Kael awoke to the dull ache of a splitting headache, the remnants of last night's journey pressing against his temples like a vice. Streaks of crimson light filtered through a narrow slit in the heavy drapes, painting the simple bedchamber in a blood-colored glow. He blinked, disoriented, and sat up. The room was sparse: a narrow cot with a threadbare blanket, a small wooden desk scarred by centuries of use, and a single window overlooking the courtyard below. The air felt thick, like someone had wrapped invisible chains around his lungs. He slid off the bed and rubbed his eyes, his mind still clouded by half-remembered fragments of Headmaster Varn's words: "There are those who will hate you. Those who will try to kill you… You are the last living heir of the Crimson Moon bloodline."
Kael stared down at his hands, willing the memory to make sense, but it felt distant, like someone else's dream. The weight of the letter in his pocket seemed heavier than a bag of stones. He clenched his fist, feeling the paper crumple under his fingers. He had come here a stranger, unsure and frightened. Now, the sting of uncertainty had blossomed into something darker: responsibility.
Taking a deep breath, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. His bare feet met cold wooden planks, and he shivered. He padded across the room to the window, yanking aside the drapes. Below, a dozen students milled about in the courtyard, each dressed in the academy uniform: black blazers trimmed in silver, white collared shirts, and crimson ties that matched the academy's sigil. Some wore long coats that whispered against the wet cobblestones; others carried ornate walking sticks as if they were extensions of their own limbs. Their eyes were as varied as the creatures of legend—emerald green, molten gold, pitch black, and blood red.
The courtyard itself was a sprawling, open square paved with obsidian stone, slick from the morning's rain. Gargoyle statues lined the perimeter, perched atop stone pillars, their wings outstretched as if guarding unseen secrets. At the far end, a grand staircase of jet-black marble led up to the main academy building—a towering structure of gothic spires, arched windows, and carved reliefs depicting wolves, bats, and serpentine beasts locked in eternal combat.
Kael swallowed and turned away. He had to get dressed. But what did someone of his station—an outsider, a nobody—do in a place like this? With trembling fingers, he unzipped his tattered hoodie and slipped into the academy uniform folded neatly on the small chair beside the bed. The fabric felt finer than anything he'd ever touched: soft wool, impeccably tailored. The blazer's lapels bore an intricate silver embroidery of the academy's sigil—a crescent moon wreathed in thorny vines. He slid into the white shirt, buttoning it with fumbling urgency, and straightened the crimson tie as best as he could. He'd never known how to tie a tie, but memorized a quick knot from a dusty book he'd once found in a corner library. It was lopsided, but he pushed back the disappointment. No one here would expect perfection on his first day.
At midday, the courtyard buzzed with conversation. Kael stepped out of his chamber and descended the narrow staircase to join the other students. He moved as unobtrusively as possible, head lowered, hoping to blend in. But a hush rippled through the crowd as he emerged onto the slick stones. Eyes, pools of luminescent color, turned to gauge him. He felt their scrutiny like knives. Whispers rose and fell: "Who is that?" "I've never seen him before." "He looks… human." The word "human" hung in the air like a poison.
Kael's heart hammered. He focused on the ground, pretending not to care. Each step echoed underfoot, the sound swallowed by the towering walls that hemmed in the courtyard. Ahead, a cluster of students formed a semi-circle, as if drawn by some magnetic curiosity. Kael's throat went dry. He walked faster, the hem of his blazer flapping as he hurried toward the long set of tables arranged under a vaulted portico. He could smell the aroma of hot porridge, freshly baked bread, and something sweet—perhaps spiced peaches. Students filled silver trays, their expressions ranging from bored indifference to gleeful anticipation. Kael swallowed. He had never seen so much food in one place, let alone such exotic offerings.
Taking a deep breath, he sheepishly approached the nearest tray. A tall boy with ash-grey hair and eyes like storm clouds looked up. "What house are you in?" the boy asked, his tone laced with polite curiosity.
Kael blinked. "I… I haven't been assigned yet."
The boy's expression flickered into amusement and disdain. "They said we'd all be sorted before breakfast. So why are you still wandering?"
"No one ever told me," Kael muttered, cheeks flushing. He didn't want to sound pathetic, but his voice trembled nonetheless.
The ashen-haired boy tilted his head. "You're pretty late, for a first-year," he said. "Most of us knew our schedules days ago."
Kael's fingers brushed his pocket, feeling the letter's jagged edges. "I arrived… late."
"Sure," the boy said with a smirk. He turned away, leaving Kael glaring at his back.
A nearby girl with bat-like wings—folded carefully along her spine—gave Kael an unnerving smile, baring slightly sharpened canines. "Don't mind him. Ashen's just bitter he didn't get the top spot in last semester's blood duel."
Kael's stomach dropped. Blood duel? He closed his eyes briefly, recalling the word "survive" from Headmaster Varn. What had he gotten himself into?
