through. She watches Zoeys expression, her eyes wondering to each new feature with awe.

“So pretty,” Zoey hums, quiet enough Rumi has to do a double take to make sure she heard her correctly.

Before she can say anything, Mira’s voice calls from the kitchen. “Food’s ready, losers!”

Zoey laughs and reluctantly pulls away. “Guess that’s our cue.”

They join Mira at the tiny table. Three bowls of steaming noodles sit waiting—simple, but perfectly cooked. Mira stands there with her hands on her hips, proud and smug.

“Oh, wow,” she says when she takes in Rumi. “Dam, ok. Nobody cry in the food, yeah? I worked hard on this.”

Zoey grins. “You did good, chef.”

“Obviously.” Mira drops into her chair. “Now eat before I change my mind and throw it out the window.”

Rumi hesitates for only a second before digging in, letting her horns and patterns stay exposed. The first bite is warm, comforting—exactly what she didn’t know she needed. She feels the tightness in her chest ease just a little more with each bite.

By the time they’re halfway through the meal, the tension has dissolved into quiet laughter. Zoey teases Mira about her ‘culinary genius,’ Mira mock-threatens to throw her fork, and Rumi actually laughs—really laughs—for the first time since her class.

Later, when the plates are empty and the lights dim, Zoey ends up literally tucking Rumi into bed. She pulls the covers up and tucks a strand of hair behind Rumi’s ear like a doting lover. It send a weird flush across Rumi’s body that she files away for later study.

Sleep comes easy. Thankfully. Yet the feeling of the demon boy scenting her lingers like a shadow as sleep overcomes Rumi’s exhausted body.

Chapter Text

A week drifts by like a slow-burning candle—steady, quiet, but warm at the edges. The storms of Rumi’s first few weeks have softened into something more ordinary, though the memory of that classroom confrontation still lingers like a bruise she refuses to press.

She hasn’t spoken to any of the other demons since. Not a word. Not even a glance. It’s easier that way—easier to pretend they don’t exist, easier to keep her stomach from twisting every time she catches that familiar scent in the hallways. She knows they look at her sometimes, their curiosity still piqued, but she keeps her gaze fixed ahead, her steps measured.

Thankfully, she doesn’t have to do it alone.

The dorm has become the home she always dreamed of growing up. Somehow a comfort she didn’t know it could be. Mira’s sharp edges have dulled a little—still sarcastic, still deadly with her words, but she’s started to stay in the living room after dinner instead of storming off to her room. Zoey hums when she’s bored, usually while braiding Rumi’s hair or playing games on her switch (Something she convinced her uncle to sneak in for her). And Rumi herself? She’s found a kind of quiet happiness in the small, everyday things: the warmth of shared meals, the late-night laughter, the sound of Zoey’s snores muffled by a pillow on the other side of her wall.

They’ve fallen into rhythm, the three of them.

And this morning, it shows.

The dorm is chaos as usual, but it’s a comfortable kind of chaos—the kind born from routine. Rumi stands in front of the bathroom mirror, pulling her hair into a long, neat braid. Mira is shouting something about losing her tie again, and Zoey—well, Zoey is singing. Loudly.

“—don’t stop belieeeving—”

“Zoey, if you don’t stop—” Mira’s voice carries from the kitchen. “I swear to every god in existence, I will find a way to set your vocal cords on fire.”

Rumi stifles a laugh as she tugs the end of her braid tight, tying it off with a black ribbon. “Be nice, at least she sounds good,” she calls out.

“But every morning? Really?” Mira grumbles, appearing in the doorway with her blazer half on, “It’s like she’s testing me.”

Zoey pops her head out from behind the couch, grinning. “You love my company Mir, I know you do.”

That something Zoey has started too. Since Rumi came back crying, since they comforted her in their own ways, she’s started with nicknames. Mira called her a weirdo the first time she did it, but Rumi saw her smile. And she never asked Zoey to stop.

“I tolerate you,” Mira says flatly.

Zoey gasps, clutching her chest. “Rude. You’d miss me if I were gone.”

“I’d get more sleep.”

“Doesn’t matter. We literally studied nocturnal creatures last week, and your kind can go weeks without any sleep. You’ll be fine.”

“Just because we can, doesn’t mean I want to Zoey,” Mira hums, rolling her eyes at the shorter girl.

Rumi slips between them, her bag slung over her shoulder. “You two done flirting or do I need to call it?”

Mira sputters. “Flirting? I—”

Zoey winks at Rumi, leaning in close enough that her shoulder brushes Rumi’s arm. “See? Even she thinks we’ve got chemistry.”

“Please,” Mira mutters, but she’s smiling despite herself. “You’re insufferable.”

“Thank you,” Zoey says sweetly, looping an arm through both of theirs before either can protest.

That’s also become a habit now—Zoey touching them both like it’s second nature. A hand at Mira’s elbow, a brush of fingers against Rumi’s wrist, her head occasionally dropping onto one of their shoulders in passing. She doesn’t seem to think about it, doesn’t seem to notice she’s doing it, and that makes it somehow worse—because it feels so easy.

Mira always looks like she’s about to snap at her for it, but then Zoey smiles—bright and unbothered—and Mira’s anger just... folds. It dissolves like sugar in hot water.

Rumi doesn’t even try to resist anymore. She just lets herself be pulled along, Zoey’s touch grounding her in ways she doesn’t have words for.

They head down the winding hallways together, sunlight spilling through the tall, arched windows. The castle feels different now—less haunting, less suffocating. Or maybe it’s just that she’s more familiar with the space now.

Students brush past them in every direction, wings fluttering, tails flicking, horns gleaming under the morning light. It’s a strange, beautiful chaos that somehow feels less alien than it did that first day. Rumi keeps her head down, still wary of stray glances, but Zoey’s chatter fills the silence before her nerves can.

“So, Mira,” Zoey says as they step into the courtyard, “rumor has it Professor Vonn is assigning essays this week.”

“Rumor’s wrong,” Mira replies. “He announced it yesterday. It’s due Friday.”

Zoey groans dramatically. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“No, you look like a Taki, all bright pinky red and spicy.”

Mira glares, but there’s no real bite behind it. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Zoey beams. “I know.”

Rumi shakes her head, biting back a laugh. “You two need to get out more, I think too much dorm time is getting to you.”

“Absolutely not,” Mira says instantly.

“Speak for yourself,” Zoey teases, bumping Mira’s hip with her own, “I’m down for a trip, this weekend?”

Rumi nods, already looking forward to seeing outside the campus.

The conversation fizzles into easy laughter about what they could get up to in town, echoing off the courtyard stones. When they finally reach their classroom, the mood hasn’t faded—it’s wrapped around them like armor.

Magical Theory. Their easiest class of the day. The door swings open, and the hum of voices inside falls quiet as the trio enters.

Rumi’s eyes instinctively dart to the back corner—where the two demon boys usually sit. She catches a glimpse of them, a flicker of horns, the faint shimmer of patterned skin beneath their collars—but she forces herself to look away, walking straight to their usual row.

Zoey drops into her seat beside Rumi, Mira on her other side. Their books hit the desk in near-unison, practiced and familiar.

Then Zoey frowns, rummaging through her bag. “Ah, shit.”

Rumi looks up from her notes. “What?”

“I forgot my pen.”

Mira groans. “Again?!”

Zoey shrugs helplessly, giving them her best innocent smile. “In my defence, I meant to grab it.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Mira mutters.

Rumi sighs, but there’s a faint smile tugging at her lips. Without a word, she reaches into her bag, pulls out an extra pen, and holds it out. “Here.”

Zoey’s face lights up like she’s been handed a gift and hugs Rumi so quickly it gives the girl whiplash. “You’re my favourite.”

Mira snorts. “You said that yesterday when I gave you paper.”

“I can have more than one favourite.” Zoey grins, taking the pen and twirling it dramatically. “You’re both my favourites. Happy?”

“No,” Mira says flatly.

Rumi chuckles under her breath, shaking her head as she turns back to her notebook.

The professor—an older Fae with blonde hair and a gaze sharp enough to slice through marble—steps to the front of the room. His voice carries easily across the space. “Settle down, everyone. Let’s begin.”

The room quiets instantly.

As the lecture starts, Rumi finds herself listening and writing at the same time, her neat script filling the page with crisp, organized notes. Mira leans back in her chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest behind Rumi, pretending not to care but occasionally jotting something down when the professor says something interesting.

Zoey, of course, is a different story. She doodles in the margins of her notebook like always, twirling Rumi’s pen between her fingers until it slips and nearly rolls off the desk. Rumi catches it just in time.

Zoey grins sheepishly. “Sorry.”

Rumi arches an eyebrow. “Maybe leave it on the desk.”

“Yes ma’am,” Zoey whispers back, smirking.

Rumi tries to fight a smile and fails. Mira rolls her eyes, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, “Idiots.”

The professor’s voice fades in and out around their soft laughter. There’s something so absurdly normal about it—three girls sitting in a classroom, pretending they’re not three wildly different species from three wildly different worlds. Pretending they belong here.

And maybe, Rumi thinks, they do.

When the professor starts sketching runes on the board, Zoey leans closer, whispering, “You understand any of that?”

Rumi glances at the symbols, then back at her. “Some.”

Zoey sighs dramatically. “I’m doomed.”

“I can help you study later,” Rumi offers quietly.

Zoey looks genuinely touched. “Really?”

Rumi shrugs. “If you promise to actually study.”

“No promises,” Zoey says, grinning, and Rumi snorts softly, shaking her head.

The chalk squeaks faintly against the board as the professor underlines the last rune from the previous topic, the lines sharp and deliberate. He sets the chalk down, dusts his hands, and glances out over the room with that tired, assessing stare all long-time teachers seem to share.

“Now,” he says, voice smooth but carrying easily, “let’s move on to something slightly less theoretical—though arguably far more volatile.”

A murmur ripples through the classroom. Zoey straightens, curiosity lighting her face. Mira groans softly under her breath, already sensing where this is going. Rumi simply looks up from her notes, pen paused in midair.

The professor smiles faintly. “Interspecies relations.”

Zoey chokes on a quiet laugh. Mira sighs. Rumi feels her stomach drop.

Of course.

“Now,” the professor continues, pacing slowly across the front of the classroom, “when I say ‘interspecies relations,’ I refer not only to social structures, but to—” he clears his throat delicately, “—bonding behaviours, courtship, and mating patterns across magical species.”

Rumi blinks. Zoey is grinning. Mira looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.

“This should be fun,” Zoey whispers, leaning toward them.

“Define fun,” Mira mutters.

Rumi’s grip tightens on her pen. “He’s not serious,” she murmurs, but the professor is already turning back to the board, writing the words:

Hot-blooded species vs. Cold-blooded species

“Hot-blooded creatures,” he says, “are those whose instincts and emotional drives are heightened—passionate, impulsive, often ruled by feelings and pheromones rather than logic. Werewolves, fae, witches, pyromancers. They form deep emotional attachments, often possessive in nature.”

Zoey nudges Rumi lightly. “Sounds hot.”

Rumi raises an eyebrow.

Zoey smirks. “You tell me possessive traits aren’t hot.”

Before Rumi can answer, the professor continues, gesturing toward the board. “Werewolves, for example, typically form either monogamous, lifelong pair bonds—strong and unwavering—or they thrive in open pack structures. Polyamorous units are common among them, driven by instinctive loyalty rather than jealousy.”

A few students giggle quietly. Mira mutters, “Explains a lot about the werewolves in Combat class.”

Rumi bites back a laugh. “You mean the two who won’t stop touching each other?”

Zoey snorts. “That’s half the class.”

The professor either doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore them. “In contrast,” he says, “cold-blooded species—such as vampires—tend to form more transient attachments. They are creatures of patience and control, often existing either in complete solitude or, conversely, indulging in numerous short-term partnerships.”

“Translation,” Zoey whispers, “vampires are either celibate or sluts.”

Mira elbows her sharply. “Would you shut up?”

Rumi tries not to laugh, but her cheeks ache from holding it in. “She’s not wrong,” she whispers.

“I’m hearing judgement,” Mira mutters.

“You made a scene at lunch like a week ago about fucking some vamps sister,” Zoey whispers, “I think we know what category you fall into.”

“Not all vampires fall into those two categories,” Mira snaps, something in her posture telling them to drop the teasing. They do.

The professor keeps going, seemingly oblivious to their commentary. “The reason for these extremes,” he explains, “lies in their nature. Vampires are predators of restraint. They suppress instinct, so when indulgence occurs, it often manifests in excess.”

Zoey wiggles her eyebrows. “See? Sluts.”

Rumi covers her mouth, shoulders shaking. Mira’s glare could set things on fire.

The professor moves on briskly. “Now, among elemental species—nixies, sylphs, dryads—there is typically a cyclical approach to partnership. They bond according to season, moon phase, or spiritual cycle. Some return to the same partner each cycle; others change fluidly, aligning with nature’s rhythm.”

Zoey raises her hand lazily. “So they’re, like, environmentally polyamorous?”

A few students snicker. The professor stares at her for a long moment before sighing. “If you insist on phrasing it that way, Miss Choi… yes.”

Rumi buries her face in her hands. Mira exhales through her nose, muttering, “We’re going to get detention.”

“I’m learning!” Zoey whispers back, grin unrepentant.

The professor continues. “Incubi and succubi,” he says, “are, of course, a class unto themselves—highly social, often sexually prolific, though not necessarily promiscuous in the human sense. Their bonding is based on energy exchange rather than emotion.”

Zoey leans forward. “So they feed and flirt for survival. That’s efficient.”

Rumi glances sideways at her. “That kind of sounds like you.”

Zoey gasps, hand to heart. “I’m offended! You think I flirt for survival?”

“Flirt and eat, I’ve never seen anyone put food away like you do.”

“Okay, maybe a little.”

Mira chuckles quietly, scribbling notes but clearly listening despite herself.

The professor’s chalk hovers over the board as he pauses. “And finally,” he says, his tone shifting subtly, “we come to demons.”

The room stills just a little. A few students exchange glances. Even the usual shuffling fades.

Rumi’s pulse quickens. She knows it’s coming, but hearing it out loud still makes her stomach twist.

“Demons,” the professor says, turning to face the class, “are complex. Their behaviours defy easy classification. Most demon subtypes exhibit duality—one part driven by primal instinct, the other by intellect. This creates fascinating contradictions.”

He begins pacing again, hands clasped behind his back. “Many demons are sexually prolific by nature. Their energy flows through emotional and physical connection. As such, polyamorous structures are common—not due to lack of loyalty, but because their instincts push them to connect with multiple partners simultaneously, balancing power, emotion, and need. While drawing their desired mates in subconsciously.”

Rumi freezes.

Zoey lets out a quiet, drawn-out “Ooooh,” and Mira promptly hides her face in her hand.

The professor keeps talking, completely unaware of the quiet chaos in their row. “That said,” he continues, “it’s important to note that demons do not view these dynamics as deviant or indulgent. To them, connection is currency. To deny it is to deny part of their nature.”

Zoey bites her lip, trying not to laugh. She nudges Rumi. “So… any truth to that?”

Rumi’s ears burn instantly. “Zoey.”

“What?” she whispers innocently. “Just curious.”

Mira smirks slightly. “You’re always curious when it’s going to get you punched.”

Rumi hisses under her breath, “Would you two not—”

Zoey leans closer, grin absolutely wicked. “I’m just saying, if the professor’s right, that means you’re genetically predisposed to be a—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Rumi says through gritted teeth.

Zoey raises her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. No demon slut jokes. Got it.”

Mira snorts. “You just said it.”

Rumi sinks lower in her seat, face blazing. She can feel people looking now—not many, but enough to make her want to disappear.

“Moving on,” the professor says, finally turning back to the board. “Each species’ approach to intimacy and loyalty reflects not just biology, but culture, upbringing, and magical composition. It is vital to remember that none of these are inherently superior or inferior. They often link to their presentation and natural cycles, which we will be discussing next week.”

Zoey hums quietly, feigning seriousness. “Diversity is beautiful.”

Rumi elbows her.

“Ow!”

“Shut up.”

“I am appreciating the lecture!”

“You’re mocking the lecture.”

Mira mutters, “You’re both so annoying,” under her breath but can’t quite hide the smirk curling her lips.

The professor continues describing fae courtship dances and how selkies trade physical tokens as vows, but Rumi’s barely listening anymore. Her mind is still spinning around that one section. Demons are complex. Sexually prolific. Connection is currency. She hates how true it sounds. How seen it makes her feel.

Her pen scratches lightly across the page, more to look busy than anything. She writes down half a sentence, then crosses it out. Her hand trembles slightly.

Zoey leans sideways again, whispering, “Hey.”

Rumi doesn’t look up. “What.”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Your eye’s are doing that thing again.”

Rumi glances to the windows. Sure enough, they are shifting back and forth to golden. She forces it to still. “I said I’m fine.”

