Chapter 2 | Shattered | Leah
Lucian brushes dust from his shirt that isn't even there, looking down at me from his full height.
Those eyes that used to seem gentle now hold no apology—just a coldness that freezes my blood, the look of someone throwing away a tool they're done using.
"Everything Blake said is true." His voice is flat, each word sharpened to a point and stabbed into my weakest spots. "Last year in the Glasshouse, when I saw the band on your wrist, I knew you were Nullblood. My father's Council seat got cut by a third the month before—Frost support was the only way out. Making a Nullblood fall for me? Even a wild bloodbat could pull that off. Give them a bit of warmth, they'll crawl right toward it. That's instinct, not love."
Someone laughs.
Not Blake—other Adjudicator students who'd drifted closer while I wasn't paying attention. Their laughter catches in their throats, like a bunch of crows feeding on roadkill. My vision blurs at the edges, the hemalume lights breaking into sharp pieces.
"What I didn't expect," Lucian bends down to pick up the bloodrose, spinning it between his fingers. The silver glow traces the edges of his nails like frost, "was how much work you'd put into it. Bloodsilk weaving, distilled essence, hand-written card. If it wasn't for a bet, I might've actually been touched."
He opens his hand. The bloodrose rolls down the step and lands in a puddle.
The puddle is leftover water from hosing down the arena, tinted pink with fight residue, watered-down blood. The petals soak it up, and the silver light dies. Three nights of work. The garbage dump of her heart—now sitting in filth next to thrown-out bandages and broken hemacrystal blades.
"The Bloodmoon Ball," Valeria's voice comes from behind me, dripping with fake sympathy, sugar over poison, "is an ancient tradition started by the Progenitor Queen. Only those with pure enough bloodlines can step onto the central frost-rune circle—painted with my House Frost's own heart's blood. A Nullblood could wear the finest dress and still smell like the gutter."
She nudges the bloodrose with her toe. Petals scatter, floating on the pink water like sinking ships.
She's wearing the white silk gown required by the Noble Etiquette Department, her skirt embroidered with House Frost's frost-rune crest, glittering under the lights. Every stitch worth a fortune, every thread spun by arctic ice-silk worms.
She reaches Lucian's side, linking her arm through his.
Valeria. Academy princess, Pureblood heir of the Progenitor's Third Line, her house holds three Council seats.
She looks down at me, contempt dripping like acid. A rat on the dinner table. A beggar in the palace.
"Do you know why we're called Frost?" Her voice is soft but designed to carry, every word a perfect example from etiquette class, "Because we're descendants of the Progenitor Queen's Third Line, the first blood court built in the frozen north. When the arctic court fell three hundred years ago, my great-grandmother used her own wings to protect the last frost-rune tablet, keeping our bloodline alive. Her ice runs in our veins. And you—" she looks me over, her eyes moving from my gray dress to my Suppressor like she's checking the value of trash, "what runs in yours? Dirt? Sewer water?"
A camera flashes. Someone catches the moment on a hemacrystal phone.
The lens captures my pale face, the bloodrose in the mud, Valeria hanging on Lucian's arm. Laughter comes from everywhere, starting small, then growing, a wave that drowns me.
Someone mimics my voice in a high-pitched squeak: Will you honor me with a dance?
Others talk about betting odds, saying Blake lost money, should've bet more. Someone comments on my dress, asks if the fabric came from Ashen Row's thrift shops.
Lucian's voice comes last, loud enough for everyone to hear. His nails dig into his palm hard enough to bleed, red drops staining his combat manual. His words are a dull knife, slowly cutting the last thread: "You should go. Stop making a fool of yourself."
I turn. The Suppressor screams a warning, the symbols inside twisting like they're alive, burning hot enough to drop me—my bloodline trying to wake up and being forced down.
My feet move on their own. Through the crowd. Through the laughter. Through the pointing fingers.
Blake shouts something else I can't hear.
Valeria's laughter rings like silver bells, each note drilling into my ears and echoing into one long scream. Lucian doesn't follow. Doesn't say another word.
He just stands there, letting it happen.
Like a director, happy with how his show ended.
The steps go on forever. One after another, endless.
The air tastes like rust, same as the arena, but now it smells like blood.
Like my own blood, rotting from the inside out.
Wind rushes past from behind—not normal wind, the air pushed by something moving too fast.
I look back automatically. Just a black blur between the arena pillars, gone before I can focus.
Shadow-glide—body turning into darkness, moving faster than the eye can follow. An advanced technique only thousand-year-old Pureblood Princes can fully master, leaving no magical trace, invisible even to the most sensitive hemacrystal sensors.