He grabbed a bowl of thick oatmeal and a hunk of honeyed bread, carrying them to an empty spot at a long wooden table. Two seats down sat a girl scribbling furiously in a leather-bound journal, her pen moving in furious loops. Her hair was a deep auburn, cascading in waves down to her waist; her eyes, a striking amber flecked with gold, darted nervously. As Kael approached, she glanced up.
"First day?" she asked softly, pushing a wisp of hair behind her ear.
"Yeah," Kael replied, placing his tray down. "You?"
She nodded. "I'm Mira Rowen. Third-year. You look like you could use a friend."
A pang of gratitude filled Kael, but he forced a neutral expression. "Thanks. I'm Kael Valen—first-year."
"Good luck," she said with a sympathetic smile. She returned to her writing, the quill scratching against parchment.
Kael sat and ate in silence, trying to shrink into his seat. He listened to the murmurs around him: talk of upcoming classes, whispered gossip about powerful bloodlines, and speculation over who would win the Black Thorn Cup—an annual competition pitting vampires, werewolves, and other supernatural beings in a display of raw power. Blood dripped from the fanged mouths of two first-years across the hall, their eyes glowing under the flickering torchlight. Each bite they took from fresh meat was deliberate, ceremonial. Kael swallowed hard, glancing away.
Suddenly, a loud gong echoed through the courtyard, startling everyone. Students looked up as a woman's voice boomed from the walls: "All first-year students to the Grand Hall. Seek your House crest beneath the vaulted ceiling and accept your robes. Delay will be punished."
He rose, ignoring the last part. Everyone streamed toward a massive wooden door at the back of the courtyard. The door swung open to reveal the Grand Hall—an immense chamber that made Kael's heart freeze. The ceiling arched so high he couldn't see where it ended; crystal chandeliers shaped like floating moons cast a pale radiance over the sea of polished stone floor. Banners in crimson, silver, and onyx hung from the balconies where upperclassmen peered down, their gazes sharp as knives.
Kael followed the herd inside, wading through a throng of bodies until he found a narrow gap. At the base of the hall, three robed figures stood on a raised dais: two were slender, robed in deep black trimmed with silver embroidery, and the third—a woman—wore crimson robes with a hood pulled over her head. The hood hid her face, but she stood taller than everyone around her, exuding an air of unspoken authority.
One of the black-robed figures—a pale man with jade-green eyes—spoke. "Welcome, first-years, to Crimson Moon Academy. Here, you will learn to control powers you never knew you possessed. You will forge alliances with the mightiest of your kind. You will face challenges that will break you… or make you whole."
A kumite of whispers trickled through the crowd. Kael's heart pounded. He felt the weight of hundreds of eyes on him, each assessing him, labeling him, deciding if he belonged.
The white-haired figure stepped forward. "It is time to reveal your Houses." She raised her hand, and the tapestries above began to glow. One by one, symbols formed: a silver wolf howling beneath the moon; a black bat with outstretched wings; a crimson serpent coiled around a silver dagger. Under each banner, a ten-foot circle of alchemical runes shimmered. The first-year students exchanged uncertain glances as the headmistress continued.
"Step into the circle that bears the sigil you feel drawn to. Within these circles, your blood shall speak. Revelations will follow. Be warned: false houses will not survive."
Kael scanned the banners, feeling anxiety twist inside him. What if I step in the wrong circle? Already, he felt like he didn't belong. The thought made sweat bead at his brow. His gaze darted among the three circles: House Duskvale (the bat), House Viremont (the serpent), and House Aethermoon (the wolf). He'd heard whispers—House Duskvale was home to regal vampires; Viremont to blood mages; Aethermoon to werewolves. Which one should he choose? None of them were his.
He stepped toward the center, hesitating at the edge of the Viremont circle. A sudden chill ran down his spine. The serpent's sigil seemed to snake toward him, beckoning. He swallowed and stepped inside. The moment his foot crossed the rune, a blinding light erupted beneath him. He felt his chest tighten, something deep and ancient stirring in his veins. The runes flashed with a violent fury, colors shifting from silver to red, then to black.
The others stopped moving, eyes widening as the red light centered on Kael. The headmistress's voice cut through the roar of colors: "Heir of the Crimson Moon…" The other robed figures exchanged glances. Kael felt as though his blood had gone ice-cold. Flames licked at the corners of his vision, yet he couldn't look away.
Then, as quickly as it began, the light snuffed out. Kael collapsed to one knee, chest heaving, mind reeling. The circle's runes dimmed to a gentle silver glow. Students behind and around him murmured in confusion.
"Is he...?" one student whispered.
"Bloodline's unstable," another muttered.
Kael struggled to his feet, vision blurring. He felt weak, trembling, as if the world had tilted on its axis. He gripped the edge of the circle with shaking fingers. The serpentine sigil on the floor beneath him pulsed with an otherworldly energy, as if acknowledging him.
A hush settled over the Great Hall. The headmistress, hooded in crimson, raised a slender arm. "He belongs to none," she intoned, voice echoing like distant thunder. "He carries the mark of the Crimson Moon." Her words were barely a whisper, but they resounded through every silent corner of the chamber.