Zoey’s voice softens. “Didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

That catches her off guard. She looks up—and finds Zoey watching her with genuine guilt flickering in her eyes. The grin’s gone, replaced with something warmer. Quieter.

Rumi exhales, shoulders loosening. “You didn’t. I just… don’t love being the example.”

Zoey nods. “Fair.”

Mira glances between them, raising an eyebrow. “Are we having feelings in the middle of class?”

Zoey shoots her a look. “Shut up, Mira.”

Rumi smiles faintly despite herself. The tension dissolves a little. The rest of the lecture fades into background noise—species, dynamics, energy transfer—but the moment lingers, small and fragile.

When the professor finally says, “That’s all for today, please remember with the gala coming up you need to have all assessment sorted to attend,” the room explodes into chatter. Chairs scrape, notebooks snap shut, and someone at the back starts making exaggerated howling noises until another student throws a quill at him.

Zoey stretches, arms above her head, exhaling loudly. “Well, that was educational.”

“Mortifying,” Rumi corrects.

“Informative,” Mira says dryly, packing up her notes. “Apparently, we’re surrounded by demon swingers and emotionally unstable cold-bloods.”

Zoey laughs. “Sounds like a party.”

Rumi groans.

“Come on, admit it. It was kind of funny.”

“Watching the professor describe demon mating habits in detail?” Rumi deadpans. “Hilarious.”

Zoey grins. “Okay, but you blushed so hard—”

“I will incinerate your eyebrows.”

Mira interrupts before it can escalate. “Lunch. Now. Before one of you actually commits murder.”

Zoey loops her arm through Rumi’s on one side and Mira’s on the other, ignoring both their protests. “Fine, fine. Lunch it is. My treat.”

“Meals are free,” Mira says flatly.

Zoey gasps. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

Rumi hides a smile, shaking her head as they walk toward the door. “You’re a menace.”

Zoey shrugs, squeezing both their arms playfully. “Maybe. But it keeps things entertaining.”

Mira huffs. “Or frustrating.”

Rumi doesn’t answer right away. She glances at Zoey’s hand still looped through hers, warm and steady, and something twists quietly in her chest. The professor’s words echo faintly in her mind—connection is currency.

Maybe he wasn’t wrong.

As they leave the classroom, sunlight spills over the stone floor, painting their shadows in gold. Rumi looks between the two of them—Zoey laughing, Mira rolling her eyes—and for the first time since she arrived, the word complicated doesn’t sound so bad.

As long as it involves and emotionally shut off vampire and a clingy werewolf.

~~~

The dorm is quiet except for the faint hum of the heater and the occasional pop of the kettle warming on the counter. Outside, rain taps steadily against the windows, silver threads running down the glass in the dim lamplight. The campus is mostly asleep—just the distant chatter of students in the halls, fading laughter from somewhere far below.

Rumi stretches her legs across the couch, sighing as the cushions dip beneath her weight. She’s traded her blazer and uniform for an oversized shirt that swallows her shoulders, her braid loose and falling over one arm. Zoey sits on the other end of the couch, legs tucked under her, drawing slowly in her sketchbook. Mira is perched sideways in an armchair, in her maroon pyjama pants and a loose Fenric hoodie, her hair piled up in a messy knot and writing on a piece of parchment.

Zoey groans suddenly, letting her head fall back against the couch with a dramatic thump. “Ugh. My head is killing me.”

Mira looks up from the magazine she’s pretending to read. “From what? You’ve been doing nothing for the last two hours.”

“Exactly,” Zoey says. “Overthinking. That’s exhausting.”

Rumi snorts. “You don’t even think that much when you’re awake.”

Zoey gasps, clutching her heart like she’s been stabbed. “Rude.”

“Yes,” Rumi mutters, hiding her smile behind the sleeve of her shirt.

Mira sighs but there’s a small, indulgent curve at the corner of her mouth. “Do you want me to make tea?”

Zoey perks up instantly. “Yes, please! The stuff you made me the other morning was amazing!”

Rumi glances up, curious. “You actually know how to make tea?”

Mira raises an eyebrow. “Of course I do. I’m not an animal.”

Rumi shrugs, smirking. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Mira points at her warningly. “I will still snap you like a twig little demon.” But she gets up anyway, moving toward the tiny kitchenette tucked into the corner of the dorm. The sound of cupboards opening and water pouring fills the background.

Zoey shifts on the couch, hugging a pillow to her chest. “She does make really good tea, though. Like, ‘magic in a cup’ good.”

Rumi watches the steam start to rise from the kettle, the scent of something floral drifting through the air. “I’ll believe it when I taste it.”

Mira hums softly as she works, the tune faint and low. There’s a rhythm to her movements—practiced, deliberate, almost soothing. She sets down three mismatched mugs, drops tea leaves into a strainer, and waits for the water to boil.

Rumi leans her head back against the couch, closing her eyes. “Hey, Mira?”

“Yeah?”

“How can you have human food? Doesn’t it… I don’t know, taste horrible compared to blood?”

Mira chuckles quietly. “Not exactly. I’m a heritage vampire, remember?”

Rumi opens one eye. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I was born this way, not turned. My family line comes from one of the original vampires, the one’s who were created by witches. I don’t need blood the same way others do, and my body processes regular food fine. It doesn’t taste as good as, say… O negative.” She grins at Rumi’s expression. “But it keeps me alive. And coffee tastes divine.”

Zoey grins, eyes still closed. “Coffee and sarcasm. Mira’s ideal diet.”

“Pretty much,” Mira admits, pouring the tea. “Plus, it helps me blend in. Less suspicion, less hassle.”

She brings over the mugs—one for each of them—and sets them carefully on the coffee table. The liquid inside is a soft golden brown, flecked with tiny petals that dance near the surface.

Rumi takes hers gingerly. “What’s in it?”

“Lychee, honey, and something special,” Mira says, settling back into her seat.

“‘Something special’ doesn’t sound reassuring,” Rumi mutters but takes a sip anyway. The warmth spreads down her throat and into her chest, soft and sweet. It feels like sunlight after rain—gentle and clean.

“Holy hell,” she breathes. “That’s actually amazing.”

Zoey makes a pleased hum, already halfway through her cup. “Told you. Mira’s got witch energy when it comes to tea.”

Rumi grins, swirling the liquid gently. “It’s so much nicer than the stuff my aunt used to make. Hers always tasted like wet grass, and she made me finish it every night.”

“That’s because your aunt probably buys the cheap kind,” Mira says absently, flipping a page in her magazine. “This stuff’s imported from an herb garden in Venice.”

Rumi rolls her eyes. “Of course it is.”

The three of them fall into a comfortable quiet after that. The rain outside softens, and the clock ticks somewhere near the door. Zoey slides lower and lower on the couch until her head ends up resting on Rumi’s lap, her curls spilling everywhere.

Rumi freezes at first. “Uh—Zoey?”

“Mmm?” comes the sleepy mumble.

“You’re—um.” She gestures vaguely at the weight on her thighs.

“Comfy,” Zoey mutters. “Don’t move.”

Rumi blinks down at her, caught between amusement and disbelief. “You should go to bed Zo.”

“Mmhm.”

Within a minute, Zoey’s breathing evens out. She’s asleep, her lips parted slightly, the faintest smile tugging at them. Rumi looks down at her—really looks—and something softens in her chest. Zoey’s always so loud and bright, like a spark that refuses to burn out. Seeing her like this—quiet, vulnerable—feels strange.

Mira watches from her chair, smiling faintly. “She’s so dog like sometimes.”

“That’s basically a racial slur to wolves isn’t it? Plus, most people, regardless of species like physical comfort. Zoey falling asleep on people? The least weird thing in this dorm,” Rumi smiles quietly.

“Yeah but only on people she decides she likes.”

Rumi hums. “That tracks.” She brushes a stray curl away from Zoey’s forehead carefully, like she’s afraid to wake her. “It’s weirdly… comforting.”

“She grows on you.” Mira takes another sip of tea, her eyes thoughtful. “Like mold.”

Rumi snorts softly. “Do you have to be a pessimist all the time?”

“Realist,” Mira says, smiling. “But she’s good for people, like, to be around. She doesn’t even realize it.”

Rumi glances down again. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I noticed.”

A moment passes before Mira clears her throat. “Hey, um.”

Rumi looks up. “Yeah?”

“I wanted to say…” Mira hesitates, fiddling with the edge of her mug. “I’m sorry. About the first night.”

Rumi blinks. “What?”

“I was… kind of an ass. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Or called you a freak.”

Rumi laughs quietly at the memory. “You did do that.”

“I did,” Mira admits, wincing. “Not my proudest moment. I just… I get defensive, you know? Vampires aren’t exactly known for playing nice with others.”

Rumi nods slowly. “Yeah. I know the feeling.”

“Still,” Mira says, meeting her eyes, “you didn’t deserve it. You were just trying to exist. So… sorry.”

Rumi looks at her for a long moment, then shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t exactly sunshine and rainbows either.”

Mira smiles wryly. “That’s an understatement.”

Rumi huffs a quiet laugh. “I guess I had my own assumptions. The vampires I grew up around weren’t nice people. Thought you’d be the same.”

“I’m not,” Mira says softly.

“I know that now.”

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable this time. It’s warm. Gentle. Something settling into place.

Mira leans back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. “You ever think it’s weird, though? How we ended up in the same room? A demon, a vampire, and a—” she glances at Zoey, smiling, “overgrown puppy.”

Rumi smirks. “A hurricane in human form.”

“Exactly.”

They both laugh quietly, careful not to wake her.

“I think maybe it’s good for us,” Rumi says after a moment. “Being forced to live with people we don’t understand. Makes you softer.”

Mira hums. “Softer’s not usually my goal.”

“Yeah, but it suits you.”

Mira scoffs, pretending to roll her eyes—but she doesn’t argue. A soft blush appears on her cheeks, mostly unnoticeable, but there.

Rumi runs her fingers absently through Zoey’s hair, her voice quiet. “You know, for the first time since I got here, it actually feels like I’m where I’m supposed to be.”

Mira looks at her, something unspoken flickering behind her eyes. “Yeah,” she says after a long moment. “Me too.”

The rain starts up again outside, tapping softly against the glass. Mira finishes her tea, sets her mug on the table, and pulls a blanket from the back of the couch. She tosses it lightly over Rumi and Zoey.

Rumi looks up, surprised. “You’re being nice again. Should I be worried?”

“Don’t get used to it,” Mira says, settling back into her chair. “You both looked cold.”

“Thanks,” Rumi says quietly.

Mira shrugs. “Whatever.”

But her smile lingers, small and genuine.

Rumi sits there a while longer, listening to Zoey’s steady breathing and the sound of rain. Her body feels heavy, warm, safe. The kind of comfort she didn’t know she’d been missing until now.

Eventually her eyes start to droop. Mira’s already half-asleep in the chair, arms crossed, pretending she’s just resting her eyes.

Rumi takes one last sip of her tea—now lukewarm but still sweet—and sets the mug aside. She leans her head back against the couch, her fingers still tangled loosely in Zoey’s hair.

And for the first time since Fenric Academy began, Rumi feels something strange and unfamiliar settle in her chest.

Peace.

~~~

The dorm is silent when Rumi wakes.

At first, she isn’t even sure why. Her mind rises sluggishly from sleep, thick and tangled, and she lies still for a few seconds — listening. The steady tick of the clock on the far wall. The faint hum of the walls. The wind whispering across the glass. Everything sounds normal, ordinary.

But her skin prickles. Something feels off.

She rolls over on the couch, the blanket slipping down her arm, and sits up. Mira’s door is closed — the faintest glow seeping out from underneath it, like she’s left her lamp on again. Typical. Rumi huffs out a quiet sigh, rubbing her eyes.

Then she hears it.

A sound — soft, fractured. Like a whimper caught halfway between breath and sob.

Rumi freezes. It comes again, this time sharper. A strangled gasp. She looks down — and her heart drops.

Zoey is twisted in her sleep. Her limbs tangle in the blanket beside her, fingers clutching at the fabric like she’s trying to hold onto something that keeps slipping away. Her face is tight with pain, sweat beading on her brow. The faintest, broken noises escape her lips — tiny, terrified sounds that dig under Rumi’s skin like claws.

For a moment, Rumi just stares. She knows that sound. Knows it down to her bones.

Nightmares.

She’s heard them echo from her own mouth more times than she can count.

Her body moves before she thinks. She slides off the couch, crouching beside Zoey. “Hey,” she whispers, voice soft but urgent. “Zoey. You’re dreaming sweetie, wake up.”

Zoey doesn’t stir. Her breathing comes fast, shallow. Her hand jerks — searching for something, for someone. Her lips move. “No, please— don’t—”

Rumi’s throat tightens. She hesitates, then reaches out, brushing Zoey’s shoulder gently. “Zoey,” she murmurs, firmer now. “Wake up.”

Still nothing.

Rumi swallows. She knows this place — the trap between dream and memory. How sometimes, no matter how hard someone shakes you, the nightmare doesn’t let go until it’s good and ready. She gives her another nudge. “Zoey.”

Zoey gasps — body jerking upright so fast Rumi flinches. Her eyes fly open, wide and unfocused. She’s trembling, panting, her gaze darting around like she doesn’t know where she is. For a second, she looks right through Rumi.

Then her eyes focus — and she bursts into tears.

“Hey, hey—” Rumi’s voice breaks as Zoey folds into herself, hands clutching at her hair. She’s shaking all over. “It’s okay,” Rumi says, instinct taking over. “You’re safe, Zoey. You’re in our dorm, it’s just a dream.”

Zoey shakes her head, sobs catching in her throat. “It felt so— I— I couldn’t—” She hiccups, pressing her fists to her mouth to stop the sounds. It doesn’t work. The noises tear out anyway.

Rumi hesitates for half a breath before she sits beside her, awkward but careful. She reaches out — slow, deliberate — and rests a hand on Zoey’s arm. “Breathe,” she whispers. “Just breathe. In through your nose.”

Zoey tries. Her breath trembles but obeys, somehow helping her relax as she takes in the scent of the room. Rumi nods. “Now out. You’re okay. You’re not there anymore.”

It takes a few rounds before Zoey’s breaths even out. Her body still quivers, though, and when Rumi pulls back, she makes a small sound — a quiet, broken whine. Before Rumi can say anything, Zoey leans forward, wrapping her arms around her body, pressing her face into Rumi’s shoulder.

Rumi stiffens. The contact hits her like static — sudden, intimate, and foreign. No one touches her like that. No one touches demons for comfort.

Her mind flashes with the memory of Celine’s cold, precise hands. The way her guardian used to flinch when Rumi’s skin brushed hers. The constant reminder: Control yourself, Rumi.

But Zoey is warm. Small. Gentle in the softest way.

So Rumi doesn’t move. She lets Zoey press closer, her sobs muffled against her shirt. She awkwardly raises her arm, then wraps it around the trembling girl’s shoulders.

“It’s okay,” Rumi murmurs, voice soft as she can make it. “Let it all out Zoey.”

Zoey clings harder. For a long time, they sit like that — tangled on the couch, the world narrowed down to shaking breaths and the faint heartbeat pressed against Rumi’s ribs. Rumi doesn’t know how long it lasts. Minutes, maybe. Hours.

When the sobs finally quiet, Zoey stays pressed to her, small and heavy in her lap. Rumi feels the weight of her like gravity, the trust it implies — and it’s terrifying.

“You okay?” she whispers after a while.

Zoey’s voice is raw. “Yeah.”

Rumi shifts just enough to see her face. Zoey’s eyes are red, lashes clumped together. She looks younger, smaller than usual. “Bad dream?” Rumi asks gently.

Zoey nods. “Yeah. Haven’t— had one that bad in a while.”

“Do you… want to talk about it?” Rumi offers, cautious.

Zoey shakes her head quickly. “No.” Her fingers curl in Rumi’s sleeve. “Just, can you… stay for a minute. Please.”

That word — please — unravels Rumi a little.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Okay.”

So she stays. She lets Zoey sit there until her breathing steadies again, her weight slowly relaxing. When Zoey finally slumps fully against her, half-asleep, Rumi moves carefully — sliding her arms under the smaller girl’s body and lifting her.

Zoey murmurs something soft but doesn’t wake. She’s light — so light it makes Rumi’s chest ache. Like carrying something precious that might break if she breathes too hard.

Rumi carries her to her room, nudging the door open with her foot. The moonlight paints everything silver — the messy bed, the posters half-pinned to the wall, the little plant by the window. It all feels so lived in.

She lowers Zoey gently onto the bed, tugging the blanket over her. But when she goes to step back, Zoey’s hand shoots out — catching her wrist.

“Don’t go,” Zoey whispers, voice slurred with sleep. “Please Rumi, stay.”

Rumi freezes. “I—” She looks at the door, then back at the trembling fingers wrapped around her arm.

There’s something desperate in Zoey’s expression — even half-asleep, she looks like she’s hanging onto the edge of something deep and dark.

Rumi exhales slowly. “Alright,” she murmurs. “Just for tonight.”