A Pureblood-only ability, normally.
But the shadow didn't go near anyone. It passed through the pillars and disappeared into the shadow of the arena dome.
I run past the Crimson Pit, ancient blood-runes on the black stone glowing cold under moonlight.
Those runes record three thousand years of dueling history. Every mark cost a life.
I run past the Hemalume Library, tall stone walls silent as graves, windows glowing warm amber where students study through the night.
I used to be one of them, believing knowledge could change everything.
Past the announcement board, the poster "Unauthorized Embracing Bill: Up for Vote" flapping in the night wind, edges torn by countless hands. The bill is pushed by Valeria's father, designed to take away Nullbloods' right to be Embraced—without Pureblood permission, we can't even become blood-servants, left to rot in Ashen Row dirt.
Past the Glasshouse, glass dome glowing with fake moonlight, deep red petals in full bloom.
Same as last year when I got bullied. Same beauty. Same lack of care for human suffering.
Every flower mocks me.
Their roots drink the Glasshouse's best soil, soak in the purest light, while I'm not allowed to touch them.
My reflection flickers across the glass. Pale. Twisted. Red-rimmed eyes like a cornered animal. The silver scarf came loose at some point, showing the faint bite scar underneath—a wound from a crazed vampire three years ago. The doctors said it was normal tissue. But under moonlight it glows the same silver as the rune-carved walls. The Suppressor shines under the moon, the number clear.
Seventeen. Vane. Nullblood.
How dare they.
The thought comes up with strange heat. Like someone lit a fire in my chest, burning away the last bits of self-pity.
When Valeria took Lucian's arm and called herself the Progenitor Queen's Third Line, her pride burned my eyes. How dare she? How dare she crush me with empty superiority? How dare she use someone's heart as a betting chip and smile while announcing the winner?
But I hate myself more. Hate the me who got excited when Lucian offered his coat. Hate the me who spent three nights weaving Bloodsilk. Hate the me who saved every polite smile as proof. Hate my stupidity. Hate my greed. Hate that I dared to believe—dared to believe someone could see me instead of my collar.
My legs finally give out. I collapse onto the stone path.
Knees hitting cold stone, pain sharp as a slap to wake me up.
The anger dies out. What's left is exhaustion.
Fat tears hit the stone, moonlight turning them into broken hemacrystals. Palm flat on the ground, gravel digging into skin, warm liquid cooling on cold rock.
The distant bell rings seven times. The Bloodmoon Ball is tomorrow. My three nights making the bloodrose, my year of gentle moments, my maybe he's different—all a bet. And the prize was a heart I'd never given anyone before.
Lucian didn't even try that hard. He gave me a coat, said three sentences, then watched like a scientist as I willingly handed my entire heart to his betting table.
The year's memories flash through my mind. His crouched figure. The coat's warmth. Don't let them see you cry. All an act. His grip on the bully's wrist wasn't about justice—Blake was watching, checking on the bet. He learned my name not because he cared, but because he needed to identify his target. His help at the library was planned because he knew my schedule, creating fake "coincidences" to move the game forward.
Every tender moment, a rehearsed line.
The wind shifts. Arena noise fades, replaced by wind howling through stone. A strange smell drifts from far away—deep, thick, bitter blackwood mixed with sweet blood-orange. It makes my Suppressor shake hard, the symbols inside twisting like living snakes, hot enough to rip off—bloodline resonance, only triggered by direct Progenitor blood. Nothing like the academy's usual bloodrose perfume; older, more dangerous, like something locked away for ages waking up. I lift my head, automatically looking for where it's coming from.
The Forgotten Walk's pillars stand silent under moonlight, ancient guards. Academy forbidden zone. They say the Progenitor Queen's relics are there, her heart's blood sealed in the depths—three hundred years ago House Frost tried to steal them, and seventeen high-ranking vampires turned to ash. Council blood-oath since then: trespassers lose their bloodline. Students dare each other to survive one night inside. No one ever has.
The path is less than fifty steps from where I'm sitting.
I push off the wall. Knees still shaking.
Behind me, noise continues—someone copying my voice, others talking about bet details. Each word a knife in my back. The laughter spreads on the night wind, mixing with bloodrose smell into thick, choking poison.
I walk toward the Forgotten Walk. Slow steps. Clear direction.
Night wind pours down my collar, cold as ice. With every step, Lucian's voice plays again. It never mattered.
Never mattered. Never mattered.
I clench my jaw, nails digging into my palms, using pain to drown out the sound.
Everything behind me falls apart. I just need somewhere to break.