Gasps and startled whispers filled the hall. Kael's eyes widened, and uncertainty turned into dread. No. No, this can't be happening. He looked up to see the crimson-robed figure step forward, unveiling her pale features. Eyes like polished onyx fixed on him, and lips curled into a half-smile that sent a thousand shivers down his spine.
She approached the dais, moving with the grace of a predator. As she climbed the steps, the light caught her cheekbones, revealing skin as smooth and pale as moonlit ivory. Her hair was a waterfall of midnight black, cascading over her shoulders like silken smoke. Every step she took made the flickering chandeliers sway, as if they dared not disturb her path.
When she reached the dais, she glanced at Kael, and the world seemed to shrink around him. Her complexion was flawless, yet there was an undercurrent of danger in her gaze. A vampire princess, no doubt. Surely one of the most powerful students at the academy. Her presence exuded both elegance and lethal power.
"State your name," she said, voice low but carrying through the hall.
Kael's throat felt constricted. He couldn't speak. He managed a trembling, "K-Kael Valen."
She tilted her head, as though studying him. "You have secrets, heir."
The words struck Kael like ice. He stepped back, trying to find breath. "I… I don't know what you mean."
Her lips curved into a knowing smile. "Do not deny your blood. It recognizes its own." She paused, then turned to the headmistress. "He will wear crimson robes. He will be neither wolf nor serpent. He is his own house."
A ripple of astonishment moved through the assembly. The headmistress nodded, her expression inscrutable. "So it is decided. The Crimson Moon Heir claims his heritage. Let all who doubt him cower before the legacy of old."
With a final glance at Kael—dark, calculating, unnervingly intimate—the vampire princess swept back up to her position on the dais and vanished behind the velvet curtains. A gust of cold air followed her retreat, and the hall seemed to exhale, releasing its tension all at once.
Suddenly, orders bellowed from the steps. "Line up. Crimson Moon House, this way!"
Kael moved as if in a daze, following the headmistress's assistants toward a hidden passage behind the dais. Students parted, eyes wide with shock or envy or open hostility. A daemon with curved horns stepped aside, sneering. A slender vampire boy with scarlet eyes watched Kael's every move, as if waiting for him to stumble. When they reached the passage, the headmistress turned and locked eyes with Kael. "Walk tall. But do not show weakness. The world will test you at every corner."
Kael nodded, though unsure if he'd heard her correctly or merely dreamt it. The corridor led down a flight of spiral stairs to an underground chamber, vaulted in black stone. Racks of crimson robes lined the walls, each bearing the same silver-embroidered crescent-thorn sigil. The assistants handed Kael a robe, and he slipped it on. The fabric was warm against his skin, almost alive. As soon as the hood settled over his head, he felt a surge of energy ripple through his bones, as if the robe recognized him, accepted him.
He followed the other Crimson Moon initiates—none of whom he recognized—out of the chamber and onto a narrow balcony overlooking another courtyard. This one was smaller, lit by torches that flickered like dancing souls. Here, the initiates waited while the headmistress addressed them in hushed tones.
"Welcome, heirs of the Crimson Moon. You stand in the House of Blood, where only the strong and the cunning survive. Do not think your blood alone will keep you safe. On these grounds, you will face challenges beyond your imagining—fights in the arena, tests of magic, and trials of loyalty. Remember: the prophecy is awakening. Your lineage is not merely legacy—it is a beacon and a target. Guard your secrets, or they will consume you."
She paused, eyes sweeping the group. Kael felt her gaze settle on him. He flinched under her scrutiny and took a step back, nearly tripping over his robe. The other initiates smirked or shook their heads—some muttered, "Poor human." Kael swallowed his indignation and straightened his shoulders, determined not to show them he cared.
From above, the sound of snapping jaws cut through the air. Kael looked up to see a squad of silver-armored guards escorting a scrawny boy—no older than Kael—toward a raised platform in the center of the courtyard. The boy's robes were torn, and his face was stained with tears and blood. The courtyard floor had been carved with a great circular rune, a glowing symbol like a spider's web beneath the torchlight. A hush fell over the witnesses as the young boy was forced to stand in the center, panting, one arm raised as if pleading for mercy.
One of the guards stepped forward and held up the boy's arm. "Betrayal is not tolerated in Crimson Moon House," the guard said harshly. "Your whispers against the headmistress, your dealings with the rebels—they seal your fate." With that, the guard drew a curved dagger that gleamed like a drop of blood. Kael's stomach twisted as he realized what was coming. The boy's eyes met his for a fleeting moment—one look pleading for help, the next resigned to death. Kael fought the urge to close his eyes, but couldn't tear his gaze away.
The executioner raised the blade. In a swift motion, the boy's arm was severed, and blood arced through the air. He screamed—a sound of pure agony that burned Kael's eardrums long after the boy's body collapsed to the rune's edge, twitching. The courtyard erupted into applause—a brutal cheers that echoed against the stone walls. Kael's vision blurred; his breathing came in ragged gasps. He turned away, mind reeling. This was survival? This was what the headmistress meant by "tests beyond imagining"? Cold fury and dread coiled within him like a serpent.
