Whispering Woods Academy

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Ari

The gates of Whispering Woods Academy loom before me with centuries-old magic crackling, sparking and lashing outward in a way that makes my skin prickle with awareness as the sleek black car I’m in passes through the layers of magic warding the grounds of the massive school.

“You’re going to smudge the glass,” Sage murmurs beside me, but there’s no real reproach in her voice. There never is. That’s the problem with having a best friend who’s also your royal-mandated companion. She’s too good at her job to ever really tell me off.

“Then I’ll smudge the glass,” I mutter back with a shrug even though I pull my hand away and fold both in my lap like the proper Winter Court princess I’m supposed to be. The silver rings on my fingers; gifts from my mother, the Queen, catch the late afternoon light filtering through the ancient trees that line the drive. Everything here is ancient. Ancient trees, ancient magic, ancient rules. I’m so tired of ancient...

The car glides forward, tires crunching over gravel that probably predates my great-great-grandmother, and I get my first real look at Whispering Woods Academy. My breath catches despite my best efforts to remain unimpressed because it’s massive!

Gothic spires pierce the sky like frozen lightning, all dark stone and stained-glass windows that gleam with colors I don’t have names for. Ivy crawls up the walls but not normal ivy. This stuff pulses with a faint bioluminescence, shifting between deep green and ethereal blue. The main building sprawls across the landscape like a sleeping dragon, all wings and towers and secrets. And everywhere... there are people. My stomach does a complicated flip.

I’ve spent twenty-one years in the Winter Kingdom, surrounded by ice and snow and Fae who all look vaguely related to me because, well, most of them are. The paranormal world beyond our borders has always been theoretical. Stories my tutors told. Political alliances my parents negotiated. Names on treaties and trade agreements. Not real. But this? This is devastatingly, overwhelmingly real!

A group of witches clusters near the fountain in the center courtyard, their laughter carrying on air that tastes like autumn and magic. I can see the power zapping between their fingertips as they show off for each other, little sparks of colored light that dance and swirl. One of them has hair that literally flames at the tips; actual fire, burning without consuming. “Close your mouth, Ari,” Sage whispers, amusement threading through her tone. “You’re staring.”

“I’m observing,” I correct, but I do close my mouth for a second before adding; “there’s a difference.”

“Mmhmm,” Sage says in response, but I see the laughter in her eyes causing me to narrow my eyes in defiance. The car rolls to a stop in front of the main entrance, and I watch as a pair of gargoyles. Yes, you read that correctly! Actual living, breathing gargoyles; lumber past, their stone-gray skin catching the light.

They’re deep in conversation, one gesturing wildly with hands that could probably crush my skull without effort. The other laughs, the sound like grinding rocks, and claps his friend on the shoulder hard enough that I hear the impact from inside the car.

My driver, a stoic vampire named Jesse who’s been with my family for decades, opens my door causing sounds of the academy filter in. Voices, laughter and music from somewhere, the rustle of the wind through those strange glowing trees, and the distant roar of what might be a shapeshifter letting off steam.

It smells like freedom. And I’m terrified of how much I want it. “Princess Arista,” Jesse says formally, offering his hand. “Miss Sage. Welcome to Whispering Woods Academy.” After a second of hesitation, I take his hand and step out of the vehicle. My boots; made of practical dark brown leather, not the delicate slippers my mother would prefer; pressing against the ground.

A shudder ripples across my skin because the magic here feels so different from home almost wilder. Less controlled in a sense. It seeps up through the earth and wraps around my ankles like curious cats, testing, tasting, trying to figure out what I am.

Winter Fae, I want to whisper in response. Royal blood. Frozen heart. Dutiful daughter. Prisoner... “It’s beautiful,” Sage breathes beside me, and I glance over to see her eyes wide with awe. Her silver-blonde hair; so like mine but without the telltale streak of ice-blue that marks me as Winterbourne catches the light. She looks younger than her twenty-two years in this moment, and I feel a pang of guilt for all the times I’ve resented her presence. I know it’s not her fault my parents don’t trust me to exist without supervision but still.

“It’s definitely something,” I agree, because I’m not ready to commit to the word beautiful just yet. Beautiful things have always come with strings attached in my experience. Jesse retrieves our luggage; an obscene amount for what’s supposed to be a single semester, but my mother insisted, and a student worker, a lanky elf with pointed ears and kind eyes, appears to help. He introduces himself as Tarien and chatters amiably about the academy as he loads our bags onto a floating cart that hovers at waist height.

I try to pay attention. Honestly, I do. But I’m too busy cataloging everything, everyone, trying to absorb two decades of isolation in a single moment. A vampire girl with skin like porcelain and eyes like blood walks past, arm-in-arm with a Summer Fae whose golden hair literally glows. They’re laughing about something, completely at ease with each other, and I feel something twist within my chest. Envy, maybe. Or longing... What must it be like to move through the world without the weight of a crown you haven’t even inherited yet?

“The dormitories are this way,” Tarien says cheerfully, gesturing towards a path that winds around the main building. “You’re in the North Tower; that’s where most of the Fae students stay. Better insulation for temperature regulation, you know? Though I guess that’s not really an issue for Winter Court.” He grins at his own joke, and I manage to smile back at him. He seems nice. Normal even... like maybe not everyone here will treat me like I’m made of spun glass and political consequences.

We follow him down the path, Sage at my side like always, and I try not to feel like I’m walking towards my own execution. This is supposed to be a good thing. An opportunity. A chance to train my magic properly, to learn from the best instructors in Tenebrosity, to maybe... just maybe, figure out who Arista Winterbourne is when she’s not performing the role of perfect princess.