She slides onto the bed beside her, keeping her movements small, careful. Zoey immediately shifts closer, tucking her head under Rumi’s chin. Her body curls against Rumi’s side, her hand resting over her stomach. The contact makes Rumi’s entire nervous system light up.

It feels wrong. And right. And terrifying.

Rumi lies stiff for a while, staring at the ceiling. Zoey’s breath tickles her collarbone. The faint scent of jasmine and melon fills the air — the same one she noticed when Zoey first let her scent her. It’s sweeter now, softer with sleep. It envelopes all of Rumi’s senses, filling her with only thoughts of Zoey.

Her fangs ache faintly. She presses her tongue against them, breathing through her nose.

She shouldn’t feel this warm. This calm. Her chest rises and falls in rhythm with Zoey’s without meaning to. Every time Zoey shifts, the warmth between them deepens — a slow pulse that feels suspiciously like comfort.

It’s almost unbearable.

Her mind drifts, as it always does when she’s still too long. To lessons. To her aunt. To every time she was told that demons weren’t built for softness. That touch was dangerous. That connection was weakness. That her patterns would devour anyone who got too close.

And yet, she thinks, brushing a loose strand of hair from Zoey’s forehead, these classes contradict everything Celine has ever said.

Zoey murmurs something in her sleep, voice barely audible. Her hand clutches at Rumi shirt, possessive, like she’s terrified to let Rumi leave. The motion is instinctive, trusting. Rumi freezes, caught between panic and a painful tenderness she can’t name.

Her body relaxes by degrees. Her thoughts slow. For once, there’s no voice in her head telling her she’s wrong. Just the quiet sound of Zoey’s breathing and the faint hum of the night as she lets the scent in the air calm her.

Rumi’s eyelids grow heavy. Her arm slips tighter around Zoey’s shoulders almost unconsciously, pulling her just a little closer.

It feels safe.

She doesn’t realize she’s started to purr until the sound fills the silence — low and steady, vibrating through her chest. Zoey stirs, makes a soft noise, and settles again. The purr grows quieter, easing into rhythm with the other girl’s breathing.

Rumi stares at the ceiling for a long time after that, listening to the sound. To the way her body responds — not with shame or fear, but something fragile.

Maybe this is what it feels like to be seen — not as a monster, not as something dangerous, but as a person who just exists.

She closes her eyes, her fingers absently tracing idle shapes over Zoey’s shoulder through the jumper she still has on.

The last thing she feels before sleep drags her under is the warmth pressed against her chest, the soft brush of breath against her throat, and the realization that she doesn’t mind it at all.

~~~

Morning creeps into the dorm through the half-closed curtains, the pale light pooling in soft gold streaks over the bedframe. Rumi stirs. Her body feels warm, heavy, the kind of sleep that clings to her skin. She blinks, disoriented for a moment, until she feels the slight rise and fall of another body against her.

Zoey.

The smaller girl is sprawled half across Rumi’s chest, her head tucked beneath Rumi’s chin, one arm looped lazily around her waist. Her fingers trace absent-minded patterns over the hem of Rumi’s shirt, grazing the skin of her stomach like it’s second nature. The touch is feather-light but electric, sending small, startled jolts up Rumi’s spine.

Rumi freezes.

She doesn’t dare move, breath caught halfway in her throat. She’s not used to this — to waking up to warmth, to someone close enough that she can feel their heartbeat syncing faintly to hers. Zoey’s hand moves again, drawing idle spirals, and Rumi can’t help the low, involuntary sound that escapes her chest. She realises quickly that she’s still purring, like she was as she fell asleep. It must have continued all night…

Zoey stirs at the realisation that Rumi is awake. Her lashes flutter, and she looks up, sleepy eyes soft with confusion before focusing on Rumi. Then she grins.

“I didn’t know demons could purr,” she teases, her voice still husky with sleep.

Rumi feels her face heat instantly. “I— I don’t,” she says, far too quickly. The vibration has already stopped, leaving her chest tight and awkward. “Yeah, we can. It’s rare, I haven’t done it since I was a kid.”

Zoey’s grin widens. “Well, it’s adorable. Ten out of ten comfort, would cuddle again.”

Rumi groans, covering her face with one hand, but she can’t hide the small smile tugging at her mouth. “Shut up,” she mutters.

“Mmhm,” Zoey hums, sitting up just enough to stretch before flopping back down across Rumi’s lap. “Thanks for staying with me last night. You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” Rumi says softly. She hesitates, fingers brushing Zoey’s hair out of her face without thinking. “But I wanted to.”

Zoey’s smile softens, the teasing melting away into something gentler. “You’re the best, you know that?”

“I try,” Rumi murmurs, unsure what else to say.

There’s a long, comfortable pause. Then Zoey pushes herself upright with sudden enthusiasm. “Alright, I’m making pancakes!”

Rumi blinks. “You can cook?”

Zoey’s eyes sparkle mischievously. “Of course I can cook. How hard could it be?”

Rumi doesn’t answer — but the doubt in her raised brow says plenty.

Ten minutes later, the dorm kitchen looks like a battlefield.

There’s flour on the counter, on the floor, somehow in Zoey’s hair. Smoke curls faintly from a pan that’s very much too hot, and Rumi, perched on the counter with her legs swinging, watches with an expression hovering between amusement and quiet horror.

Zoey is flipping a pancake that should probably be declared dead.

“Maybe lower the heat?” Rumi suggests mildly.

“It’s fine!” Zoey insists, waving the spatula with a confidence that absolutely does not match the chaos behind her. “You just have to catch it before it burns.”

“It’s already black.”

“It’s extra crispy!”

The pan hisses again, and Zoey yelps when oil spits her arm. “Ow! Okay, fine, maybe I’ll turn it down a little—”

At that exact moment, the smoke alarm lets out a shrill beep.

Rumi snorts, covering her mouth with her hand as Zoey scrambles for the switch.

“Don’t laugh at me!” Zoey snaps, waving a dishtowel furiously at the ceiling. “I’m trying my best!”

“You’re going to burn the dorm down.”

“It’s fine!”

The noise must carry, because a door slams open across the dorm and Mira appears — hair tousled, still in pyjama shorts and an oversized shirt that hangs off one shoulder. Her eyes take in the smoke, the pan, and Zoey’s panicked expression in one slow sweep.

“Are you trying to kill us?” Mira asks flatly.

Zoey freezes mid-wave, guilt written all over her face. “...Breakfast?”

Rumi loses it. A laugh escapes before she can stop it, low and delighted. Zoey glares at her.

Mira sighs, brushing past both of them to the stove. “Move.”

Zoey obeys instantly, sulking as Mira grabs the pan with practiced ease, dumps the charred remains, and starts again with measured calm.

Rumi watches her work, her movements efficient and almost graceful. Mira looks oddly at home here — sleeves pushed up, the faintest hint of fang showing when she focuses. There’s strength in the lines of her arms, smooth and deliberate. She simultaneously starts making them tea as well, but when she turns slightly to hand Rumi hers, Zoey gets in the way, forcing Mira to jump back to avoid burning her, and she ends up standing directly between Rumi’s legs where she’s still sitting on the counter.

The space is small. Intimate.

Rumi stiffens. She can smell Mira so clearly— faintly metallic, but warm, like cinnamon and oranges. Rumi tries her best not to inhale the scent again, especially when Mira looks at her with shocked eyes and parted lips. She clearly wasn’t prepared to end up this close either, with a hand on Rumi’s thigh, and the other awkwardly handing her the cup of tea.

Zoey notices, of course, and her smirk is instant.

“Well, good morning to that tension,” she says under her breath, and Rumi’s face immediately turns crimson.

Mira shoots Zoey a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Go set the table.”

Zoey snickers but does as she’s told, still muttering something about “grumpy vampires” under her breath.

Rumi doesn’t move, letting Mira recreate the space. Mira’s still close by and she can feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her clothes. The vampire doesn’t seem bothered, though; she flips a pancake, eyes focused, expression unreadable.

“You’re staring,” Mira says quietly after a moment, without looking at her.

Rumi swallows. “You touched me in a not violent way, label me shocked.”

“Don’t get used to it. But. Now you know how I felt last night when you and Zoey were all cuddled up on the couch.”

Rumi blinks. “That was— she had a nightmare—”

“Relax, little demon.” There’s a hint of amusement in Mira’s tone now, soft and teasing. “I’m not jealous. Just observant.”

Rumi doesn’t know how to respond to that, so she doesn’t. Instead, she focuses on the rhythmic sound of batter hitting the pan, the smell of actual food slowly replacing the burnt scent lingering in the air. It’s grounding, domestic in a way she’s never really known before.

After a while, Mira slides a plate toward her. “Here. Try that.”

Rumi takes a tentative bite — and blinks. “It’s actually good.”

Mira rolls her eyes. “Of course it’s good. I made it.”

Zoey, now setting down plates at the small table, glances back with a grin. “See, that’s how you make pancakes, Zoey,” Mira adds pointedly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Zoey mutters, plopping into her seat. “Next time I’ll just let you do all the work.”

“Good plan.”

Rumi hops off the counter and joins them, sliding into the seat between the two girls. The tension from earlier lingers faintly in the air, but it’s different now — softer, threaded with laughter and the scent of syrup and butter.

They eat together, teasing and bickering, the kind of easy morning that feels like a snapshot of something fragile and perfect.

She can still feel Mira’s hand on her thigh. She can still smell Zoey on her own shirt. Both provide more comfort than she’s willing to admit. Yet the lecture from yesterday still lingers in the back of her mind. Demons thrive on connection. This connection feels good, with Mira and Zoey. Maybe it can be what helps her understand who she is? Maybe.

Chapter Text

Friday rolls around quietly, the hum of the academy settling into something almost domestic. Morning classes blur into afternoon chatter, and by the time lunch ends, Mira is already gathering her books with purpose.

“We should hit the library,” she says, sliding her notebook into her satchel. “Get our assignments out of the way so we can actually enjoy the weekend.”

Zoey groans, dramatically dropping her head onto the table. “It’s Friday. That’s against the law.”

“It’s called being responsible,” Mira replies coolly. “And we all have free periods this afternoon, may as well use them.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

Rumi, watching them bicker, hides a small smile behind her cup of coffee. “She’s right though,” she says, earning a betrayed look from Zoey. “If we get it done now, we won’t have to think about it later.”

Zoey sighs like the weight of the world has landed on her shoulders. “Fine. But only because you asked, little demon.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“But you let Mira!”

“I’m literally a demon, and I’m scared of Mira.”

“I’m not.” Zoey grins, triumphant.

Mira groans, rubbing her temples. “You two are morons. Let’s go get changed. I’m not spending any longer in this ugly uniform than I have to.”

~~~

Their dorm fills with the sound of drawers opening, hangers clattering, and general chaos as they all get ready.

Mira emerges first, effortlessly stylish in a black turtleneck, fitted jeans, and boots that look like they could kill a man. Her hair’s down for once, dark waves falling neatly over her shoulders.

Zoey follows, all brightness and warmth — a loose yellow jumper, ripped jeans, and sneakers scuffed from too many adventures. She tosses her hair into a messy bun and grins. “How do I look?”

“Like sunshine personified,” Mira mutters dryly.

“Thank you, I try.”

Rumi appears last, her clothes simple but sharp — a white crop top and baggy jeans, silver rings catching the light. She looks almost regal, despite clearly not meaning to.

Zoey whistles. “Okay, Miss Infernal Chic. We see you.”

Rumi rolls her eyes but blushes faintly. “It’s just clothes.”

“Yeah,” Zoey says. “On you, it’s a look.”

Mira shoulders her bag and moves for the door before the teasing can escalate. “Library. Now.”

The walk across campus is brisk, wind tugging at their hair as they follow the cobblestone path that curves toward the northern wing. The university’s older buildings sit in this section — stone walls draped in ivy, windows arched and stained with faintly shimmering runes.

The library towers at the end of the path, ancient and beautiful, its facade carved with delicate sigils that glow faintly when touched by sunlight. Two massive oak doors guard the entrance, and as they push them open, the scent of old parchment and candle wax washes over them.

The inside is breathtaking.

Rows upon rows of shelves stretch up toward a vaulted ceiling painted with constellations that shimmer faintly as if alive. Chandeliers hang low, their candles floating in midair without dripping wax. The light is dim, but soft — golden, warm, and strange all at once.

And yet, beneath the warmth, there’s something eerie about it. The quiet feels thick, like the walls are listening. The air hums faintly with magic — the old kind, the kind that remembers.

A pale figure glides past them — a librarian, transparent around the edges, her ghostly form dressed in a crisp blouse and skirt from some forgotten era. She offers them a polite smile.

“Good afternoon, students,” the ghost says, her voice echoing faintly, like wind through hollow stone. “Research or leisure today?”

“Research,” Mira answers smoothly.

“Excellent. I can fetch any volumes you require. Simply name the subject.”

Zoey gawks as the ghost fades through a nearby bookshelf. “Okay, that’s both creepy and kind of awesome.”

Rumi nods, her eyes wide as she takes it all in. “This place feels so deeply unsettling.”

“It is,” Mira says matter-of-factly. “Haunted libraries usually are.”

“Usually?” Zoey echoes, incredulous.

Mira only smirks. “You’ll get used to it.”

They weave through the labyrinth of shelves until they find a quiet corner near a massive window that stretches from floor to ceiling. Beyond the glass lies the Siren Maze — a sprawling hedge labyrinth shrouded in mist, faint lights flickering within like will-o’-the-wisps. The fog rolls thick and heavy today, curling like smoke against the glass.

“Okay, wow,” Zoey breathes, pressing a hand to the cool pane. “That’s gorgeous.”

“Also probably cursed,” Mira mutters, pulling out a chair.

Zoey grins. “You think everything’s cursed.”

“Because usually, it is.”

Rumi laughs softly as she sets down her notebook. “They did warn us not to go in there alone. But I heard it’s a part of the dorm games next month, so maybe we will get to go in there.”

They settle in, the three of them forming their usual triangle — Mira already scribbling notes with military precision, Rumi reading quietly, and Zoey… flipping through her textbook upside-down.

Rumi glances at her, amused. “Are you even pretending to study?”

“I am! I’m just… absorbing the knowledge meiotically.” 

“Absorption through something is osmosis, not meiosis, you dumbass,” Mira says flatly, not even looking up.

Zoey sticks her tongue out. “You don’t know my methods.”

“You can’t redefine science Zo,” Rumi murmurs, earning a chuckle from Mira.

Zoey gasps in mock offense, then slumps dramatically in her chair. “Fine. If no one appreciates my genius, I’ll just…” She trails off, standing abruptly before flopping down again — this time with her head landing squarely in Mira’s lap.

Mira freezes mid-sentence. “What are you doing?”

“Taking a brain break,” Zoey says innocently, eyes closed. “You’re comfy.”

Rumi nearly chokes on her coffee. “Are you trying to get your head bitten off?”

Zoey grins, eyes still shut. “She won’t bite me. She likes me too much.”

Mira stares down at her, expression unreadable for a moment — then sighs, resigned. “You’re a pest.”

“Thanks.”

Mira goes back to highlighting her notes, though her posture softens slightly, one hand absently brushing Zoey’s hair out of her face as if she doesn’t even notice she’s doing it. Rumi watches, one brow raised.

Mira notices.

Mira flips her off without looking up again.

Zoey giggles from her lap. “Aww, she does like me!”

“I tolerate you,” Mira says evenly.

“That’s basically a love confession from you.”

Rumi shakes her head, laughing quietly. “She’s right.”

“And you love us,” Zoey says without missing a beat.

Rumi laughs at Mira’s loud, exaggerated sigh, watching Zoey smile.

Zoey cracks an eye open and beams, pure sunshine again. “She didn’t disagree, yay! Then I can corrupt you properly.”

“Please don’t,” Rumi says, deadpan.

Mira snorts. “Try your hardest noisy wolf.”

Time slips by in gentle waves. Books pile around them, pages fluttering faintly in unseen drafts. Every so often, one of the ghost librarians drifts past, murmuring about overdue scrolls or misplaced grimoires. The light through the window shifts as the fog outside thickens, softening everything to a dreamlike glow.

Rumi finds herself watching the other two more than reading — Mira’s quiet concentration, the faint furrow between her brows; Zoey’s restless energy even when she’s still, the way she hums under her breath when she thinks. It’s strange how quickly this has become normal — this small orbit of comfort and chaos.

She almost doesn’t notice when Mira looks up and catches her staring.

“What?” Mira asks, arching a brow.

“Nothing,” Rumi says quickly, looking down at her notes.

“Okay,” Mira mutters, but there’s a faint smirk tugging at her mouth.

Zoey, still sprawled lazily across her lap, pipes up without opening her eyes. “She’s totally staring at you.”

“I’m not.”

“She is,” Zoey insists. “It’s okay though, I get it. Mira’s hot.”

“Zoey!” Rumi sputters.

“What? I’m just saying!”

Mira sighs, dragging a hand down her face. “Why do I put up with you two?”