Suddenly, a firm hand gripped his shoulder.
"Breathe."
Kael snapped around to find Mira Rowen beside him, her amber eyes wide with horror, voice tight. "I'm sorry you had to see that," she whispered. "I tried to move, but no one leaves Crimson Moon House without the headmistress's permission."
Kael's chest tightened. "That… that was murder."
She nodded, eyes glistening. "It's tradition. You'll learn to look away. Or become harder than stone."
Before Kael could respond, a commanding voice rang out from above. "House Crimson Moon, follow me to your dormitories. Breakfast is over."
He stumbled down the stairs with the other initiates, each of them exchanging nervous glances. The halls echoed with the clatter of polished boots. They arrived at a small courtyard ringed by arched windows. A single door stood open, revealing a dimly lit vestibule. The assistant bowed curtly, gesturing for the group to enter.
Inside, rows of narrow beds lined either side of the chamber, each separated by crimson curtains meant to provide privacy. A single lantern hung from the ceiling, casting a pale light over the rustic wooden floor. The air smelled of damp earth and old spells. Kael's assigned bed was at the far end, nearest to the window. He laid his robe carefully on a small hook beside it. The other initiates claimed the beds closest to the door, leaving him isolated.
Kael closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath. I have to get stronger. Faster. He thought of last night's letter, of the power that had awakened when he first stepped into the circle. He could feel it throbbing in his veins like a heartbeat of its own. Yet at the same time, his body ached, as though some part of him hadn't fully recovered from the ritual. I can't be weak here. He thought of the severed arm in the courtyard—of the boy's pleading eyes. He wore his new crimson robes like a heavy mantle, aware that these people would test him, perhaps kill him, to prove their own worth.
He moved to sit at a small wooden desk by the window. Drawing in a deep breath, he opened the letter again, hoping to find some comfort. The pale parchment felt strangely cool under his fingers, as if it remembered the blood it once carried. He scanned the words for hints, but found only promises of "home" and "second chance." What kind of home was this—where bloodshed was entertainment?
The lamp on the desk flickered, and Kael felt someone's presence behind him. He turned to see Seraphina Duskvale stepping into the room, her robes sleek and flowing, a faint silver glow clinging to her like moonlight. She paused at the threshold, surveying him with those onyx eyes. Kael felt an involuntary shiver. She moved forward, her boots silent on the wooden planks, and stopped less than a foot from him. He swallowed.
"You're the new heir," she said, voice low and smooth. "I watched you at breakfast. The way you winced when the boy was… tested."
Kael's mouth went dry, but he forced himself to stand. "It was cruel."
She inclined her head slightly. "Cruelty is a test. A necessary one. It shows who can look past weakness and embrace destiny."
Kael frowned. "Destiny?"
Her lips turned up in a faint smile, but her eyes remained unreadable. "You carry old blood. My House has known of you since word spread. Some see you as a threat. Others… an opportunity."
Kael felt anger flare, but masked it with calm. "Why approach me now?"
"Curiosity," Seraphina replied. "Your power is rumored to be unique. Forbidden magic, they say."
Kael's heart thudded. He'd never revealed anything of his abilities. How could she know? "I don't know what you mean."
Her gaze sharpened. "Do not lie to me, heir. Our kind see more than mortal eyes ever could. But"—she paused, as if choosing her words—"I am not your enemy. Yet."
Before Kael could respond, she turned and drifted toward the door. At the threshold, she paused and glanced over her shoulder. "Beware House Viremont. Their leader—Damon—seeks to dismantle any who claim the Crimson Moon name. Stay strong."
Then she was gone, leaving Kael alone in the half-lit room. He sank back onto the stool, chest heavy with conflicting emotions: awe, fear, pity, and a spark of hope. If even Seraphina had seen something in him—magic worth her attention—maybe he could survive here. Maybe, in time, he could claim his place among the legends whispered in these halls.
---
The first lesson of the day was "Blood Arts," held in one of the largest classrooms Kael had ever seen. The chamber's walls were inlaid with seams of crimson crystal that pulsed with every heartbeat in the room. The desks were arranged in a semi-circle around a raised podium, where Professor Ebonhart—an elder vampire with silver hair braided into intricate knots—stood waiting. His eyes, a silvery blue, seemed to glow with centuries of knowledge.
The students filed in, sitting in seats according to their House. Kael took his place among the other Crimson Moon initiates, glancing around at their faces. Some bore confident smirks; others harbored masked suspicion. At the far end of the room, Seraphina sat beside Damon Viremont, a pale boy whose eyes burned like embers. His sharp jawline and lean muscles spoke of aristocratic pedigree. Damon gave Kael a fleeting, contemptuous glance, then returned his attention to the professor.
When everyone was seated, Professor Ebonhart cleared his throat. "Welcome, first-years," he said, voice echoing in the crystalline hall. "Today, you will learn to awaken and control your blood. Blood is more than sustenance for our kind—it is the very essence of power. To manipulate it is to command life and death itself."
