The bells of Veilborne tolled again — slow, echoing like the breath of a dying god. Another student had vanished. No body, no signs of struggle. Only a single smear of blood down the stairwell, like something had dragged her into the dark.
But life at the Academy went on. It always did.
In the obsidian-tiled lecture hall, arcane runes glowed faintly along the walls, pulsing in rhythm with the instructor's bored voice. Dust motes danced in the air, disturbed only by the occasional flick of a student's quill. Cid lounged in his seat near the back, one leg lazily draped over the other, half-listening as the lecture droned on about curse theory. The professor's words filtered through like smoke — hollow, dry, useless.
Cid's black eyes wandered across the room. He wasn't here for the lessons.
He was watching.
And he wasn't the only new predator in the room.
Across the aisle sat a transfer from the southern branch. Ravyn. Pale skin like moonlight, violet-black curls cascading in deliberate disarray down her back. Her lips were full, lacquered blood-red, and parted slightly as she chewed her pen. Her Veilborne uniform strained against her curves — her corset-tight top barely containing her heavy bust. When she leaned forward to scribble a note, the desk did nothing to hide the smooth outline of her thighs beneath the fabric.
Cid watched her openly, shamelessly. She met his gaze, held it, and slowly dragged her tongue across her lips. A smirk curved her mouth.
"I've heard about you," she said later, brushing past him in the corridor. Her perfume was something floral and sharp — sweet poison. "The white-haired boy who fucks like a devil and walks like death. Tell me, are the stories true?"
Cid stepped into her path, hand sliding to her hip like it belonged there. His fingers dug slightly into the flesh. She didn't flinch.
"Why don't you find out?"
They didn't even make it to the dorms.
The hall beneath the north wing was abandoned — condemned after a ritual had burned out half the ceiling. The air reeked of sulfur and dust, and the walls still bore the blackened handprints of something that hadn't been human. The floorboards crunched beneath their steps, brittle as bone.
Cid slammed her against the wall between two shattered mirrors. His mouth crashed into hers with feral hunger, devouring her breath as his hands worked beneath her skirt. Her legs wrapped around him almost instantly, heels scraping against his back.
She moaned into his mouth, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood.
He yanked her stockings down to her knees and shoved her top aside. Her breasts spilled out, full and begging for his mouth. He took one between his lips, tongue flicking, then teeth grazing the nipple until she gasped, fingers tightening in his hair.
"Fuck," she panted. "You're better than the rumors."
Cid didn't answer. He grabbed her hips, lifted her, and slammed into her in a single, brutal thrust. She cried out — sharp, high, and filthy — her nails raking across his shoulders. The sound of their bodies echoed against the ruined walls, each thrust a thunderclap of need.
He didn't slow.
He didn't ask.
He just took.
She clawed and begged, breaking again and again in his arms. Her cries turned to sobs, then to delirious laughter, until her voice was gone and her legs trembled too much to hold on.
When she finally slumped against him, spent and slick, her breath came in shallow gasps. Her fingers traced lazy, shaking lines along his spine.
"You're dangerous," she whispered. "I like that."
Cid said nothing. He stared at the broken mirror behind her — his reflection cracked into ten thousand shards.
And none of them looked quite like him.
Elsewhere in the academy, Iris stood in the dark, her body pressed into the curve of a forgotten alcove, heart thudding loud enough she was sure someone would hear. But no one did. She'd followed him, like always. Watched him walk away with that slut. Watched them disappear into the condemned hall.
And then she heard it.
The moans.
The cries.
The sound of Cid inside someone else.
It hollowed her out like a blade through the ribs.
Her nails bit into her palms until blood welled beneath her fingernails. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She just stood there, frozen, a statue of fury and obsession.
He's mine, Iris thought. He just doesn't realize it yet.
Ravyn would pay. So would anyone else who dared to touch him. To tempt him. To take what wasn't theirs.
That night, the academy gathered in the Grand Hall for the Blood Oath Ceremony — the ritual that bound each new student to Veilborne's will. Hundreds stood in silence, cloaks rustling, candlelight casting long shadows on their faces. The altar at the front was carved from obsidian, veined with crimson sigils that shimmered faintly like something alive.
Cid stood near the edge of the group. Iris was beside him, too close. Her hand brushed his once. He didn't take it.
To their left, Kael — another transfer, tall, broad-shouldered, a cocksure grin always a breath away from a smirk. His crimson eyes lingered too long on Iris, and he leaned close.
"Nice piece you've got there," Kael whispered. "Think she'd scream louder for me?"
Cid didn't answer. But his smile came slow and sharp, like a knife drawn from its sheath.
The ceremony began.
One by one, students approached the altar, placed their hand on the stone, and let the silver needle pierce their palm. The altar drank greedily, the runes flaring brighter with each new soul.
When Ravyn stepped forward, the flames dimmed.
She hesitated, staring at the stone.
Then pressed her hand down.
At first, nothing.
Then her body jerked — violently. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. Blood spurted from her nose, her ears, her eyes. Her veins turned black, skin bubbling.
Then she exploded.
A blast of gore drenched the altar and the front row. Someone screamed. Another vomited. A third student fainted, crashing into the floor with a thud.
Cid didn't move.
He stared at the altar, at the pool of steaming blood left behind.
There was something in it.
A shadow.
A ripple.
Watching.
Feeding.
Later, Headmaster Veyne addressed the remaining students with calm detachment.
"A magical rejection," he declared. "Uncommon. Tragic. But not unprecedented. Veilborne only accepts those whose blood sings the right song. Dismissed."
The room cleared slowly, students whispering, glancing over shoulders, eyes wide and full of unease.
Cid lingered.
He stared into the blood on the altar — now still, dark, and glistening.
Then he saw it.
His own reflection.
Grinning at him.
Even though he wasn't.