“Because we’re adorable,” Zoey says sweetly.

Rumi chuckles, warmth blooming in her chest despite the embarrassment.

The ghosts drift. The candles burn low. And the three of them sit together by the window — laughter and friendship echoing softly through the haunted quiet of the library.

The afternoon stretches soft and quiet in the library — the kind of silence that feels earned. The three of them are half-buried in notes, papers scattered like a paper storm around their little table. A flickering candle floats lazily above their heads, casting warm light over the girls.

Zoey has officially given up on studying. She’s lying on her back, legs swinging off the edge of her chair, lazily spinning a quill between her fingers. Mira is deep in a textbook, muttering under her breath about outdated citation styles, while Rumi has gone still, eyes drifting out the massive window toward the fog-wrapped Siren Maze.

Everything feels peaceful.

Until the doors creak open.

The sound is sharp and out of place in the still air — followed by a burst of low laughter and the scrape of boots on polished wood. Rumi tenses immediately. That scent that envelops her instantly is unmistakeable.

The demon boys.

Jinu and his usual crew —They move as a pack, confident and loud, the faint trace of brimstone clinging to them like expensive cologne.

“Shit, I need the next edition,” Mira starts.

“Surely a ghost can help,” Rumi mutters.

“Are they ghosts or poltergeists, what’s the difference?” Zoey chimes in.

“Aren’t polter –,” Rumi starts.

“I’ll get it myself just to avoid this debate.”

And like that Mira is gone in a huff of beautiful annoyance.

Rumi’s attention however, is quickly pulled back to the group of demons strolling the library like they own it.

The trio strolls up to the counter where a ghost librarian hovers, returning a precarious stack of books. The specter murmurs polite thanks, but the demons aren’t paying attention — Jinu’s already scanning the room.

And when his eyes land on Rumi, he smiles.

Rumi freezes.

It’s not a nice smile. It’s sharp. Intentional. The kind of smile that says he enjoys watching people squirm.

“Please gods, not today,” Rumi mutters under her breath, voice low, almost a growl. “Don’t you dare—”

Too late.

Jinu starts walking toward them, the other two trailing behind him like shadows. Their footsteps echo over the marble floor. The air hums faintly — faint traces of infernal magic, heat rolling off them in waves. Even the candles flicker as they pass.

Rumi’s heart starts to hammer. She tries to focus on her notes, on anything but him, but the scent hits her before he even reaches the table — smoke and metal alloy and something sickly sweet, invasive and heavy. Like it’s pushing her down and making her smaller the longer she breathes it in.

Zoey sits up, blinking, sensing the tension immediately.

“Hey,” Jinu drawls as he leans down, hands braced on the edge of their table. He’s close enough that Rumi can feel the heat radiating off him. “Didn’t think I’d find you here, baby demon.”

“Don’t call me that,” Rumi says sharply.

Jinu smirks. “Touchy. You always this friendly, or am I just special?”

Mira’s suddenly appears behind Jinu, eye’s dark, tone razor-sharp. “She asked nicely, I won’t. Back. Off.”

“Relax, Dracula,” Jinu replies without even looking at her. “We’re just talking.”

“Talking?” Mira repeats. “You’re about two inches from losing your head.”

Jinu chuckles, unbothered. “You’ve got quite the little bodyguard, huh?”

Rumi clenches her jaw, doing her best to stay calm. “What do you want Jinu?”

“Jinu?” Mira asks, her eyes already shifting to their full black vampiric state, “As in the Jinu with no manners and a death wish?”

“Mira don’t,” Rumi almost whimpers, “Please.”

Jinu tilts his head, grin widening. “I just want to talk. Maybe extend an invitation.”

Rumi’s frown deepens. “An invitation?”

“To your funeral? We would love to attend,” Mira growls, rounding the black-haired demon to stand between him and Rumi.

“Gods do you ever chill? It’s to The Emberpit.”

Zoey snorts before she can stop herself. “The what?”

“The Emberpit,” Jinu repeats proudly, as if the name alone is impressive. “It’s a bonfire thing. Hosted by the Thane dorms. Happens every semester — music, food, a few students from the Juniper University, that kind of thing. You know, actual fun.”

“Sounds like a frat party,” Mira mutters.

Jinu smirks at her. “If frat parties had fire-breathing contests and soul pokers, yeah.”

“Fire-breathing?” Zoey perks up instantly. “That sounds kinda awesome.”

“It’s a dick measuring contest,” Mira says flatly. “Which is exactly why we’re not going.”

Jinu ignores her entirely, eyes still locked on Rumi behind the vampire. “You should come. Everyone will be there. Even Professor Kendrick pretends she doesn’t know about it.”

Rumi shakes her head. “No thanks.”

“Aw, come on.” He leans a little closer, resting an elbow on the table so they’re eye-level, ignoring the deep hiss that rips through Mira. “You’ve been hiding from us all week. You can’t tell me you don’t want to actually do something. It’ll be good for you. Loosen you up.”

“Loosen me up?” Rumi repeats, tone cutting like ice.

“Yeah.” His smile dips into something almost teasing. “You’ve got this… uptight thing going on. It’s cute, but you’re wound tighter than a cursed harp.”

Mira slams her hand down on Jinu’s shoulder, pushing him backward and levelling him with a glare. She’s satisfied enough to see him wince at the impact. The sound cracks through the silence like thunder. “One more word,” she hisses, “and you’ll be swallowing your own teeth.”

Rumi shoots her a warning glance, but Jinu just laughs, low and amused. “Fiery friends. I like that.”

“Stop.” Rumi’s voice comes out sharper than intended.

Jinu looks back at her, grin faltering slightly at her tone. “I’m just saying—”

“I said stop.”

The words hang heavy in the air. Even the faint whisper of ghostly pages seems to pause.

For a moment, no one moves. Then, finally, Jinu raises his hands in mock surrender, stepping back a little more. “Alright, alright. Don’t get your runes in a twist. Just thought I’d extend the offer.”

“Offer rejected,” Mira snaps.

Jinu glances at her, his smirk returning full force. “Didn’t ask you, blood sucker.”

Zoey’s hand flies out, lightly grabbing Mira’s arm before she can jump forward and kill Jinu. “Okay, that’s enough testosterone for one day, thanks. Take your annoying pheromones and leave please.”

He laughs again — and this time, it sounds genuine. “You’re funny.”

“I know,” Zoey says, grinning sweetly. “Now go away.”

Mystery chuckles from behind him. “Interesting that the wolf doesn’t like our smell, maybe she’s never had an alpha before. Shame...”

Abby snickers, flicking his tongue like a lizard as he watches Rumi. “At least this one actually spoke to us this time. Told you she wouldn’t bite.”

“Oh, I’m sure she bites,” Jinu says, eyes sliding back to Rumi with a smirk. “Just not the way I’d want her to.”

Mira growls audibly this time. “You disgusting—”

Rumi cuts her off by slamming her notebook shut and standing up, her chair scraping across the floor. “Enough.”

Jinu blinks, surprised at her sudden ferocity.

“I said no. That means no. I don’t want to be around you any longer than I have to be. I don’t want to ‘loosen up.’ I don’t want you. Leave us alone.”

The heat in her voice is palpable — that infernal undertone humming beneath every word. For a second, it seems to shake him. His pupils slit briefly, the faint scent of singed air filling the space between them.

Then, to everyone’s shock, he just… grins.

“Alright,” he says softly, backing up a step. “Didn’t mean to step on your tail, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that” Rumi snaps.

“Shame,” he says with a wink. “It feels so nice to say.”

Mira lets out a noise that could only be described as murderous, causing Zoey to pull back harder to keep her in her orbit and not sinking her teeth into Jinu.

Jinu laughs, genuinely entertained. “You’re all too easy to rile up. Seriously though, think about it.”

He turns to the other two boys, jerking his chin toward the door. “Come on, before one of these psychos actually tries to kill me.”

“Don’t go down any dark alleyways,” Mira calls out darkly.

As the trio starts walking away, Jinu glances back over his shoulder, voice carrying lazily through the quiet room.

“You should come, you know,” he says. “Even if you don’t want to see me. It’s good to actually live here, not just survive. Think of it as… getting the sticks out of your asses.”

“Keep talking,” Mira says without looking at her, “and I’ll shove a stick so far up your ass you’ll classify as a tree.”

Rumi sinks slowly back into her chair, trying to calm her heartbeat, cheeks still burning. “They’re so gods dam annoying.”

“Accurate,” Mira mutters. “Demons are all the same. Cocky, arrogant—”

“Hey,” Rumi interrupts quietly.

Mira pauses. “Present company excluded,” she amends. “Mostly.”

Zoey wipes her eyes, still laughing. “Okay but… The Emberpit? That’s the worst name I’ve ever heard.”

Rumi exhales shakily, tension finally breaking into a small, reluctant laugh. “Agreed.”

“Still,” Zoey says, grinning. “Maybe we should go.”

Both Rumi and Mira whip their heads toward her. “What?”

She shrugs. “What? He’s not wrong. We’ve been total hermits since we got here. A little bonfire might be fun. We’ll stick together, and if he tries anything…” She makes a mock clawing gesture. “Mira can bite him.”

“I’ve always wanted to see what demon’s taste like,” Mira says darkly.

“See? Perfect plan.”

Rumi groans, dropping her head into her hands. “I hate that you might actually be right.”

Zoey grins wider. “Then it’s settled.”

“It’s not settled,” Mira snaps.

“Oh, it’s totally settled,” Zoey says cheerfully.

Rumi groans again, muffled by her hands. “I’m surrounded by bad choices and overbearing men.”

“Welcome to Fenric,” Mira says dryly.

Zoey leans across the table, nudging Rumi with her foot. “Come on, patterns. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Rumi lifts her head just enough to glare. “You really want me to answer that?”

Zoey laughs, tipping her chair back with a grin. “Too late — we’re going.”

Zoey’s excitement is like a living thing. By the time they’ve packed up their books and stepped out of the library, she’s practically bouncing.

The sky outside is fading into early evening — a pale, smoky violet bleeding into deep blue. Fog curls around the edges of the courtyard, and faint music is already drifting through the air from somewhere in the distance. Rumi’s stomach twists. She tells herself it’s nerves, not anticipation.

“We’re going,” Zoey declares, linking her arms through both Rumi and Mira before either can argue. “No take-backs. No excuses. You two are fun, you just don’t know it yet.”

“I’m plenty fun,” Mira mutters, trying (and failing) to shrug Zoey off. “My kind of fun just usually involves fewer idiots and less fire.”

“That’s because you are the fire, babe,” Zoey teases, giving her arm a little squeeze.

Mira glares. “Don’t call me babe.”

“Too late,” Zoey chirps, dragging them onward. “It’s our thing now.”

Rumi can’t help but laugh, the sound catching her by surprise. The weight of the encounter in the library starts to lift, replaced by the chaotic warmth that always seems to orbit Zoey like her own personal gravity field.

By the time they reach the dorm, Zoey’s already rambling about what to wear.

“Okay, so this is a party hosted by pyromancer’s, right?” she says, flinging open the door. “That means bold. Hot. Maybe slightly dangerous. No frumpy cardigans allowed.”

Mira throws her bag onto her bed. “No one wears cardigans to a party.”

Zoey grins. “Good. Then we’re halfway there.”

Rumi sighs and closes the door behind them, watching as Zoey dives into her wardrobe like she’s on a treasure hunt. Clothing starts flying — glittery tops, skirts, fishnets, the occasional misplaced sock.

“Zoey,” Rumi says carefully. “Do you have a plan?”

Zoey looks up, already holding a shimmering crop top in one hand and a black pleated skirt in the other. “Of course I do. The plan is: look hot, have fun, and possibly make a pretty person fall in love with me.”

Mira snorts. “You’ll last five minutes before one of them tries to sacrifice you.”

“Worth it,” Zoey says cheerfully.

Mira rolls her eyes but can’t hide a tiny smirk. “You’re insane.”

“I prefer boldly adventurous,” Zoey says, tossing a top at her.

Mira catches it with one hand, looks down, and raises a brow. “Absolutely not, I’ll be dressing myself thanks.”

Zoey shrugs and turns to her dresser, pulling out her own outfit piece by piece. The room quickly fills with the hum of movement — doors opening, showers starting, makeup bags unzipping.

Zoey claims the shower first.

Within minutes, music is thumping softly from her speaker — something upbeat and glittery, the kind of pop that makes it impossible to stay still. Rumi sits cross-legged on her bed, trying to convince herself this isn’t a bad idea while Mira rummages through her drawers for something “party-appropriate.”

The bathroom door opens in a cloud of steam, and Zoey steps out wrapped in a towel, hair piled messily atop her head. “Okay,” she says, pointing toward the door. “Next!”

Mira grumbles but grabs her stuff and heads in, muttering about how if anyone burns down the dorms tonight, she’s blaming Zoey.

Rumi watches her go, then glances back at Zoey — who’s humming along to the music and digging through her jewellery box. “You really like this kind of thing, don’t you?”

Zoey looks up. “What, parties?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure,” Zoey says easily. “They’re fun. People let their guards down, you get to dance, maybe flirt a little. It’s like you stop pretending to be whatever your ‘kind’ is supposed to be.”

Rumi tilts her head. “Your kind?”

Zoey smiles faintly. “Wolves have categories too, you know. I don’t exactly fit neatly into one. So, parties? They’re the one place no one cares.”

Rumi nods slowly. She understands that — the appeal of being unobserved. Or maybe, finally seen without judgment.

The bathroom door opens again, and Mira steps out, towel-drying her hair. “Your turn, Rumi.”

Rumi nods, grabbing her clothes and slipping inside.

The shower is quick — hot water washing away the tension that’s been clinging to her shoulders since the library. She lets her head rest briefly against the wall, breathing in the faint scent of lavender soap before turning off the water and wrapping herself in a towel.

By the time she comes out, the dorm looks like a small tornado has passed through. Zoey’s perched at the mirror applying mascara, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration. Mira’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, eyeliner in hand, glaring at her reflection like it personally offended her.

“Okay, thoughts?” Zoey says, spinning around.

She’s already dressed — a black mini skirt and a aqua crop top that shows a lot of her toned stomach, paired with chunky boots that make her a few inches taller. Her hair’s done up in two space buns with strands falling loose around her face, shimmering faintly with glitter.

Mira raises a brow. “You look like a fairy that discovered club culture.”

Zoey beams. “Thank you.”

Rumi laughs softly, then starts towel-drying her own hair as she pulls out her chosen outfit — a high-neck black crop top with long sleeves, paired with short black shorts and her trusty Converse. She hesitates for a moment, then starts pulling it on, braiding her damp hair into two neat braids.

Behind her, Mira is finally finishing her makeup. She’s gone for a simple but bold look — eyeliner sharp enough to kill, her hair half up in twin pigtails, framing her face perfectly. She’s wearing a sleeveless white top tucked into tight jeans, black Docs laced up to her ankles.

“Okay,” Mira says, turning to Zoey. “Be honest.”

Zoey looks her up and down and smirks. “My only thought is ‘arms’. You look terrifyingly hot.”

Mira rolls her eyes. “Perfect.”

Rumi chuckles softly as she starts putting on jewellery — a silver chain, a few mismatched rings, a thin bracelet that glints faintly in the dim light. When she finally looks up at her reflection, she feels strange.

It’s not vanity. It’s the way she looks — strong, sharp, confident. Like she’s stepping into a version of herself she didn’t realize existed.

She takes a steadying breath and steps out.

The reaction is instant.

Zoey freezes mid-sentence, mascara wand still in hand. Mira looks up — and for once, she’s speechless.

Rumi frowns slightly. “What?”

Zoey blinks, lowering the mascara. “Okay, wow.”

“What?” Rumi repeats, more defensive this time.

“You look—” Zoey gestures vaguely, struggling for words. “Like you just walked out of a music video. A sexy one.”

Mira’s eyes narrow slightly, but not in judgment — more in appraisal. “You look good,” she says finally, tone unreadable.

Rumi blushes instantly, tugging at her sleeves. “It’s just clothes.”

“Uh-huh,” Zoey says, grinning. “Sure. And I’m just ‘kind of enthusiastic.’ Don’t be modest. You look incredible.”

“You don’t show skin that often,” Mira mutters under her breath. “Everyone’s going to fall over themselves to get to you.”

Zoey laughs. “And you smell so good, like your scent is finally getting stronger.”

Rumi groans, covering her face. “Can we not make a big deal out of this?”

“No promises,” Zoey says.

They fall into an easy rhythm as they finish getting ready — Mira fixing Zoey’s eyeliner (“You blink like a terrified squirrel”), Zoey adding a little shimmer to Rumi’s cheekbones (“Just trust me, you’ll thank me later”), and Rumi, against her better judgment, actually letting them fuss over her.

When they’re finally done, the room looks like the aftermath of a glam explosion — makeup palettes, discarded clothes, and faint trails of glitter everywhere.

Zoey claps her hands. “Alright, my gorgeous creatures — are we ready to descend into chaos?”