The professor raised his hands, and a faint red mist began to swirl above his podium. He dipped his gloved fingers into the mist, pulling out a single drop that hung suspended above his palm. "Observe."
With a flick of his wrist, the drop shivered and multiplied, forming tiny blood tendrils that writhed like living serpents. Students gasped, leaning forward. The tendrils expanded, weaving into shapes—a snarling wolf, a coiled serpent—before dissolving into vapor.
Kael's heart raced. He had never seen anything like this—not in dreams, not in nightmares. Somewhere deep within him, something stirred in resonance. He clenched his fists, drawing the crimson robes tighter around his shoulders as if to contain the power thrumming beneath his skin.
Professor Ebonhart continued, pacing before the semicircle. "To begin, place your right hand over your heart and concentrate. Call out to your blood." The professor's voice was gentle, yet its authority was absolute. Kael hesitated, glancing at his classmates. Some knelt, hands over their chests; others smirked as if the exercise was beneath them.
He forced himself to kneel, heart pounding so fiercely he thought it might burst. He closed his eyes and pressed his hand over the beating mass beneath his ribs. He inhaled deeply, willing his breath to slow, willing his mind to clear. Thoughts of childhood, of empty stomachs and sleepless nights, flashed across his vision like a slideshow of regrets. He pushed them away. Focus.
He imagined the crimson that had spilled from so many—his ancestors, perhaps—pulsing through his veins. A tendril of heat began to wind around his sternum. It felt alive, as though it remembered the rituals of old. He whispered a single word—unfamiliar, rolled on his tongue like smooth stone. Sanguis. Immediately, a fierce warmth spread from his chest to his fingertips, and his palm tingled with an electric hum.
His eyes snapped open. Above the podium, the crimson crystal seams flared, and a single drop of blood drifted into the air. It quivered, then elongated into a thin thread, spinning faster and thicker until it resembled a living whip of red energy. Students gasped. Damon Viremont's eyes widened in alarm. Seraphina's gaze sharpened, intrigue flickering across her face.
Professor Ebonhart nodded slowly, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Well done." He guided the crimson whip into a spiraling dance above his hand, then swept it into the copper brazier beside him, where it disintegrated into motes of light. "You, heir, possess rare talent. Do not squander it."
Kael's body trembled, heart racing. He rose to his feet, fighting to steady himself. He felt exposed—as though the entire room had peered into his soul.
"Sit down," the professor said kindly. "We will continue tomorrow." With that, he swept behind the podium and vanished through a hidden door.
Whispers erupted around the room. Some students stared at Kael with envy; others with thinly veiled hostility. Damon Viremont sprang from his seat and pushed a vial of blood across the desk. "You got lucky," he sneered. "Next time, try not to embarrass yourself in front of everyone."
Kael remained silent, clutching the crimson robes at his collar. Damon's words were poison, but beneath them lay the bitter taste of fear. He's afraid of me. The thought chased away Kael's panic, replacing it with a cold determination. He met Damon's gaze, silent challenge in his eyes.
Before Damon could retort, a melodious voice rang out from the back of the hall. "Damon, control yourself."
Seraphina strode forward, her presence commanding immediate respect. The tension in the room crackled like lightning. Damon stepped aside with a grudging nod, while the other students cast uneasy glances at Seraphina. She approached Kael and laid a single hand on his shoulder. Her touch was cool, steadying him.
"Damon's threats mean nothing," she said quietly, though the volume carried through the hall. "Remember that." She straightened and turned to the students. "Class dismissed."
Kael stood rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on where Seraphina had been moments ago. He felt her weight leave his shoulder as if a gentle breeze had lifted her away. He realized that half the initiates had already filed out, leaving him alone with Damon, who stared at him with barely concealed rage.
Damon's jaw clenched. "You may have talent," he spat. "But I will make it my mission to see you fail." With that, he stormed past Kael and out into the corridor.
Kael exhaled a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He ran a hand through his hair, mind racing. I'll show him. He felt Seraphina's words echo in his ears: "Remember that." Those simple words felt like a promise—an unspoken bond, perhaps. But why would the vampire princess show him mercy? Because she saw something in him. Something precious.
---
After class, Kael sought Mira Rowen in the courtyard. He found her seated on a moss-covered bench beneath a twisted black oak whose branches reached skyward like claws. Her hair was loose now, cascades of auburn framing her face. She scribbled in her journal, lips pursed. When she looked up and saw him, she stood quickly.
"How did it go?" she asked, noticing the sheen of sweat on his brow.
Kael shook his head. "You have no idea." He sank onto the bench beside her, running a hand through his still-damp hair.
Mira studied him, concern softening her features. "Your blood… was all over the academy. People talked. Heads turned. Everyone's curious."
He sighed. "And that's just today."
"I know it's overwhelming," Mira said, closing her journal and tucking it into her satchel. "But you have friends. And I'm one of them. Don't forget that."
Kael nodded, gratitude warming his chest. "Thank you. I don't know what I'd do without someone on my side."
Before Mira could respond, a bell tolled, echoing across the grounds. "Lunch," she said. "I'll meet you in the Great Hall."