The path takes us through an archway covered in those glowing vines, and suddenly we’re inside, the temperature dropping several degrees. The hallway stretches out in us; all polished stone floors and walls lined with portraits of previous headmasters and notable alumni. Floating orbs of light drift lazily near the ceiling, casting everything in a soft, ethereal glow.

It’s quieter here; the sounds of the courtyard muffled by thick walls and old magic. Our footsteps echo, and I’m suddenly, acutely aware of how out of place I feel. My clothes; designer, expensive, chosen by my mother’s stylist, mark me as different. The way Sage walks half a step behind me, the perfect companion, marks me as different as well. The silver circlet I wear, thin and delicate but unmistakably royal, marks me as very different...

I’m debating whether I can get away with taking it off when I feel it. A pull. Sharp and sudden, like a hook behind my navel, tugging me forward. My steps falter, and Sage’s hand immediately comes to my elbow. “Ari? You okay?”

“I...” I start to say, but then I see him. He’s walking towards us from the opposite end of the hallway, a stack of books floating beside him with the casual ease of someone who’s been using magic longer than I’ve been alive. Tall; maybe six-two or six-three, with dark hair that looks perpetually disheveled in a way that shouldn’t be attractive but absolutely is. He’s wearing dark slacks and a charcoal button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, professional but not stuffy. And he’s beautiful in the way dangerous things are beautiful.

Even from this distance, I can tell he’s a vampire. It’s in the preternatural stillness of his movements, the pale perfection of his skin, the sense of coiled power that radiates from him like heat from a fire. But it’s his eyes that stop me cold when he gets close enough for me to see them properly. They’re Ancient. That’s the only word for them. Storm-gray and fathomless, holding centuries of knowledge I can’t begin to comprehend, set in a face that doesn’t look a day over twenty. The contradiction is dizzying.

He’s looking down at a tablet in his hand, frowning slightly at whatever he’s reading, and doesn’t notice us until he’s maybe ten feet away. When he glances up, those impossible eyes meet mine, and the world tilts sideways. The pull intensifies, becoming almost painful in its insistence. Him, something in me whispers. That one. Which is insane. Completely, utterly insane. I don’t even know his name.

His steps slow, then stop entirely. The books floating beside him waver slightly, dipping in the air before he steadies them with what looks like effort. His eyes widen fractionally; the only sign of surprise on his otherwise controlled features, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. “Sorry,” he says, and his voice is like smoke and whiskey, rough and smooth all at once. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

The man steps to the side, gesturing for us to pass, but I can’t move. My feet have apparently decided to mutiny, rooting themselves to the stone floor. Sage makes a small, confused sound beside me. “No, I,” I begin to say and then stop, because what am I supposed to say? You’re making my magic do weird things swirly things inside me, and I can’t remember how to breathe properly?

His eyes haven’t left mine. There’s something in them now, a flicker of recognition that doesn’t make sense because we’ve never met. I would definitely remember meeting him! There’s no way I could forget someone who makes the air between us feel electric and dangerous and alive. “You’re new,” he states as his gaze flicks briefly to the circlet in my hair, and something shutters in his expression. “Welcome to Whispering Woods Academy.”

Professional. Distant. Completely at odds with the way his hands have curled into fists at his sides, like he’s physically restraining himself from... what? Reaching out? Running away? “Thank you,” I manage, and I’m proud that my voice comes out steady. “We were just... Tarien is showing us to our dormitory.”

“North Tower,” Tarien supplies helpfully, apparently oblivious to the tension thick enough to choke on. “Princess Arista Winterbourne and her companion, Sage Winterveil.” I watch the vampire’s jaw tighten at the word princess, and something in my chest sinks. Of course. The title ruins everything before anything can even begin. Not that there’s anything to begin. He’s clearly faculty; no student carries themselves with that kind of authority, and I’m a student. A royal student with a companion and a crown waiting for her back home and absolutely no business feeling whatever this is.

“Professor Ashton,” he says, inclining his head in a gesture that’s polite but not quite a bow. “I teach History and the mystery of creation. I’m sure I’ll see you in class.” Professor. Of course he’s a professor. Because the universe has a sick sense of humor.

“I um, look forward to it,” I lie, because I’m absolutely not looking forward to sitting in a classroom trying to focus on history while he’s standing at the front looking like every forbidden fantasy, I’ve never let myself have. His lips quirk slightly, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking, and I feel heat rush into my cheeks. Can vampires read minds? I should know this. I’ve had tutors. But apparently all knowledge has escaped me in favor of noticing the way his rolled sleeves reveal forearms corded with lean muscle and traced with veins.

“Enjoy your first day,” he says, and then quickly walks past us, the books following obediently. I catch his scent as he passes; cedar and night air and something darker, something that makes my Fae magic rise to the surface of my skin in response. I don’t turn to watch him go. I have that much self-control, at least.

“Well,” Sage says after a moment, her voice carefully neutral. “He seemed... intense.”

“He’s a professor,” I say flatly, starting to walk again because my legs finally remember how to function. “Probably just busy.”

“Mmhmm.” I ignore her knowing tone and focus on following Tarien, who’s resumed his cheerful commentary about the academy’s history. Something about the North Tower being built in the 1600s by a coven of witches who wanted to be closer to the stars. I nod in the right places and make appropriate sounds of interest, but my mind is still in that hallway, trapped in storm-gray eyes that saw too much.

All good though, right? Everything is fine... So, I had a moment of... whatever that was... with a professor. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything. I’m here to learn, to grow into my power, to prove to my parents that I can handle responsibility. Not to develop an inconvenient and completely inappropriate crush on a teacher.

The North Tower is, predictably, in the north section of the sprawling academy. We climb a spiral staircase that seems to go on forever, passing doors marked with different names and year designations. The walls here are covered in frost patterns that shift and change as we pass, responding to my presence. Winter Fae magic, recognizing its own.