“No,” Mira says flatly, standing and grabbing her jacket. “But we’re going anyway, apparently.”

Rumi adjusts her bracelets, trying to ignore the flutter in her stomach. “How far is it?”

“Just down by the lake,” Zoey says, looping her arm through Rumi’s again. “You’ll hear it before you see it.”

“I already regret this,” Mira mutters.

Zoey grins. “That’s the spirit!”

As they step out into the cool night air, the sounds of the Emberpit drift through the fog — laughter, the crackle of massive bonfires, music pulsing faintly in the distance.

Zoey hums happily, swaying a little as they walk. “You know, this could be the start of a beautiful disaster.”

“More like a personal nightmare,” Mira says.

Rumi glances at both of them — one sparkling with reckless excitement, the other radiating protective irritation — and feels something loosen inside her chest.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

Not with them by her side as they walk to the lake.

The fog breaks apart as they crest the ridge leading to the lakeside clearing—revealing a sprawling blaze of life and noise below.

The Emberpit is impossible to miss. The bonfire at its center roars at least fifteen feet high, the flames a swirling mix of gold, blue, and violet. Sparks dance skyward like fireflies, fading into the smoky dusk. Around it, the world hums with sound: drums beating in sync with pulsing music, laughter rolling through the air, bodies pressed close together, moving in rhythm under webs of glowing string lights that stretch from tree to tree.

Dozens of tables circle the clearing—half of them cluttered with empty bottles and glowing cups. Off to one side, a group of werewolves wrestle shirtless in the dirt, laughter booming as claws scrape against enchanted ground that doesn’t quite let them shift. A cluster of fae twirl through the air nearby, their hair glimmering like crystal threads, while a siren perches on a rock near the lake, singing under her breath to a fascinated circle of creatures.

And farther back, where the firelight fades into shadows—Rumi spots them. Vampires. Their movements are languid, almost graceful, as one leans in close to another’s throat. The sound is faint, but sharp—the breaking of skin.

Rumi stops dead.

Her stomach twists, unease crawling up her spine. For a moment she can’t move—just stares at the tableau of pale skin, black eyes, and the dark intimacy of the act. It’s hunger, violence, and tenderness all at once.

Beside her, Mira makes a low noise in her throat—something between disgust and resignation.

Rumi glances at her. “You’re not… going over there, are you?”

Mira blinks, caught off guard, then actually laughs. “What? No. Gods, no.”

Rumi frowns slightly, still watching the vampires. “I thought that was… normal?”

“It’s tolerated,” Mira corrects, voice low. “Not respected. Blood sharing between vampires is complicated. It’s more sexual than anything else—it’s something done between bonded pairs. Publicly? It’s considered pretty inappropriate. To do it between groups, with unmated bloodlines, that’s down right disgusting.”

“Oh.”

Mira folds her arms, her eyes still flicking across the crowd. “If vamps don’t enjoy hunting, most of us find a donor if we need it. A willing one. But that—” She gestures toward the feeding vampires. “That’s just showing off.”

Rumi swallows hard. “So you’re… you’re planning to find someone to feed from?”

“Eventually,” Mira admits, shrugging one shoulder. “I need to. It’s been a while.”

Rumi’s pulse spikes despite herself. There’s nothing suggestive in Mira’s tone, but her mind runs wild anyway—images she doesn’t want forming unbidden. The way Mira’s voice dips when she says need. The way her pupils seem a little too wide under the firelight. The thought of Mira sinking her teeth into someone sends a shiver down Rumi’s spin, yet she can’t determine if the emotion rolling through her is fear or jealousy.

Before she can say anything, Zoey loops an arm around both their waists, practically vibrating with excitement. “You two are talking way too much and drinking way too little.”

Rumi blinks, grateful for the interruption. “Zoey—”

“Nope!” Zoey says, tugging them forward. “No thinking. No sulking. It’s party time!”

They weave through the throng of bodies until they find an empty table near the outer ring of the firelight. Zoey snatches a bottle from a passing imp’s tray without asking, grinning when it doesn’t protest. The liquid inside glows faintly, like molten amber.

“Okay,” Zoey says, slamming three tiny shot glasses down. “House rules: we toast before the first three. Ready?”

Mira sighs, sitting heavily on the bench. “You’re going to regret this.”

Zoey ignores her, pouring each glass to the brim. The smell is sweet and sharp—like honey and firewood.

“To new beginnings,” Zoey says, raising her glass. “To surviving our first month without murdering anyone.”

Rumi and Mira exchange a look, then clink their glasses against hers. The liquid burns on the way down, spreading warmth through Rumi’s chest.

Zoey’s already refilling them.

They drink again, Mira muttering something under her breath about definitely bad decisions.

The third shot Zoey raises high. “To us,” she says softly, her grin flickering into something sincere. “The weirdest little trio on campus.”

This time, Rumi doesn’t hesitate. She clinks glasses with both of them and downs it in one go. The warmth turns into a soft hum in her veins, her skin prickling pleasantly.

Zoey slams her glass down and cheers. “Alright, my fanged angels, it’s time to dance.”

“Oh, no,” Mira says instantly. “Absolutely not.”

But Zoey’s already grabbing her wrist, then Rumi’s. “You’re coming with me!”

Rumi stumbles after her, laughing before she can stop herself. “Zoey!”

“You’ll thank me later!” Zoey calls over her shoulder as they push into the pulsing crowd.

The beat hits them immediately—low and steady, vibrating through the ground. The air smells of smoke and magic, heavy with the scent of a dozen different species mingling together. Light flickers across faces, catching on horns, fangs, glowing eyes, shifting scales.

Rumi hesitates for half a second, unsure where to put her hands or her focus. But then Zoey grabs her hand and spins her around, and suddenly she’s moving—awkward at first, then easier, her body remembering how to let go.

Mira follows reluctantly, arms crossed at first, until Zoey loops an arm around her too and pulls her into motion. Mira scowls, but there’s a spark in her eyes that wasn’t there before.

They dance together, laughing when Zoey nearly trips over someone’s tail. The crowd presses closer, the heat from the fire making Rumi’s patterns glow under her dark sleeves. For a moment, everything outside this circle disappears.

Zoey’s hair glints like spun gold under the string lights as she throws her arms up, spinning in place. Mira, despite her protests, starts to move to the rhythm—sharp, deliberate, every motion smooth and predatory.

Rumi can’t take her eyes off either of them.

Zoey catches her looking and grins, tugging her closer until their hands meet again. “See?” she yells over the music. “You’re having fun!”

Rumi laughs, breathless. “I might be!”

“Good!”

Someone nearby howls, the sound echoing over the clearing as a group of wolves start another round of wrestling near the edge of the fire. A burst of sparks showers down, lighting up the night like stars.

Zoey twirls again, bumping into Mira, who catches her by the waist before she can fall. For a heartbeat they just stand there—Zoey grinning with her head tipped back and up at her, Mira trying not to smile back. Rumi watches, warmth blooming in her chest that she can’t name.

Then Zoey grabs Rumi again, dragging her into their messy, chaotic orbit. Her front hits Zoeys with more force than necessary, sandwiching the young wolf between the taller girls.

By the third song, Rumi’s cheeks ache from smiling. She can feel the beat thudding in her bones, her heartbeat syncing with the rhythm, her pulse matching the flames. It feels natural, to have them here – touching her – with Zoey’s hands on her bare waist, and Mira looming over her with dark eyes and the easiest smile she seen from the girl in a month.

Someone hands her another drink, and she takes it without thinking, the taste sharp and sweet. Zoey’s laughing, Mira’s rolling her eyes, and for once—just once—Rumi doesn’t feel like the strange, broken demon at the edge of the world.

She feels alive.

The music shifts, slower now, the kind that hums in the air like a heartbeat. The crowd sways, bodies moving closer, eyes glinting with unspoken things.

Rumi hesitates—but Zoey reaches for her hand again, threading their fingers together as she sways to the rhythm. “You’re allowed to have this,” she says softly, voice barely audible over the noise. “Just enjoy yourself.”

Rumi nods, swallowing the lump in her throat.

The ground vibrates under the steady pound of drums and bass, the sound mixing with the howls of werewolves and the flicker of laughter from every shadow. String lights sway overhead like captured stars, glinting across the sweat-slick faces of students who have long forgotten the rules of propriety.

Zoey’s hand finds hers, tugging, laughing over the music.

The heat returns quickly, heavy. Rumi can feel the press of bodies, the rhythm of the drums pulsing like a second heartbeat under her skin. The music wraps around them, primal and rough, and she starts to move again without realizing she’s doing it.

Zoey laughs — that bright, wolfish sound that makes Rumi’s chest flutter.

Mira moves with surprising grace — sharp, deliberate, her every motion like a strike that never lands. Zoey is her opposite, fluid and easy, shifting her weight and swaying with the rhythm like she’s part of the song itself.

And then she starts to feel it — that hum beneath her skin. The subtle pull of magic, the pulse of her infernal nature responding to the charges around her.

Zoey catches her hand again, pulling her until Rumi’s front hits Zoey’s again. She laughs, the sound low and teasing against Rumi’s ear. Rumi’s breath catches, her entire body tense — not from fear, but from something she can’t quite name.

Zoey doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she does. Her hands rest lightly on Rumi’s hips, guiding her into the rhythm of the music again when she doesn’t immediately move.

“See? Not that hard,” Zoey murmurs, voice soft but playful. “You’ve just gotta stop thinking.”

Rumi snorts despite herself. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“It is,” Zoey says. “You just—feel.”

It’s stupid advice. But it works.

Rumi lets herself move, not perfectly — not even confidently — but freely. The tension in her shoulders fades. The air feels cooler against her neck, her pulse steadier. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, she isn’t thinking about Celine, or her horns, or the scenting, or the stares. She’s just moving.

Mira still looms over Zoey’s shoulder, sliding closer with a half-smirk that could cut glass. She rolls her eyes at Zoey, but there’s amusement under it — real, unguarded.

The beat shifts, faster now, heavier. The crowd swells again — laughter, howls, the flick of firelight painting everyone gold and crimson. Mira’s hair glows under the string lights, the soft pink turned molten. Zoey’s space buns have half come undone, strands clinging to her forehead.

And Rumi — Rumi feels alive.

The magic under her skin thrums, begging for release. Every pulse of the bass matches the rhythm of her heart. Her patterns flicker stronger — the smallest shimmer under her skin, almost imperceptible, but she feels it. The first warning.

Her horns always itch when she’s too emotional.

“Careful,” Mira mutters, leaning closer. There’s no judgment in her voice — only quiet caution. “You’re glowing.”

Rumi laughs, breathless. “I’m trying not to think about it.”

“Good.” Zoey’s grin is wide, mischievous. “It’s kinda hot.”

Rumi rolls her eyes, but her blush ruins the act. “Shut up.”

Zoey laughs again, head thrown back against Mira’s collar. The sound makes something inside Rumi twist — not unpleasantly, but enough to unsettle her. Mira must see it too, because she shakes her head and leans closer to whisper something to Zoey, though Rumi can’t hear it clearly over the thumping music and rowdy groups.

Whatever she says makes Zoey bark out a laugh. “Oh, come on, like you’re not enjoying this.”

Mira’s glare is sharp but fleeting. “I didn’t say that.”

The tension between them crackles like static. Zoey’s grin softens into something warmer as she turns, brushing a hand over Mira’s arm — nothing deliberate, just a ghost of contact. Mira doesn’t pull away.

Rumi looks between them, a strange ache blooming in her chest that she can’t place. Jealousy? No — not exactly. Just the realization that she wants that kind of ease. That kind of closeness.

Then Zoey turns back to her, and Rumi’s thoughts scatter.

“You’re thinking again,” Zoey says again, softer this time.

Rumi tries. Really, she does. But the more she moves, the more everything starts to blur — the music, the crowd, the way Zoey’s hands find her again, this time just to steady her as they sway. Mira’s presence is a steady pulse beside them, grounding and sharp, her laughter rare but genuine.

The three of them fall into rhythm — unplanned, unspoken, perfectly imperfect.

Until Rumi’s control slips.

It starts small. Her fingertips tingle. The air around her feels heavier. She feels too warm — too real. Then comes the burn beneath her skin, spreading fast. Her claws threaten to extend, her horns itching at her scalp so much it burns.

She freezes, forcing a shaky breath out.

Zoey blinks at her, noticing the sudden stillness. “Rumi?”

“I—” She shakes her head quickly, taking a step back. “I just—need some air.”

“Wait—” Zoey starts, but Rumi’s already retreating, weaving through the crowd before anyone else can see.

The cool air outside the main bonfire circle hits her like a shock. She exhales hard, pressing a hand to her chest as she moves toward the quieter edge of the clearing.

The lake gleams under the moonlight, dark and endless, the reflection of firelight flickering across its surface. The fog rolls low over it, thick and strange — alive in its own way.

Rumi grabs a new drink from one of the unattended tables near the water. She doesn’t even know what it is, just that it burns on the way down.

Her heart pounds. Her magic still hums under her skin, restless, agitated. She flexes her hands, watching faint pink lines shimmer across her fingers before fading. Too close. She’d let herself feel too much, and it almost slipped free.

She stares at the lake, forcing herself to breathe.

The music is distant now, only a dull thrum. The laughter fades into the fog. For a moment, she’s alone again.

Until she feels a gaze.

Her head lifts. Across the clearing, just barely visible in the shifting light, stands Jinu.

His expression is unreadable — too calm, too knowing. His tail flicks lazily behind him, and when the firelight catches his face, there’s a smirk there.

Rumi’s blood runs cold.

She tears her gaze away, looking back toward the water. The taste of smoke lingers on her tongue, the echo of the dance still thrumming in her chest.

She takes another long sip from her drink, forcing her breathing to slow, trying to forget the way his eyes had found her in the dark.

But she can still feel them on her — even as the fog thickens, and the night deepens around the lake.

“Thought I’d find you out here.”

She flinches before the voice registers.

Jinu steps out from between two trees, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. His dark horns catch the firelight in dull bronze streaks. There’s a crooked smile on his face, the kind that feels more like a habit than a real expression.

“Do you make a habit of stalking people?” Rumi mutters, taking another sip of her drink.

He chuckles, low and unbothered. “Only the interesting ones.”

“Guess you’re lost, then.”

Jinu hums, coming closer. “Guess not.”

He stops beside her, close enough that she can feel the faint heat rolling off him. They both stare at the lake in silence for a while. The air hums faintly, heavy with the residual magic of the bonfire — laughter and heat and something deeper still, thrumming under the soil.

“Can’t stand big crowds either, huh?” Jinu asks.

Rumi exhales, her breath misting in the chill. “Too much energy. Too loud. Makes my head buzz.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly, eyes still on the lake. “Feels like your power’s clawing at you to get out. Like the air’s full of static.”

Her gaze snaps to him. “Yeah. Exactly that.”

He smirks faintly. “Told you. You’re not the only demon here.”

That disarms her a little. There’s no mockery in his tone — no sharpness. Just understanding.

Jinu crouches down and picks up a pebble, tossing it across the surface. It skips six times before sinking. “My form’s always been restless. I feel it under my skin, humming. Like a pulse that’s not mine. You try to ignore it, but it’s always there. That’s why when I’m here I don’t fight it.”

Rumi nods slowly. “You can feel it too, then. That hum.”

He glances up at her. “You thought you were the only one?”

She hesitates. “Celine—my guardian—used to say demons like me had to suppress it. That letting it out meant giving in.”

“Celine sounds like a ray of sunshine.”

Rumi huffs out a short laugh. “Yeah. Something like that. Witches are weird.”

Jinu’s grin softens a little. “You don’t have to cage it all the time, you know. It’s not poison.”

“Feels like it,” she mutters.

“Only when you treat it like something to be rid of, not something to embrace.”

They fall into silence again, not uncomfortable this time. The sounds of the party drift faintly across the water — music, laughter, a low howl somewhere in the distance. Firelight flickers against the fog, gold bleeding into white.

Rumi stares down at her hands, flexing them. The faint shimmer of her markings glows and fades again. “When it gets bad, it feels like… like my skin’s too tight. Like something’s pressing against the inside, trying to get out. I can’t breathe right.”

Jinu hums. “Yeah. It’s like pressure building under your ribs. You either find a release or you break something.”

She looks at him. “How do you handle it?”

“Let it out in small bursts,” he says simply. “Sparring helps. Running. Sometimes just screaming into the wind.”

Rumi raises an eyebrow. “Screaming into the wind?”

He shrugs. “Dramatic, but effective.”

A laugh escapes her — a small one, but genuine. “You’re not too insufferable when you aren’t around your pack.”

“What’d you expect?”

“Arrogant. Cruel. Maybe a little stupid.”

“Well, two out of three isn’t bad.”

She smirks despite herself. “Which two?”

He only grins wider. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

For a moment, she actually enjoys the company. The conversation feels easy, light — the kind that doesn’t demand she hide or explain herself.

Until Jinu ruins it.