Kael rose and followed her through winding corridors. As they walked, he passed classrooms where he glimpsed chanting students practicing runic magic, dueling duos slashing at each other with ethereal blades, and libraries filled with ancient tomes that glowed with arcane energy. Every turn revealed another marvel—and another threat. A squad of armored guards marched by, bearing the severed arm of the boy from the morning on a silver tray. Kael looked away quickly, stomach churning.
The Great Hall was empty now, tables cleared. In its center stood a single long oak table set with copper plates and goblets. Students from all Houses filtered in, forming small clusters. Kael spotted Mira and made his way over. She waved him to a seat between two girls—one a vampire with porcelain skin and ruby eyes, the other a lithe werewolf whose ears twitched as she sniffed the air.
"Mira, this is Selena Nightshade," Mira said, introducing the vampire. "And Luna Fenris," she added, nodding toward the werewolf. "Girls, this is Kael Valen."
Selena offered a polite nod. "Welcome to Crimson Moon House," she said, voice like the rustle of silk. "Your blood is… interesting. I look forward to learning more."
Kael's cheeks burned. "Thanks," he mumbled, taking a seat.
Luna crouched down, resting her chin on Kael's shoulder. "I smell fear…and blood," she said, sniffing. Her eyes glinted with mischief. "But that only makes you stronger."
Kael forced a small smile. "Glad to know I have a reputation."
Selena poured crimson wine—nonlethal, diluted with silver salts—into three goblets. "Drink. It helps steady the nerves."
Kael took a sip, wincing at the metallic tang. He glanced around, noticing that students from the other Houses stared at him with a mixture of awe and jealousy. He realized that even during a simple meal, his presence altered the balance of power.
As they ate—a stew of roots and mushrooms, thick bread smeared with salted butter—the conversation turned to upcoming events: inter-House duels, the Harvest Moon Ball, and the annual Blood Moon Ceremony. Kael nodded along, but his mind wandered. How do I fit into this world, exactly? He thought of his former life in Ebonreach, where the harshest struggle was finding food. Here, the struggle was far more complex—bending blood to one's will, forging alliances with predators, surviving brutal tests. Am I ready?
Luna leaned in and whispered, "Don't let them intimidate you. They'll come for you, but you can stand your ground." She reached out and patted his hand. "If you need backup, I'm here."
Selena raised an eyebrow. "A werewolf backing a vampire heir? This is interesting."
Luna shrugged. "Things change under the crimson moon."
They finished lunch in relative silence, each lost in their own thoughts. When the last of the copper plates was cleared, Kael rose. "I—I need some air," he said, walking toward the courtyard doors.
Mira followed. "Everything okay?"
Kael closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. "I thought this day would be about books and classes. I didn't expect…" He gestured back at the Great Hall. "Everything."
Mira nodded sympathetically. "It's a lot. But remember—knowledge is power here. Keep learning, keep growing."
Kael smiled. "Thanks, Mira." He paused. "Do you think I can survive here?"
Mira didn't hesitate. "You have to. Your blood demands it." She placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "And I believe you'll rise above. You're stronger than you know."
Her words bolstered him like a shield. He squared his shoulders and returned to the academy buildings, determined to face whatever came next.
---
Kael's next class was "Combat Arts," held in a vast arena carved into the heart of the castle. The entrance was guarded by twin gargoyles of obsidian, their stony wings unfurled. Inside, the ceiling soared high above, crisscrossed by iron beams and suspended stands where spectators could watch duels from above. The floor was a labyrinthine grid of raised platforms, wooden barriers, and shallow pools of water. Torches flickered along the walls, casting long, jittering shadows that danced like specters.
When Kael entered, half the students were already here—some practicing footwork, others sparring with magical daggers. The scent of sweat and ozone hung thick in the air. At the far end stood a tall woman in leather armor, her dark hair tied back in a tight braid. She stood beside a clearing orb: a swirling sphere of light that illuminated the center of the arena.
"Line up!" she barked, voice slicing through the chaos. "First-year initiates, report!"
Kael joined the line, his heart pounding as he surveyed the other recruits. Each bore a weapon—a whip imbued with crimson energy, a pair of silver gauntlets, a set of enchanted throwing knives. Kael's stomach knotted as he realized he had nothing. They handed him a standard issue dagger, its blade polished to a mirror shine but otherwise unremarkable.
"Here is your blade," the instructor said, tossing it to him. "It will do for the moment. Begin by practicing your stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent slightly, dagger at chest level. Move when I signal."
Kael forced himself to adopt the stance, though his grip on the dagger felt awkward. The other students stared, some with bemused smirks. Damon Viremont was nearby, testing the edge of his own blade with a glint of arrogance in his eyes.
The instructor raised her commanding staff. "On my count… three, two, one… Begin!"
