Chapter 1
The iron gates of Nocturna Academy groaned open, their sound swallowed by the rustle of robes and the low murmur of returning students. Seraphine Ashbourne stepped out of a sleek black car, her family crest - three ravens circling one another - gleaming above the number plate, an unmistakable declaration that an Ashbourne had arrived.
But there was no welcome party. No wide-eyed first years gawking at her name. Only the familiar cold stone path and the towering arches that led into the belly of the academy.
Like a ghost, she slipped through the crowd with fluid motions, past the nervous excitement of first-years, the warm reunions of juniors and seniors, and the professors already measuring who would impress them or wilt under their authority.
It was a stark contrast to her first year. Then, the mere rumor that an Ashbourne would attend Nocturna had sent ripples of excitement through the halls. Even seniors had been curious. But now, years later, she was forgotten. Her peers had graduated, and her own family had made certain no circle of any race remembered that one of their blood still walked these halls.
Her boots echoed down the corridors. Too many times she had walked this same path.
Her dorm had always been the one constant she could rely on. Unfortunately, even that was taken from her this year. A note hovered in front of her old door, glowing faintly with the academy seal:
Miss Ashbourne, with your new, fresh start at the academy, we thought it best to reassign you with other first-years. You have been moved to Room W-6. Your personal belongings have already been transferred. Please report to your new quarters before curfew.
No explanation. No discussion. No signature.
It reeked of her family’s interference. They didn’t want her with privacy — not after the summer she had. She would have to be wary of spies.
Room W-6 was humid, carrying the briny scent of the sea mixed with something faintly sweet. The door opened before she could knock.
A siren stood there, her pale-green eyes clouded as though permanently glazed.“Oh. Who are you?”
“Your roommate,” Seraphine said, stepping past her.
The siren scoffed. “They promised us it would just be the three of us.”
Inside, two more sirens looked up. One lounged on the bed by the window, eyes narrowing at her intrusion. Another sat on her bed, gaze vaguely apologetic.
“So, do you have a name, roommate?” the siren at the door asked.
“Seraphine. Yours?”
She flicked her long hair over her shoulder. “Lyra.”
The one by the window followed lazily. “Solenne.”
The last one gave a shy little wave. “Mira.”
Seraphine glanced around. The fourth bed had been shoved into the corner, pressed against its desk as if to erase it from the room. Without a word, she dragged it back into place, her suitcases - already waiting in the corridor - thudding onto the mattress.
“That’s our shared space,” Lyra pointed out.
Seraphine ignored her and kept unpacking.
Solenne sighed, loud and theatrical. “Let’s check out the clubs, ladies.” She grabbed Mira’s wrist, dragging her off the bed. The three sirens scattered from the room as quickly as if Seraphine carried a plague.
When she passed the courtyard earlier, it had transformed into a bustling fair of school clubs, each one vying for the attention of new students. Every race had its own: vampires, werewolves, fae, sirens, empaths and psychics, witches and warlocks, and hybrids.
Technically, anyone was welcome at any club. But the unwritten rule was simple: you joined your own kind.
It could be fun, she supposed, joining activities, taking part in weekend gatherings. But after so many years, Seraphine had no interest left. Her few happy memories at the academy were tied to the Crimson Veil, the vampire club. She wouldn’t risk corrupting those rare, fragile recollections.
Unpacking her suitcases felt equally pointless. Had she known she would return again, she wouldn’t have bothered to pack last year at all. It wasn’t much anyway: one formal outfit, a few casual ones, all in dark shades. Anything to avoid bright light against her face.
The sun and vampires were no friends. Too much exposure led to sickness, blistering burns that lingered for days, sometimes weeks. To call it “discomfort” was laughable. The pain was beyond words. Dark clothes were her only shield.
The last thing she unpacked were her books, the same ones she had used five years ago. Pages marked with notes, even a few scribbles from ten years earlier. Her fingers lingered over them, each mark a memory flashing through her mind.
A sigh escaped. She felt cursed, condemned. If she hadn’t been a vampire with such a long lifespan, maybe she could have moved on, as the others did.
***
The following Monday, classes began.
Her curriculum had reset to that of a first-year student. The thought of repeating every course made her stomach twist. To pour effort into them again, for what? She already knew motivation would be the first thing to abandon her this year.
Her first class was Interracial Politics and Diplomacy. At least it was less tedious than Supernatural History and Lineage. Seraphine arrived early and claimed a seat in the second-to-last row. Students trickled in slowly, still dazed from their first week, still fumbling with the castle’s labyrinthine halls.
When heavy, deliberate footsteps approached, she braced for the familiar figure of Professor Valehart. But the man who entered was not him.
Tall, broad-shouldered, in a dark grey three-piece suit, he was a stranger. A new professor. The first genuinely interesting thing that had happened in weeks.
He didn’t speak immediately. He set his satchel on the desk, then wrote on the board in elegant, angular script: Interracial Politics and Diplomacy.
“My name is Professor Thorne,” he said once the room stilled. “This course is about how power is negotiated across bloodlines, how alliances are forged or broken, and how centuries of conflict shape the world we live in today.”
He paused, his sharp gaze sweeping across the class.
“The difference between this and your history lessons is simple: history tells you what happened. This course asks you to understand how.If any of you rise to power, you must know diplomacy and you must know how to counter the human factor, their governments and politics.”
He leaned against the desk.
“Therefore, this is the most important course of the next two years.” Another pause. “You should all be aware we are using a new textbook this term: Political Structures in Magical Societies,third edition.”
He held up the thick, navy-bound volume.
“Has anyone here brought the old edition?”
Seraphine raised her hand. One other student did the same.
“You will need the new one by next class. No exceptions.”
Seraphine didn’t flinch, only lowered her hand. She already knew the material. She had taken this course before. What was the point?
By Wednesday, tension in Room W-6 was sharp enough to taste.
Solenne muttered whenever Seraphine entered. Lyra began “coincidentally” brushing her hair in front of the shared mirror whenever Seraphine needed it. Mira stayed quiet, caught uneasily in the middle.
For all that vampires and sirens were supposed to complement one another, their dorm was the exception. Fire and water. Nothing Seraphine did was perceived well by them.
***
That morning she slipped into class again, the old edition tucked under her arm, sunglasses shielding her eyes from the relentless sunlight. She already missed the nocturnal routine of home.
Professor Thorne surveyed the room. “One last time,” he said, “Does anyone still lack the new edition?”
Seraphine didn’t move.
From three seats away, Lyra raised her hand, her face a picture of sweet innocence. “I think Seraphine still has the old book, Professor.”
Seraphine’s jaw clenched. Gutterfin.
Thorne’s gaze sharpened. “Miss Ashbourne, is that true?”
She looked up slowly. “Yes. But it doesn’t matter. The new edition doesn’t teach me anything the old one hasn’t already taught me.”
A flicker passed over his face, not surprise, but calculation.
“Very well. Then you have two options: submit a two-thousand-word essay by next class on why the old edition surpasses the new, or acquire the proper book. Your choice.”
Her hand curled into a fist, but she held her tongue.
That night, she sat by the dormitory window, the old textbook heavy in her lap. Her fingers traced familiar words, notes written by a younger hand. It felt like another lifetime.
True control lies not in strength, but in obscurity. The power most feared is the kind we pretend not to see.
Outside, the moon rose over Nocturna’s towers.
And Seraphine, as always these last years, was alone.
The cycle had begun again.
A/N: Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think of it!