“You dance well,” he says, casually — too casually.

Rumi stiffens. “What?”

“You. Mira. Zoey. Whole crowd couldn’t stop watching you three.” His tone is teasing, but there’s a hint of something else beneath it.

Her cheeks flush hot. “You were watching?”

“Hard not to,” he says with a shrug. “You looked—infatuated.”

“I wasn’t,” she snaps before she can stop herself.

His brow arches, amused. “You sure? Because it looked like you were having fun.”

She turns away, irritation prickling under her skin. “It’s none of your business.”

“Didn’t say it was.” He tilts his head, studying her. “You just seem wound tight. Like you’re waiting for something bad to happen if you let go too long.”

“Maybe I am.”

He hums again, unconcerned. “Suit yourself. Just saying, they seemed fine without you when you walked off.”

That hits harder than it should.

Rumi’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jinu nods toward the bonfire. “See for yourself.”

She follows his gaze — and almost falls over her own feet.

Across the clearing, Zoey sits perched on a log, laughing with a fae boy whose hair glimmers faintly blue under the firelight. Her posture is relaxed, open, one leg tucked beneath her. She’s close enough that their shoulders brush as they talk.

And a little farther away, half-hidden by the treeline, Mira stands beside a siren girl. They’re talking quietly, the siren’s long green hair shimmering like liquid light. Rumi watches the siren’s lips curl into a small, knowing smile — the kind that carries a promise.

Then the girl reaches out, taking Mira’s hand.

Rumi’s pulse spikes.

For a moment, it looks like they’re about to kiss. The siren leans closer, Mira’s head tilts slightly, the air between them electric. But then Rumi sees it — the sudden black sheen filling Mira’s eyes. Her posture shifts subtly, predatory yet careful.

The siren doesn’t flinch. She tilts her head, exposing her throat, a small sound escaping her lips — part sigh, part plea. Mira’s fangs glint under the string lights as she leans in.

Rumi can’t look away.

When Mira bites, it’s not violent. It’s slow, reverent — almost tender. The siren exhales shakily, eyes fluttering closed, her hand curling around Mira’s neck as if anchoring herself.

Rumi’s stomach twists.

Jinu watches too, unbothered. “First time seeing someone feed?”

Rumi swallows hard. “She said she’d wait for a willing donor.”

“She did.”

“That looks—”

“Consensual,” Jinu interrupts. “It is. Heritage vampires like her — they don’t take without permission. Or they hunt humans. And trust me, that siren’s not suffering.”

Rumi tears her eyes away, her pulse still hammering. “She looks… comfortable.”

“She looks turn on if you ask me,” Jinu says. “Vampire venom hits like a drug. Warm, euphoric, makes your whole body feel like it’s floating. Lasts for hours. Some creatures practically line up for it.”

“That’s—” She searches for words. “Messed up.”

He smirks faintly. “You think so?”

“I don’t know. It’s just—” Rumi exhales sharply, looking back toward the trees. Mira’s still feeding, gentle and precise, one hand cupping the siren’s cheek. Zoey’s laughter drifts across the fire again, easy and carefree. “It’s weird seeing them like that.”

Jinu watches her for a long moment, then says quietly, “Maybe you just don’t know where you fit yet.”

She glances at him, defensive. “And you do?”

“Sometimes.” His smile is faint, almost sad. “Other times I just pretend.”

Something in her chest softens at that. But only for a second.

“I should go,” she mutters, setting her half-finished drink on the ground.

He shrugs, stepping aside to let her pass. “Suit yourself.”

Rumi starts back toward the dorms, her boots crunching over damp earth. But she can still feel Jinu’s gaze on her back, steady and unreadable.

And when she dares one last glance toward the bonfire, Mira’s eyes — black and glinting — lift briefly, as though she feels Rumi watching her. There’s blood dripping from her lips, her dark eyes flickering as she watches her. She smiles – all bloody mouthed and black eyed – then turns back to the siren and mumbles a thank you, giving her a light kiss to the cheek.

Rumi turns away before she can watch anymore.

The forest edge is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels like it’s holding its breath. Rumi doesn’t say anything when Zoey catches up to her, just lets their fingers lace together in a now familiar grip. The warmth of her hand is grounding, but Rumi can feel the weight behind it — the unspoken, the lingering tension in the air.

They walk side by side, neither speaking, the crunch of their shoes against the floor loud enough to remind Rumi that they are still moving. Zoey’s grip tightens slightly, just enough to make her pulse thrum a little faster. Rumi glances down at their joined hands, then at Zoey’s profile — soft in the firelight from outside, the tip of her hair falling across her forehead. Her expression is unreadable, calm, almost serene.

“Are you okay?” Rumi finally asks, her voice quiet, tentative. She doesn’t dare let it waver too much.

Zoey shrugs, a faint smile ghosting her lips, but her eyes are slightly shadowed. “Yeah,” she says softly. “I’m just… not feeling great.”

Rumi stiffens slightly. Not feeling great. That’s careful wording. That’s a shield. She knows it because she’s used to shields, used to reading the lines between words. Zoey must have seen Mira too — seen her slipping into something Rumi hasn’t yet learned how to process.

She doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask who or what. Instead, she lets her own hand squeeze Zoey’s, guiding them silently back toward the dorm. The path is empty, the wind low and damp, and the fog curls lazily along the edges of the grounds like smoke from a fire no one remembers lighting.

When they reach the dorm, they part ways only to shower and change in silence. The sound of water and the clatter of taps are the only noise. Rumi’s movements are methodical, precise, but her mind is in knots. Each thought about Mira — black eyes, predatory grace, the way she consumed her partner’s blood with a strange reverence — twists inside her chest. She doesn’t understand the pangs it sends through her. Fear? Confusion? Something else entirely she can’t name.

Zoey’s presence is still constant in her mind — a steady warmth behind her shoulder, a heartbeat she can almost feel if she closes her eyes. That thought is enough to keep her grounded as she steps out of the shower, toweling off, her braid damp and heavy. Zoey is already dressed, her hair messy but comfortable, the faint smell of soap and melon clinging to her.

“You coming?” Zoey asks softly, pulling a blanket around her shoulders as she lounges on her bed.

Rumi nods, wordless. She lets herself be tugged into the room, into the bed, the quiet tug of Zoey’s hand almost magnetic. She sits down beside her, toes brushing against the soft sheets. Zoey doesn’t move away — just pats the space beside her, a small gesture, and Rumi slides in.

They lie there in silence, side by side. Zoey’s hand drifts to Rumi’s arm, resting there, comforting. Rumi’s own arm tentatively curves around her shoulders. They don’t speak. Words feel inadequate. Words feel like they might unravel the fragile calm that has settled over them.

Time stretches. Minutes pass. Hours. The distant sounds of the dorm — footsteps, muted voices, the occasional slam of a door — filter through the walls. But inside this small cocoon, it’s just the two of them. The steady rise and fall of Zoey’s breathing, the faint heat of her skin against Rumi’s, the hum of magic under Rumi’s own skin, waiting, restless — all of it mixes together into a strange, dizzying comfort.

Rumi watches Zoey’s face, the way her eyelashes brush her cheeks when she shifts slightly. She notices the small shudder that runs through her body occasionally, subtle but telling. The shiver of nerves, of lingering excitement or tension. Rumi wants to ask, but the words won’t come. She simply draws Zoey closer, resting her cheek on the top of her head, and lets her warmth sink into her.

And yet, beneath it all, there’s an ache — something sharp, twisting.

Mira.

The thought is unavoidable. She remembers the black eyes, the smooth, predatory movement, the way Mira had consumed her partner in a rhythm Rumi could barely understand. There’s a sting of confusion, of longing. The jealousy gnaws at her, unfairly, irrationally. Mira is not hers to feel possessive over, and yet… the sight of her with someone else leaves an imprint in Rumi’s chest that she can’t shake.

Zoey shifts, her head pressing lightly against Rumi’s chest. “You’re quiet,” she murmurs, voice low, almost a whisper.

Rumi swallows hard. “Just thinking.”

Zoey hums softly, nuzzling a little closer. “About her?”

Rumi freezes, heart hammering. “I… maybe.” She forces the words out, bitterly honest even as it makes her feel exposed.

Zoey doesn’t comment. She just wraps her arm around Rumi, tugging her closer. The touch is simple, steady, grounding. It says, without words, that she’s there. That she’s still here. That whatever Rumi feels she doesn’t have to feel it alone.

The silence stretches again, comfortable this time. Rumi can feel her breathing slow, her heartbeat easing under Zoey’s gentle weight. But her mind won’t stop. It keeps running back to Mira — to the fluid, unflinching confidence she carries, the sharpness behind every movement, the way she bends rules without apology. It’s magnetic. Dangerous.

And yet, Zoey’s steady presence counterbalances it. The softness in her laugh, the warmth in her skin, the easy way she lets Rumi cling without question.

Time slips by. Rumi feels the tension ebbing from her shoulders, the hum under her skin quieting, as if her own magic senses that this is safe. That for now, nothing has to hurt.

They lie there, hours passing without words. Even the sounds outside — distant laughter, the creak of floorboards — fade into a gentle backdrop. Zoey shifts slightly, nuzzling closer, sighing softly, a shudder running through her.

Rumi’s arms tighten automatically, instinctively. Her chin rests atop Zoey’s head, feeling the soft rise and fall of her breathing. She doesn’t understand why Mira being with someone else makes her chest ache this much. She doesn’t understand why she feels the need to protect Zoey, to anchor her in this moment. She only knows the feelings are real, palpable, and she’s powerless to stop them.

Eventually, the dorm door opens with a soft click.

Rumi stiffens instinctively, but Zoey doesn’t move. Mira glides inside — smooth, deliberate, the kind of predator grace Rumi can’t reconcile with the girl she’s slowly starting to trust. But she’s not alone.

Rumi doesn’t look, focusing on Zoey’s steady warmth instead.

There are muted giggles — not Mira’s, though her presence is unmistakable — and the soft sounds of kissing. The door clicks shut behind them, and then a quiet chime echoes briefly — the faint pulse of a silence ward casting a blanket over the room.

Silence. Heavy, perfect, and still.

Zoey shifts against her side, pressing closer with a shuddered sigh. Rumi wraps her arms around her instinctively, pulling her as close as possible without discomfort. The warmth, the soft weight, the steady rhythm of Zoey’s breathing — it’s grounding, calming, and achingly comforting.

Rumi allows herself to exhale, releasing tension she didn’t even realize she’d been holding. She doesn’t speak. Zoey doesn’t. There’s no need. Words would ruin it.

And yet, beneath it all, there’s that familiar twist in Rumi’s chest — uncertainty, longing, protectiveness — tangled and confusing. She doesn’t understand why Mira’s actions affect her so sharply. She doesn’t understand why Zoey’s simple presence soothes and entangles her at the same time.

But she holds anyway.

She holds until their breathing syncs — Zoey’s slow and shallow, Rumi’s still uneven but steadying. She rests her cheek on the top of Zoey’s head, mind racing with unspoken emotions and complex truths she isn’t ready to untangle.

Eventually, exhaustion wins. The tension, the swirling thoughts, the strange mix of fear and comfort — it all fades into the background.

Rumi drifts into sleep first, arms wrapped protectively around Zoey, heart still fluttering with unnameable feelings.

Chapter Text

The dorm is quiet, the kind of silence that makes every creak of floorboard or distant drip of water echo like a gunshot.

Rumi stirs beneath the blankets, the warmth of Zoey pressed against her side still lingering. Her eyes flick open to the pale light filtering through the curtains, the sky over the window still muted and misted in grey. It’s too early. Way too early. But sleep has fled her entirely. No matter how she turns, no matter how many times she burrows under the sheets, she can’t find rest.

The pull starts deep in her chest first — a low hum, almost imperceptible at first, then growing. A crawling under her skin, like tiny sparks running along her nerves, a rhythm she can’t ignore. Her patterns flare faintly in the dim light, flickering along her arms and chest like neon whispers. The feeling makes her restless, tense. She sits up slowly, careful not to disturb Zoey, who stirs slightly but does not wake.

Her fingers trace along her skin, fingertips brushing over the faint glow of her patterns, feeling the heat and hum there. She inhales, deep and sharp, trying to soothe herself, but the sensation only grows, sharper and louder with every passing heartbeat.

Let your form out, it will feel less like a cage.

Jinu’s words echo in her mind. She had barely processed them before, hadn’t dared to try in front of everyone at the party. But now, alone in the half-light of their dorm, they return with insistence. Less like advice and more like a command she cannot ignore.

Rumi exhales slowly, her chest tightening. She steps carefully away from Zoey, trying not to wake her, and pads silently toward the kitchen, the early morning cold brushing against the exposed skin of her arms.

The kettle sits on the counter, half-filled, waiting, as Rumi flick it on. Rumi grabs an apple, rolling it between her palms as if the simple motion might ground her. But her mind is elsewhere, buzzing with anticipation and fear.

The first step comes naturally, almost instinctively. She lets her body relax slightly, feels the shift ripple through her body before she even consciously commands it. Her skin tingles, a rising sensation that begins at her spine and radiates outward. She can feel the energy under her skin, thrumming like a living heartbeat, alive and urgent.

Her greyed hands tremble slightly as the transformation begins in earnest. The familiar hum under her skin crescendos, overwhelming in its intensity. Her fingers lengthen subtly, nails sharpening into claws as faint sparks of her patterns flare along her arms. The glow is faint at first, then brighter, pinks and blues intertwining, coiling across her skin like living ink.

Her horns itch violently, curving backwards, sharper, the surface of them rough and warm under her fingertips. She scratches at the growing weight atop her skull, then winces slightly at the sensitivity of the touch. Her fangs poke past her lips, elongating into sharp crescents that glint in the dim light. Her tail unfurls behind her, curling in slow, deliberate arcs, brushing against her legs as if testing her balance.

She feels exposed. Vulnerable. And yet, at the same time, the sensation under her skin quiets almost immediately. The crawling hum that had been driving her restless for hours — gone. Vanished. The tightness in her chest eases, leaving behind a warmth that settles low and deep, spreading through her body like honey.

It feels wrong. She knows it’s wrong. Her skin is no longer purely human, no longer hers in the conventional sense. And yet, for the first time in months, perhaps years, it also feels right. Her limbs feel lighter, freer, attuned to something primal and intimate. The tension in her muscles relaxes, the chaos of her inner energy finally finding a channel.

Rumi leans against the counter, closing her eyes for a moment, letting the magic flow fully through her. Her patterns glow brighter in the dim kitchen, pulsing in rhythm with her heart. Her tail curls once, twice, brushing against her calves, and she allows herself a single shiver of relief.

Rumi takes a deep breath, trying to anchor herself. She reaches for the kettle, filling her cup with water, hands steady now in spite of the residual buzzing under her skin. The apple feels cool in her grasp, grounding in its simplicity, a bridge between the mundane human world and the intense, heightened awareness of her demonic form.

Her eyes flick to the faint light of the window. The early morning fog hangs low over the academy, curling around the distant rooftops like lazy spirits. She feels the pull of it, the lingering magic in the air, and she feels small, both in awe and in discomfort. This world — the world of Fenric, the world beyond her aunt Celine’s strict boundaries — is larger, wider, more untamed than she’d ever dared imagine. And she is a creature meant for it, in some unspoken, intrinsic way.

The first sip of coffee is almost shocking in its warmth. The bitter liquid slides down her throat, grounding her slightly, anchoring her to something familiar. She bites into the apple, the crisp sweetness filling her senses, and for a moment she lets herself forget.

It’s exhilarating. Terrifying. And lonely.

Rumi pauses, leaning against the counter, staring at the faint reflection in the dark windowpane. Her horns curl like twisted spirals, the glow of her patterns faintly illuminating the kitchen. Her tail flicks, and she realizes that this — all of this — is hers. It is hers to control, hers to explore, hers to accept. But the weight of it presses heavily against her chest as her glowing yellow eyes watch each movement. She looks terrifying.

She knows that once Zoey wakes, once Mira emerges, she’ll have to retreat, to hide. The glow will vanish, the claws retract, the horns and tail will curl back into obscurity. She will look human again, in the eyes of everyone around her, and the hum of her magic will retreat once more into the shadows beneath her skin. She knows she doesn’t have to, they’ve said it’s okay. Yet something still makes her want to hide, like her inner-shame is pulling her under.

Her claws flex again, tracing idle patterns across the counter. The glow flares slightly at the motion, flickering in her reflection. She touches her horns, scratches lightly at the base, feeling the warmth and weight there.

Her tail curls tighter, flicking against the tile floor, the glow of her patterns dimming slightly as she tries to focus. She sips her coffee again, letting the warmth fill her. The apple crunches satisfyingly under her teeth. She hums softly to herself, a low vibration that resonates with the hum beneath her skin, trying to ground herself in the moment.

She doesn’t notice the soft footsteps until they’re nearly upon her.

The presence is immediate, commanding. Something in the weight of it, the subtle shift in the air, makes her pause mid-bite, the apple half-lifted to her mouth. She glances up slowly, blinking against the glow of the morning light.