Immediately, the arena erupted into motion. Students lunged at dummies, slashing and thrusting with feral intensity. Kael took a deep breath and forced himself forward. The wooden platform felt slippery beneath his feet. He advanced toward a practice dummy—an effigy shaped like a hunched monster—its arms outstretched as if to grab him. His first swing was clumsy; the dagger barely nicked the dummy's shoulder, leaving a shallow groove. The impact rattled his arm, and he staggered backward to catch his balance.
He noticed Seraphina stepping into the arena toward a tall vampire boy twice his size. The lights dimmed as the clearing orb focused on them. Seraphina's dagger—sleek, curved with a hilt shaped like bat wings—gleamed. Her posture was relaxed, almost languid, as if she were merely going for a stroll. The vampire boy, hungry for glory, charged at her with a roar. Seraphina didn't flinch. When he reached her, she twisted with fluid grace, letting his momentum carry him past. He crashed into the barrier behind him as Seraphina flicked her wrist, and a crimson blade of condensed blood shot from her dagger like a spear. It struck the boy's chest, and he collapsed in a heap, panting and clutching at the hilt lodged in his armor. Silence fell over the arena.
Kael's breath caught in his throat. Seraphina moved to the fallen boy and withdrew the dagger with a practiced pull, blood dripping from its tip. She wiped it on his robes without a second glance, then returned to the edge of the platform and sheathed it with a quiet flourish. The instructor nodded approvingly. "Lady Duskvale, impeccable as always."
Applause rippled through the arena, mingled with gasps. The defeated boy clambered to his feet, reddening with humiliation, and fled the platform.
Kael's pulse raced. He forced himself to continue practicing, swinging at the dummy with renewed determination. Each strike was clumsier than the last; he tasted blood when a glancing blow from a floating brick slit his lip. He tasted something darker—embarrassment. The other students snickered.
"Come on, Valen," Damon called out from behind him. "Is that the best you've got?"
Kael ground his teeth. He refused to rise to the bait. He forced himself to focus on the instructor's next command. "Pair off! One shall attack, one shall defend." Damon eyed Kael with vicious delight and singled him out. "You," he said, nodding dismissively. "Let's go."
Kael squared his shoulders and stepped forward, dagger raised. Damon closed the distance in two long strides, dagger extended. The air crackled with anticipation. Kael braced himself, mind empty of fear, focusing on the heartbeat beneath his ribs. He felt crimson warmth pool in his palm. He swallowed the panic and planted his feet.
Damon's dagger slashed downward. Kael raised his own blade to parry, but Damon's strike was too fast. The metal bit into Kael's forearm, sending a fresh line of crimson down his sleeve. He winced but held. He countered with a swift upward slash. Damon's wrist cracked beneath the impact, and he dropped his blade, staggering back in pain.
Surprise flickered in Damon's eyes, quickly replaced by fury. He grabbed a spare dagger from his belt and lunged. Kael sidestepped, rolling on the damp floor, and lashed out with a sweeping strike that clipped Damon's shin. Damon staggered, losing his balance, and fell onto the floor mid-duel. Gasps rose from the sidelines.
Before Kael could press his advantage, the instructor's voice boomed: "Duel ends—Valen wins!" The gavel-like strike of her staff against the platform echoed through the arena. Kael stood there, chest heaving, as Damon scrambled to his feet, glaring at him with venomous rage.
"You—lucky bastard," Damon spat, blood trickling from his lip. He stormed out of the arena without another word.
Kael offered no triumph. His arm throbbed with pain, but his heart swelled with something he hadn't felt in years: confidence. He had stood his ground. He had won. Yet, even as the applause washed over him, he felt eyes burning into his back—curiosity, envy, resentment. The instructor nodded toward Seraphina, who watched from above.
She inclined her head once as if acknowledging his victory, then turned away to speak quietly with Damon at the barrier. Kael felt a flicker of pride, but it was tempered by the realization that his entrance into this world marked him as both a beacon and a target.
---
Later that evening, dusk settled over Crimson Moon Academy like a shroud. Torches flared to life, casting trembling shadows along the corridors. Kael returned to the dormitory, cleaning and bandaging his forearm with a rough linen cloth. Mira was already there, perched on her bed, reading a thick tome bound in scorched leather.
"How was Combat Arts?" she asked, glancing up with a knowing smile.
Kael flexed his fingers. "Painful, but… satisfying."
Mira raised an eyebrow. "I saw you. You bested Damon."
Kael shook his head. "I got lucky."
Mira closed her book. "Luck has nothing to do with it. You were focused. You believed in yourself."
Kael felt a flush of gratitude. "Thanks. It felt… strange. For the first time, I didn't feel powerless."
Mira's expression softened. "Here, power is everything. You'll need it if you're going to survive."
They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, listening to distant murmurs of other students. The courtyard beyond the window was silent, save for the occasional howl of a werewolf practicing her pouncing on a phantom opponent and the low hum of magical wards being tested.
Kael closed his eyes, thinking of Headmaster Varn's prophecy, of Seraphina's cryptic warnings. I am alone in this world. Outside, the wind rattled the shutters like skeletal fingers. He stood and walked to the window, staring out at the moonlit courtyard below. The clouds parted to reveal the moon—a swollen crimson disk hanging low in the sky, bathing the academy in its eerie glow.
A soft rustle behind him made him whirl around. The door was slightly ajar. Kael slipped away from the window and moved cautiously toward the entrance. He peeked into the hallway, but it was empty. Every corridor branch looked the same—dark, silent, riddled with shadows. He stepped out, heart pounding, driven by an inexplicable pull. Something in the blood thrummed like a bell, guiding him.
He wandered down winding passages, descending a spiral staircase until he reached a locked iron door set into the stone wall. A faint red glow seeped from its edges. He placed a hand on the cool surface, and to his astonishment, it swung open.
Inside was a circular chamber carved from black obsidian. At its center sat an enormous crystal disc—a bloodstone mirror, rumored to show not one's reflection, but one's destiny. Surrounding it were runic inscriptions that pulsed with a gentle crimson light. Kael stepped inside, drawn to it. His breath caught as he recognized whispers of ancient blood magic in the carvings. He extended a shaking hand toward the mirror's surface. The moment his fingers touched the glass, ripples coursed across it like a dark pond. Slowly, an image formed.
Kael saw himself—older, standing atop a throne carved from bones beneath a blood-red moon. His eyes glowed with the same crimson hue that flickered in the mirror. Around him knelt legions of vampires, werewolves, and horrors too monstrous to name. Yet his posture was not arrogant; it was solemn, as if burdened by the weight of command. A flash of memory slid through the vision: a woman's face—his mother? Her lips stained with blood, whispered, "Protect our legacy."
The vision faded, and the mirror's surface stilled. Kael stumbled back, chest pounding, as if someone had squeezed his heart. He stared at the mirror, mind reeling. This is my future? Every instinct screamed that such a fate was far beyond him—a farm boy thrust into a world of predators. Yet, seeing himself on that throne… it felt inevitable. The weight of his bloodline pressed on his shoulders like a suit of armor too heavy to bear.
A soft sigh echoed behind him. He spun around to see Seraphina standing in the doorway, arms folded, watching him with a mixture of pity and respect. The crimson mirror's glow painted her face in eerie light. Kael's heart stuttered.
"You shouldn't be here," she said, voice a whisper that felt louder than any shout.
Kael swallowed, stepping defensively between her and the mirror. "I could say the same of you."
She took a step forward, her gaze fixed on his. "You saw it."
He didn't answer, eyes flicking to the mirror's smooth surface. The memory of the throne haunted him.
"I knew you would," Seraphina said softly. "It calls to you, doesn't it? Your blood, your destiny… It's all laid bare."
Kael shook his head. "I'm not ready for this. None of this."
She moved closer, the hem of her robes brushing against the cold stone floor. "Readiness is an illusion. Destiny finds you whether you like it or not."
"The prophecy… the mirror… they show me as something I can't be." He turned back to the mirror, face pale. "A king? A tyrant?"
Seraphina's gaze softened. "A ruler commands respect and fear in equal measure. It is not tyranny to protect your people. But be warned: the lines between ruler and tyrant are thin."
Kael's fists clenched. "Then how am I supposed to survive this place, let alone lead an army?"
Seraphina stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on his cheek. Her touch was cool as marble, yet it brought a warmth that soothed the ache in his heart. "Learn. Grow. Do not let them break you. I will help you—if you let me."
Kael met her eyes, searching beneath that mask of timeless grace. He saw something—understanding, perhaps compassion. Something that said she believed in him, even if he didn't believe in himself.
"I… I don't know if I can trust anyone here," he whispered.
Her ebony lashes fluttered. "Trust is a risk. But loneliness is a curse. Choose wisely."
With that, she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing down the corridor until he could hear them no more. Kael remained frozen, the weight of her words and the vision heavy on his mind. The mirror's glow dimmed to a faint ember as the runes around it quieted. He realized then that he stood at the edge of a precipice: one wrong step, and he might be lost forever to the darkness within.
---
Kael spent the rest of the evening in restless half-sleep, dreams haunted by visions of crimson skies, armies of monsters, and his own hands stained with blood. The moon shone brightly through the window, bathing his chamber in an unholy radiance. He woke before dawn, mind still tangled in prophecy and possibility.
He dressed slowly, fingers trembling as he laced his boots. He thought of the day ahead—classes, challenges, enemies. He thought of the mirror's vision and Seraphina's promise. A spark of determination flared within him, overshadowing the doubt. He was Kael Valen, orphan of Ebonreach. The blood of a fallen clan pulsed through his veins, ancient and potent. He would learn to wield that power, or die trying.
As he stepped into the corridor, the first light of dawn crept around the corners, illuminating a tapestry where a crimson moon hung over a battlefield drenched in blood. Kael paused, fingertips brushing the embroidered hem. The words beneath it read: "Under the Crimson Moon, kings rise and empires fall."
Kael straightened and walked on, shoulders squared. Whatever lay ahead—house rivalries, blood duels, betrayals—he would face them. Because he was not just any first-year. He was heir to a legacy that refused to be silenced.
And under the crimson moon, he would rise.