Mira’s guest steps into the living room, and the sight makes Rumi freeze instantly.

The woman is beautiful. Too beautiful, perfectly poised. Pale skin that catches the light like porcelain, hair dark and lustrous, clothing impeccable, cut sharp and elegant in a way that says dominance and confidence. Her presence fills the room like smoke, heavy and intoxicating, carrying the scent of something rich, metallic, and dangerous. A vampire.

But then her gaze lands on Rumi. And something shifts in the atmosphere.

Her eyes narrow slightly, dark and assessing, and she doesn’t even bother to hide the contempt that crosses her face.

“Well, fuck,” the woman says, her voice low, smooth, but venomous. “They let you off the leash when no ones around huh?”

The words cut sharply, biting into the quiet morning like a whip. Rumi freezes, fangs glinting as she instinctively bares them slightly in defence, the apple still in her hands. Her claws flex, the faint glow of her patterns pulsing a little brighter, responding to the tension and her rising fury.

A low, guttural growl escapes her throat before she even realizes it. Her yellow, catlike eyes narrow to pinpoints, tracking the woman’s every movement as if trying to anticipate the next strike. The air around her seems to hum faintly in sync with the vibration under her skin.

The woman smirks, tilting her head. “Don’t threaten me freak, your half-cooked infernal bullshit doesn’t phase me. I’ll rip you to shreds.”

Rumi’s tail curls behind her, sharp and tense, brushing against the tile floor in agitation. She takes a deliberate step forward, letting her claws extend slightly, the faint iridescence of her patterns flaring in response. Every instinct in her body screams at her to mark her territory, to make it clear that she is not someone to be trifled with.

Before the tension can escalate further, a soft, measured voice cuts through the charged air.

“Aaliyah?”

It’s Mira, emerging from her room, the calm control she usually radiates barely hiding the subtle edge of irritation in her tone. She steps into the room, eyes immediately zeroing in on Rumi — glowing, clawed, fangs bared, her presence almost predatory in the morning light.

Rumi freezes again, uncertain, but unwilling to back down. The apple in her hands is ignored now, the bite marks pressed into the fruit already forgotten. Her gaze is fixed, unwavering, every line of her body tense and coiled.

The vampire woman smirks again, her eyes flicking to Mira. “I see you’ve chosen interesting company,” she says, her tone dripping with disdain. “I’m surprised you let it behave like this.”

Mira’s eyebrows pull together, lips tightening. “Goddamn Rumi,” she mutters under her breath, the words sharp with irritation. Her eyes flick to Rumi again, noting the way the demon’s posture is bristling with uncontained power. “Aaliyah, leave,” Mira says, her voice low but commanding. “Now.”

Rumi doesn’t move. She stares at the woman, growling low in her throat, fangs bared, patterns glowing faintly as the heat of her anger pulses beneath her skin.

The vampire laughs softly, a sound that makes the hair on Rumi’s arms prickle. “Oh, you’re protective of her, how cute,” the woman says, stepping closer, her high heels clicking softly against the hardwood. “But do you really think it’s wise to let a demon act like that in your own home. It’s overstepping.”

Mira’s expression hardens. Her lips curl into a snarl as her hands flex by her sides. “Overstepping? You don’t get to mock my friends in my dorm.”

Rumi’s eyes flash at Mira’s warning, the growl deepening as her tail lashes behind her. The apple slips slightly in her hands, but she clenches it tightly anyway, taking a deliberate, unhurried step forward. Her yellow eyes pin the woman, glowing faintly in the early light, patterns pulsing stronger.

The vampire falters for just a fraction of a second. She hadn’t expected Mira to be so bold, to meet her eyes with such a predator’s focus. Her smirk tightens slightly. “Hmph. Interesting,” she says, drawing herself up, but clearly reassessing.

Rumi tilts her head, claws flexing, still tense and defensive. The growl in her chest rumbles, low and dangerous. Mira’s gaze flicks between the two of them, exhaling sharply.

“You heard me. Leave.” Mira’s voice is calm but firm, edged with threat. She steps closer to Rumi instinctively, as if to shield her. The vampire’s eyes flick to Mira, then back to Rumi, sizing the demon up.

“Fine,” the woman finally says, a hint of irritation creeping into her tone. She steps back, deliberately, her glare still sharp and cutting. “But mark my words — she’s manipulating you.”

With that, she turns and strides out of the dorm, high heels clicking over the floor as she leaves, the door clicking shut behind her.

Rumi’s tail uncoils slowly, her claws retracting slightly, though her patterns continue to glow faintly, the hum of her magic still vibrating beneath her skin. She bites into her apple again, needing the distraction, the mundane connection to the human world. Her fangs puncture the crisp fruit, juices running down her fingers, grounding her just enough to stop trembling from the surge of adrenaline and anger.

Mira exhales sharply, muttering under her breath. “What the hell was that about?”

Rumi doesn’t look up immediately. She chews slowly, letting the juice and texture of the apple fill her senses, needing the calm it brings. The patterns under her skin flicker with residual anger, a visual echo of her agitation. Finally, she looks up at Mira, yellow eyes flickering, tail curling tightly around her ankle.

She growls low in her throat, still uneasy, still humming with residual energy, but says nothing. The apple is her shield, her anchor to the world as she processes the confrontation.

Mira steps closer, studying her. “Rumi seriously. What. The. Hell. That wasn’t just rude, that was… intentional.” Her eyes soften slightly, though, betraying concern beneath her irritation. “Are you okay?”

Rumi’s gaze flicks briefly toward Mira, then back to her half-eaten apple. She shrugs subtly, letting the apple’s crunch punctuate her words, a nonverbal “I’m fine” that carries more defiance than explanation.

Mira mutters under her breath, shaking her head, then sighs. “You don’t have to just… sit there and growl. That’s not how we handle things as adults.”

Rumi swallows a bite of the apple, letting the sharp juice cut through the tension in her chest. She can feel the residual hum of her magic fading slowly, but the prickling unease under her skin lingers.

“You alright?” Mira presses again, voice quieter now, but still cautious.

“Are you?” Rumi’s voice echoes back, all bite.

“What?” Mira balks.

“You shouldn’t bring random sluts into our dorm,” Rumi snaps, “It’s rude, and we don’t need to see your concubines sneaking out at dawn each morning.”

“Concubines? Gods, big words Ru. I used a silencing charm, you guys would have been none the wiser if you slept in.” Mira huffs, moving to grab her own coffee.

“We heard you come in last night Mira,” Rumi turns to her, “And I mean it, don’t ever bring someone back here again.”

Rumi glances at her briefly, eyes narrowing, tail twitching once. No words are exchanged, but the silent communication between them is clear: she is not defeated. She is merely annoyed. Guarded. Ready to retreat if needed, but not submissive.

Mira turns toward her own room, muttering softly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset anyone. But don’t bite back like that, someone’s going to take it the wrong way one day,” she says, voice trailing as she disappears behind her door.

Rumi chews the last bite of her apple, fangs glinting in the sunlight now streaming fully through the windows. She swallows deliberately, sets the half-eaten apple down on the counter, and exhales slowly. The kitchen is quiet again, only the faint hum of her magic lingering, a reminder of what she is and what she can become.

She straightens, adjusts the shirt over her shoulders, and quietly pads toward the sink, ready to wash her hands and compose herself for the day.

The hum under her skin fades into a soft, constant rhythm — a reminder that, no matter what, this is her form. Her strength. Her existence. And no one, not even the beautiful, venomous intruder, can take that away from her.

Rumi exhales one last time, setting her jaw, her claws retracting fully. She shifts easily back into her human presenting form, feeling that buzz again as it settles. It feels like a cage again.

~~~

Rumi is perched cross-legged on the couch with a book balanced on her knees. She’s reading quietly, absently tracing lines with her finger, the faint hum of her magic lingering in the air like a whisper.

A soft creak from the doorway alerts her that someone else is stirring. Zoey shuffles out from the warmth of her blankets, hair messy from sleep and eyes still half-closed. She yawns, a small, delicate sound, before pausing mid-step when she sees Rumi on the couch. The demon’s glowing eyes from earlier are gone, but there’s an ease about her now, a quiet strength. Zoey tilts her head, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Without a word, she pads over and climbs onto the couch, curling herself against Rumi’s side. Her head rests against Rumi’s shoulder, warm and soft, and she murmurs something into Rumi’s neck that makes the demon’s patterns twitch faintly.

“Morning,” Zoey whispers, still half-asleep, nuzzling into the curve of Rumi’s neck. Her words are muffled, soft, but Rumi catches the scent that clings to Zoey—it seems stronger today, intoxicating, melon and jasmine that always seems to cling to her, a comfort and a distraction all at once.

Rumi sets her book down on the couch beside her, one hand coming up to rest gently over Zoey’s back. “Morning,” she replies softly, her voice careful, measured, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile calm of the moment. “Did you sleep okay?”

Zoey hums against her shoulder, a low, content sound, before lifting her head slightly to glance up at Rumi. “I… feel off,” she admits, voice small and unsure, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Just… off.”

Rumi’s eyebrows knit together in concern. Her hands shake faintly as she leans down to brush a hand over Zoey’s hair. “You okay?” she asks, tone gentle, coaxing, letting the demon in her still soften slightly under the weight of Zoey’s vulnerability.

Zoey exhales slowly, resting her forehead back against Rumi’s neck. “Yeah,” she murmurs, though her words carry a hint of uncertainty. “I’m fine. I just feel weird.”

Rumi tugs her closer into her lap protectively. “It’s alright,” she murmurs. “We’ll get through today. Do you still want to go into Ashwell?” Her voice is careful, soft, almost hesitant, waiting for the other girl’s answer.

Zoey lifts her head slightly, giving Rumi a small but firm nod. “Of course,” she says, a tiny smile breaking through the lingering unease. “I wanna get more snacks, and go shopping.”

A faint warmth fills Rumi’s chest at the reassurance. She presses a gentle kiss to the top of Zoey’s head without processing the movement. “Good. Go get dressed, then. We can get breakfast in town. I promise it’ll be fun,” she says, a quiet smile tugging at her lips.

Zoey nods again, reluctantly leaving the comfort of Rumi’s embrace to slip back to her room. Rumi watches her go for a moment, a quiet hum of satisfaction settling over her.

The soft creak of another door opening makes her glance up. Mira steps into the living room, the early sunlight highlighting the sharp angles of her pale face and the casual poise she carries. She’s dressed simply—black leggings and a soft, dark top—but her presence is commanding nonetheless. There’s a faint edge of embarrassment in her expression as her eyes meet Rumi’s.

“Hey,” Mira says quietly, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. She shifts slightly, hands tucked into the pockets of her leggings. “Sorry about the whole, bringing someone home last night. I didn’t expect it to be an issue.”

Rumi raises a brow but doesn’t respond, watching her cautiously.

Zoey, returns from her room with a simple set of clothes—a light blue skirt and soft white long-sleeved formal shirt—and immediately climbs back into Rumi’s lap, mumbling against her neck, “It’s okay,” not lifting her gaze to Mira.

Rumi leans her head slightly toward Zoey, brushing her cheek against hers. “You sure you’re okay? You seem extra touchy feely today,” she asks quietly, concerned for her friend.

Zoey shifts slightly in her arms, shrugging faintly. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just a little off,” she says, echoing her earlier sentiments. Her fingers twine loosely with Rumi’s, a silent reassurance.

Rumi exhales softly, squeezing her gently. “Good. Ready to go into town?”

Zoey nods, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.”

Rumi returns the smile, letting go reluctantly. “Alright. You’re still missing shoes though sweetie.”

Mira watches them for a moment, her expression softening. She runs a hand through her half-pigtails, a small smile forming. “You two are cute,” she says quietly. “And can I still come with?”

It’s a peace offering, Rumi sees it for what it truly is. Zoey beams, practically bouncing on her toes. “Yay!” she exclaims, then pauses to glance at Mira. “Thanks,” she says softly, voice almost shy.

Rumi rises from the couch, stretching slightly before heading to her room to change. She pulls on a loose fitting grey cropped shirt, paired with comfortable blue jeans that end just above her ankles. Her hair goes into a neat braid, and she adds a few pieces of jewellery—delicate rings, a small chain necklace—before heading back into the main area.

Zoey appears shortly after, hair tied into space buns, chunky shoes complete her look, giving her a playful, youthful edge. She rushes over to Rumi, lacing her fingers through hers without hesitation, as if that was the most natural thing in the world. It makes Rumi pause for a second, clearly having missed when it became normal for Zoey to touch her so easily. She doesn’t mind, finding it calming in the simplest way.

Mira comes last, dressed in a high neck black muscle top and black jeans tucked into combat boots, her half-up pigtails bouncing slightly as she moves. She glances at Rumi and Zoey with a faint smirk. “Alright, let’s get moving,” she says, voice teasing but light.

The three of them move together through the halls, the ease between them growing more comfortable by the day. Zoey doesn’t release her hold on Rumi, walking with her fingers intertwined with the demon’s. Mira falls into step naturally beside them, the trio forming an unspoken rhythm as they head out the door.

The sunlight outside is bright, casting long shadows over the cobblestone paths leading toward the town. Ashwell lies just beyond the dense tree line, a small village of quaint streets and quiet shops nestled against the edge of Fenric Academy. It’s about a half hour walk if they don’t rush, but the day is too nice to not spend it outdoors, so they enjoy the walk.

The town has a certain charm, cobbled roads and small window boxes spilling with flowers, though the air carries a faint tang of the forest beyond and the magical residue of the academy nearby.

Zoey hums softly as they walk, still attached to Rumi, her touch warm and grounding. Rumi feels the familiar hum of magic under her skin, a low, steady rhythm, not overwhelming but present enough to keep her aware. Mira occasionally flicks her gaze toward them, the corner of her mouth twitching as if suppressing a smile, though her eyes remain sharp, observant.

As they enter the town, the bakery ahead fills the air with the scent of fresh bread and sweet pastries. Zoey’s eyes widen, and she lets go of Rumi’s hand just long enough to press the door open, allowing the warm scent and soft light to wash over them.

They find a table near the window, sunlight streaming across the surface, illuminating the dust motes that dance lazily in the morning air. Rumi sets her bag down, adjusting her posture slightly, while Zoey leans forward, animatedly pointing out different pastries she wants to try. Mira sits back, arms crossed, watching them with a faintly bemused expression.

Zoey nudges Rumi gently. “You’re not ordering? Don’t tell me you’re just gonna sit there like a moody demon queen.”

Rumi huffs softly, biting the corner of her lip. “Sorry. I’m just… thinking,” she says, still adjusting to the warmth of the town, the mundane comforts after the tension of the morning.

Mira snorts, leaning back in her chair. “Thinking, huh? That’s a new one for you. Usually it’s brooding or glaring.”

Zoey giggles, nudging Rumi again. “Come on, it’s breakfast! You can brood later. Get a croissant or something.”

Rumi relents with a small sigh, selecting a warm chocolate croissant and a small cup of coffee. Zoey orders an assortment of pastries, eager to sample everything she can, while Mira opts for a simple black tea and a muffin, her demeanour composed yet relaxed.

As they eat, the conversation drifts easily. Zoey talks about the town, pointing out shops she wants to explore later. Rumi listens, occasionally contributing, her natural reticence softened by the calm morning and Zoey’s warmth pressed gently against her side. Mira comments sparingly but her words carry weight, measured, offering quiet insight or teasing remarks that make Rumi and Zoey laugh.

The morning stretches, sunlight spilling across their table, warming the trio as they settle into an easy rhythm. The streets outside are quiet but alive, townspeople moving with gentle purpose, unaware of the magical beings nestled among them.

Zoey reaches across, tugging Rumi’s hand again. “Promise we can come here again, another week?” she asks, voice soft, hopeful.

Rumi glances down at her, heart tightening slightly. She smiles faintly, squeezing Zoey’s hand. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “We’ll make it a tradition.”

Mira observes them for a moment, lips twitching into the beginnings of a smile. She tilts her head slightly, nodding. “Fine,” she says finally, a note of concession in her voice. “But next time, you two are not letting me hear the whining about early mornings.”

Zoey laughs, leaning closer to Rumi again. “Deal.”

They move on soon after Zoey demolishes an insane amount of pastries, even more than she usually eats. She hums happily as they leave the bakery, her eyes darting around like she’s overstimulated, but refusing to admit it.

Rumi walks with Zoey clinging loosely to her arm, the werewolf’s fingers occasionally fidgeting, thumb brushing over the inside of Rumi’s elbow like she needs the reassurance of touch to keep her steady.

The three of them move from the bakery to the next street, where the storefronts turn eclectic —apothecaries beside bookstores, antique shops beside little herbal stalls. Zoey’s eyes catch on everything, as they always do. She darts ahead to look into windows, pointing out trinkets that glint in the morning light. Her voice is bright, her laughter easy, but there’s something underneath it — a slight delay between her smiles, a flicker behind her eyes when she thinks no one’s watching.

Rumi notices. She doesn’t say anything, but her hands twitches once — restless, uncertain.

The first stop is a tiny bookstore, wedged between a potion shop disguised as a boutique grocery store and a café that smells like pumpkin spice. The bell above the door jingles softly as they step inside. It’s warm, with shelves that seem to lean into each other, books piled high in chaotic but cozy stacks. Zoey lets go of Rumi’s arm just long enough to run her fingers along the spines, humming as she reads the titles.

“Look at this!” she exclaims, holding up a thick, leather-bound book with silver embossing. “‘Myths of the Pre-Ascended Age.’ We could use this for history class!”

Mira snorts, leaning against a nearby shelf. “You mean you could use that. I don’t plan on reading anything thicker than a menu for the rest of my natural life.”

Zoey giggles and sticks her tongue out. “Have fun failing.”

Rumi, meanwhile, picks up a slim book from a display — a collection of translated demon poems from the Fourth Era. Her fingers trace the title absentmindedly. She doesn’t open it, but something about the weight feels grounding. She glances up to see Zoey at the counter, chatting with the clerk as she pays for her find. The cashier, a girl, seems amused by her enthusiasm.

“Zoey talks like she’s trying to fill all the silence in the world,” Mira murmurs beside Rumi, watching her friend.

Rumi hums in agreement, the sound low. “It’s better than silence,” she admits quietly. “But… she seems off right?”

Mira gives a small, knowing nod, her arms folded across her chest. “Yeah. I noticed too.”

They leave the bookstore a few minutes later, Zoey skipping slightly ahead, her new book tucked against her chest. Rumi’s eyes follow her — the bounce in her step is there, but it’s not as carefree as usual.

The next shop they enter is a crystal and trinket store, all shimmering light and soft music. Hanging prisms scatter rainbows across the walls, and incense curls lazily through the air. Zoey immediately gravitates toward a display of pendants, her fingers trailing over the glass.

“Do you think this one would look good on me?” she asks, holding up a tiny moonstone pendant toward Rumi.

Rumi blinks, caught off guard by the softness of the question. “Yeah,” she says after a pause, voice quieter than intended. “It suits you.”

Zoey beams, then turns to Mira. “And you? You’d probably like the obsidian, right? You’ve got that mysterious, brooding vibe.”

Mira grins. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

They end up buying matching pendants — Zoey with her moonstone, Rumi with a deep amethyst that glows faintly, and Mira with the obsidian that Zoey insisted on. As they leave, the sun catches on Zoey’s pendant, casting a soft, white glint across her collarbone.

They wander through a few more shops — an herb vendor where Zoey buys a packet of dried lavender “because it smells happy,” and a candle stall where Mira haggles for a set of enchanted wicks that change scent depending on mood. Rumi watches them with quiet amusement, occasionally nudged into laughter by Zoey’s dramatic impressions of the more eccentric shopkeepers.

Still, between the laughter and the bustle, Zoey’s energy dips now and then. There’s a tiredness behind her eyes, a subtle tremor in her hands when she thinks no one’s looking. Rumi notices every flicker. The demon’s instincts twitch — protective, restless, confused.

At one point, Zoey darts up ahead, spotting a small jewellery stall draped in colourful fabrics. She waves over her shoulder. “You guys are so slow!”

Rumi watches her go, the light catching in her hair, her laughter soft and fleeting in the breeze. Mira slows her pace beside her, falling into step.

Rumi’s gaze lingers on the werewolf. “She’s fading,” she says quietly.

Mira hums, following Zoey with her eyes. “Yeah. Something’s eating at her.”

“She’s usually clingy,” Rumi admits, folding her arms. “But today it’s like she’s scared to let go. Is that… normal? For werewolves, I mean. Are they all that—clingy?”

Mira chuckles, the sound low and amused. “Oh, no. Not even close. Not with other species.”

Rumi tilts her head, curious.

Mira gestures vaguely ahead at Zoey, who’s now chatting animatedly with the jewellery vendor. “That’s one of the reasons she doesn’t hang with the other wolves. They think she’s too weird. Too much emotion, too much touch. Most wolves here are born pack-bred — they know how to separate instinct from attachment. But Zoey? She feels everything, deeply. That’s why she can’t fake it with them. They don’t know how to deal with her kind of heart.”

Rumi frowns slightly. “So they avoid her?”

Mira smirks faintly, leaning closer. “Avoid her? Oh, Rumi. You really haven’t noticed, have you?”

Rumi’s brows furrow. “Noticed what?”

“Oh, Zoey?” Mira lowers her voice, her tone half teasing, half conspiratorial. “Dude, she’s terrifying.”

Rumi blinks, taken aback. “Zoey? Terrifying? She cries during horror movies.”

Mira laughs softly, shaking her head. “Yeah, and she could level the entire campus if she wanted to. I’m not exaggerating.”

Rumi stops walking. “What?”

Mira’s grin widens at her reaction. “You haven’t seen her in full shift yet, have you?”

“No…” Rumi admits, wary now.

“Right. Well, I did. During physical conditioning last week.” Mira crosses her arms, tone turning almost reverent. “She’s the biggest wolf on campus. Massive. Like, full-on ancient lineage level big. She comes from one of the purest bloodlines in the world — direct descendants of the Lunar Circle. And she’s got empathy abilities. Can read emotions. Influence them, even.”

Rumi stares, words caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. “Zoey? Our Zoey?”

Mira nods, grinning. “The same Zoey who trips over her own feet when she gets too excited. The same Zoey who can’t drink coffee without spilling half of it on herself. Yeah. She’s also a powerhouse wrapped in a sunshine smile.”

Rumi shakes her head, muttering, “ZOEY?!” loud enough that a passing old goblin woman glances at her disapprovingly. Mira snickers.

“Yup. That’s why the other wolves steer clear. They can feel her magic. It’s dominant. Old. She doesn’t mean to project it, but they pick it up subconsciously. Makes them skittish.”

Rumi glances back toward Zoey, who’s just paid for a small charm bracelet and is now waving for them to catch up. “That’s… insane,” she mutters. “She’s so gentle. Wait is that why I feel so calm around her? Is she doing that on purpose?”

Mira hums in agreement, her tone softening. “Yeah. That’s the funny thing, huh? The strongest ones never know when they are over using their abilities. She probably doesn’t realise she’s doing it.”

“Holy shit,” Rumi whispers to herself.

They walk the rest of the way toward Zoey, who bounces impatiently on the spot. “Finally! What were you two whispering about back there?”

“Nothing,” Mira says smoothly, brushing past her with a smirk. “Just talking about how terrifying you are.”

Zoey blinks, caught off guard. “Terrifying? Me?” She laughs, a little too loudly. “Yeah, okay. I’m the least scary person in the entire academy.”

Rumi snorts. “Apparently not.”

Zoey squints at them, suspicion flaring in her eyes. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Mira says again, tone innocent but her grin giving her away.

Rumi hides her smile behind her coffee cup. “Just reevaluating a few things.”

Zoey narrows her eyes at them both, but her grin eventually returns. “You two are the worst,” she mutters, though the affection in her tone is unmistakable.

They continue wandering the town — stopping at a potion shop where Zoey insists Rumi smell every single vial (“This one smells like citrus and regret!”), then a clothing boutique where Mira somehow convinces Rumi to try on a deep red jacket that matches the hue of her markings. Zoey claps when she steps out of the changing room. “See?! You look amazing! You’re not allowed to leave without that.”

Rumi groans but ends up buying it anyway. Mira teases her the entire time.

By afternoon, their arms are full of small shopping bags and the air between them is easy again — laughter bouncing between the cobblestone streets and old buildings. Zoey is still a little quieter than usual, her smiles sometimes fading too quickly, but Rumi notices she lingers closer whenever Mira and her drift apart.

They end up back at the fountain in the town square, sitting on the edge with their feet dangling above the water. A group of kids run past, their giggles echoing through the square. The scent of roasted nuts and sugar drifts through the air.

Zoey leans against Rumi again, her head resting on her shoulder. “This was a good day,” she murmurs.

Rumi looks down at her — the girl who apparently could flatten the entire academy if she wanted — and feels something warm twist in her chest. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “It was.”

Mira stretches beside them, tilting her face toward the sun. “Don’t get used to me being sentimental,” she mutters. “But yeah. It was nice.”

Zoey grins sleepily. “See? You like us.”

Mira huffs, eyes still closed. “You’re tolerable at best.”

Rumi chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. “High praise as always Mira.”

By the time the sun dips behind the distant spires of the academy, Ashwell’s cobblestone streets are bathed in amber light. The stalls begin closing, the air filled with the faint crackle of shopkeepers sweeping, laughter echoing from tavern doors.

Zoey’s has been slowing for the past fifteen minutes. Her chatter fades to occasional hums and sleepy murmurs, her grip on Rumi’s arm tightening as though she needs the contact just to stay upright.

Rumi glances down, watching Zoey’s head loll slightly as they walk. “You’re sleepy,” she says softly.

Zoey blinks up at her, eyes glassy. “M’not. Just… comfy.”

Mira snorts from behind them. “You look like you’re two seconds away from face-planting.”

“I’m fine,” Zoey insists, though the words slur a little. She leans harder into Rumi, fingers curling in the sleeve of her shirt. “You’re warm. Like a heater.”

Rumi feels her cheeks heat despite herself. “You’re half asleep on your feet,” she mutters, trying to keep her voice steady. “Come on. Let’s head back.”

The walk from Ashwell to the academy isn’t long — just across the bridge and through the outer gates — but it feels slower tonight. The fog that always lingers near the cliffs rolls in early, brushing over their ankles like ghostly mist. Mira walks slightly ahead, glancing back now and then, eyes flicking between Rumi and Zoey. Her sharp sarcasm has quieted too; she’s watching.

They pass through the courtyard, the marble statues glowing faintly under the lantern light. Rumi shifts her grip as Zoey stumbles again, keeping her upright. “Hey, easy.”

“Sorry,” Zoey mumbles, words muffled against Rumi’s shoulder. “Didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine,” Rumi says quickly, her voice gentler than she means it to be. “You’re okay.”

By the time they reach their dorm building, Zoey’s practically asleep standing up. Rumi gets the door open with one arm and guides her inside, the warmth of the common room wrapping around them instantly. The faint hum of magic from the walls feels oddly soothing after the cool night air.

Zoey sways once more on the stairs. Rumi tightens her grip just in time, catching her before she trips.

“Alright,” Rumi mutters, adjusting her hold and half guiding, half carrying her up the steps. “You’re definitely not fine.”

Zoey mumbles something incoherent into her shoulder.

Mira follows behind, her boots clicking on the steps. “I’ll get dinner started. You two go lie down before she drops.”

Rumi nods, manoeuvring Zoey toward the couch as they reach the upper floor. “Got it.”

The moment Rumi sits, Zoey flops down beside her — then, in the same motion, drapes herself fully across Rumi’s lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Rumi freezes.

Every muscle in her body locks up.

Zoey’s head rests against her chest, her hair tickling Rumi’s jaw. Her hand curls loosely around the fabric of Rumi’s top, the other tucked beneath her own chin. She sighs — soft, content, almost purring in her half-sleep.

Rumi stares down at her, panic flickering behind her glowing eyes. She can hear the steady thump of Zoey’s heart, can feel it through the warmth of her body pressed against her thighs. The scent of her is somehow even stronger than this morning, it fills the space between them like a haze. Rumi struggles not to breathe it in, the smell wafting over her and causing the hairs on the skin of her arms to stand at attention.

“Uh,” Rumi manages weakly. “She… she just… fell on me.”

From the kitchen doorway, Mira’s laughter echoes — low and amused. “Sure she did.”

Rumi shoots her a glare. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting,” Mira says, smirking as she turns toward the stove. “I’m just saying, it’s adorable watching you malfunction like a broken toy.”

Rumi’s glare intensifies, but Mira’s grin only widens.

Zoey shifts slightly, nuzzling closer into Rumi’s neck. Her breath is warm against Rumi’s skin, her voice small and muffled. “S-sorry,” she mumbles. “This okay?”

Rumi swallows, her throat dry. “It’s fine,” she says quietly. “Just get some rest.”

Zoey hums in response — a low, sleepy sound that feels more vibration than word. Her hand curls slightly, holding onto Rumi like she’s anchoring herself.

The tension in Rumi’s body lingers for another few seconds before something inside her eases. She exhales, her hands curling subconsciously around one of Zoey’s legs to pull it high over her lap, securing her to Rumi’s body. Her hands then start to trace idle circles on the back of Zoey’s shoulder.

From the kitchen comes the soft clatter of pots and the smell of garlic and herbs. Mira hums along to some tune under her breath, the domestic sound oddly grounding.

Rumi watches Zoey’s breathing slow. The girl looks peaceful now — all the exhaustion from the day melting away in the soft rise and fall of her chest. But there’s something about her stillness that unsettles Rumi. Zoey’s usually a storm of motion and chatter. Quiet doesn’t suit her.

She shifts slightly, brushing a strand of hair from Zoey’s face. “You sure you’re okay?” she whispers against the skin of Zoey’s cheek.

Zoey stirs faintly, blinking up at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “Just tired. Happens sometimes. My body gets weird when I push too hard.”

Rumi frowns. “Like magic exhaustion?”

“Mhm,” Zoey hums sleepily. “It’s fine. I’ll be okay after I rest.”

But the slight tremor in her voice, the way her pulse flutters faster under Rumi’s hand — it doesn’t sound fine.

Mira appears a few minutes later, wiping her hands on a towel. “Dinner’s gonna take a bit,” she says, eyeing them both. Her expression softens slightly. “How’s she doing?”

“Exhausted,” Rumi says. “She said her magic’s acting up.”

Mira leans against the wall, crossing her arms. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Rumi looks back down at the girl in her lap — at her soft, even breathing, her hand still fisted in Rumi’s shirt. “She should have said something,” Rumi murmurs.

Mira gives a small smile. “She probably didn’t want to worry us. That’s Zoey for you — always trying to take care of everyone else first.”

The kitchen timer dings softly, and Mira straightens. “I’ll get dinner. Try not to combust over there.”

Rumi doesn’t answer. She just keeps holding Zoey, one hand absently brushing through her hair, the repetitive motion soothing them both.

The minutes pass slowly. The room fills with the scent of roasted vegetables and simmering sauce. Outside, the fog thickens against the windows, turning the world beyond the glass into soft, muted grey.

Zoey murmurs something again, her words slurred by sleep. “You smell nice,” she mumbles, so faintly Rumi almost misses it.

Rumi blinks, heat creeping up her neck. “I think you might be delirious,” she mutters.

“Mm. Maybe.” Zoey’s lips curve in a tired smile before her breathing evens out again.

By the time Mira calls them for dinner, Zoey’s fully asleep. Rumi shifts carefully, sliding an arm beneath her and lifting her with surprising ease. She carries her to the table, settling her into a chair before Mira sets down plates of food.

Zoey stirs at the sound, blinking drowsily. “Food?” she mumbles.

“Yeah,” Mira says, setting a plate in front of her. “Eat something before you pass out again.”

Zoey obeys, though she eats slowly, eyes half-lidded. Every few bites, she leans her shoulder against Rumi’s, like gravity itself keeps pulling her closer.

When she finally pushes her plate away, Mira arches a brow. “You’re crashing hard. Bedtime.”

Zoey hums a sleepy agreement. “Yeah…”

Rumi helps her stand, guiding her toward her room. She pauses at the doorway, unsure if she should follow — but Zoey tugs lightly on her sleeve, eyes half open. “Stay?”

Rumi hesitates. “Zoey—”

“Just for a bit,” Zoey murmurs. “Please.”

Mira, from the couch, calls, “Just give in already, little demon.”

Rumi shoots her a glare but follows Zoey anyway. She tucks the girl under her blankets, then sits on the edge of the bed. Zoey’s hand immediately finds hers, fingers curling weakly.

“I’m okay,” Zoey whispers, her voice small and fading. “Promise.”

Rumi squeezes her hand. “I know. Just rest.”

“Hey Rumi?” Zoey mumbles, eye brows drawn together, “What’s the date today?”

“Oh, ugh,” Rumi stutters, “It’s the 26^th.”

“Aw dam it,” Zoey grunts, flopping down onto the pillows.

“Everything ok?” Rumi asks, watching the younger girls face.

Zoey nods, already half gone, and within moments her breathing evens out again. Rumi stays there for a long while — watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, listening to the quiet hum of the warded dorm around them. The worry doesn’t fade, but it softens, replaced by something gentler.

When Mira passes the doorway a few minutes later, she pauses, smiling faintly at the sight — Zoey asleep, Rumi watching over her with quiet focus.

“Yeah,” Mira murmurs under her breath as she walks away. “She’s got you, demon girl.”

Rumi doesn’t hear it. She just sits there, tracing lazy circles over Zoey’s knuckles with her thumb, whispering to no one in particular, “Sleep well, pup.”