Chapter 8 | Marks and Masks | Leah
I sit on the bathroom floor all night.
The water's been cold for ages, steam turning into drops on the mirror, sliding down in streaks that look like some kind of ancient writing. I stare at that foggy mirror, at the warped face looking back at me. The silver scar on my neck gives off this faint glow against my pale skin—two crescent-shaped marks, their edges seeming to pulse like they're alive, each throb sending out these tiny vibrations that feel almost like I'm imagining them.
I scrub at it with my hand. My skin turns red and raw, but the mark stays put. It's not just on the surface—it goes deeper. In my veins, in my bones, in the memory of every cell. Like someone burned a brand straight into my soul.
Bloodbond.
I say the word out loud, and it bounces off the bathroom tiles, sounding like it came from someone else. A Nullblood forming a Bloodbond with a Third-Rank Prince. How forbidden is that in the textbooks? Would they kick me out? Exile me? Or worse—strip away my student status, throw me out to the borders, put me on trial for stealing noble secrets?
I grab the clothes off the floor—his black velvet coat. The dried bloodrose falls out of the pocket, petals breaking apart on the tiles. I stare at it for a long time. The silver glow is completely gone now, leaving only that deep crimson dried-out texture, like blood that's been sitting there too long.
Then I get moving.
Black velvet from under the bed—leftover fabric from last year's Arcanum experiments. I cut it into strips about two fingers wide, line them with thin silver gauze—silver blocks bloodkind scent from spreading, advanced Arcanum stuff. Nullbloods aren't supposed to know this, but I snuck into the restricted section and taught myself. Stealing that knowledge was hard—waiting for the patrol guards to pass, speed-reading under dim lights. Almost got caught a few times, books shoved under my clothes, pretending to tie my shoes while my heart tried to jump out of my throat.
My stitches are tight and even, each one sewn through gritted teeth, like I'm sewing tonight itself into the fabric, hiding it in the dark. This is nothing like my mother's patchwork back in Ashen Row. Her stitches were always crooked, thread ends sticking out everywhere, just like her life—rough, thrown together, barely holding on.
But my neck scarf is better than anything you'd find in a store. Every stitch perfectly spaced, every thread tucked away in the layers of fabric. A skill I learned through countless late nights, scraps of cloth and stolen needles, one stitch at a time.
When the scarf's done, I tie it around my neck. The silver scar disappears, but the warmth stays, like there's this invisible thread running from my neck to somewhere far away, connecting me to someone I don't want to think about. Thin. Hot. Every heartbeat makes it vibrate just a little.
Next is the scent-masking powder. Dragonblood powder mixed with night-owl ash, three parts to seven. I grind them together in a mortar until they're super fine, then sprinkle the powder on the scarf and on the insides of my wrists. The grinding takes forever—you have to get the powders completely blended so they form this film over your skin. Dragonblood powder smells faintly like rust; night-owl ash barely smells like anything. Mixed together, they give off this vibe like an old graveyard.
The blackwood-blood-orange scent gets pushed down, leaving just a faint herbal smell. I sniff my wrist to make sure that panicked scent is gone, then let out a breath. But is it really gone? Or just covered up? If it were a Prince at Kael's level, could he smell through it?
By the time I'm done, dawn's already breaking. Blood-red morning light leaks through the gaps in the curtains, painting a thin line across the floor. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, my fingers unconsciously tracing the scar under the scarf.
Why? Why do I have to hide like I did something wrong?
I saved his life. I made the cure. I risked getting kicked out by going into forbidden territory to save a Prince. And now I have to hide the evidence like a thief, destroy the traces like I'm guilty of something.
Anger flares up, then sinks back down. Because the answer's too obvious: because I'm Nullblood and he's a Prince. Because no one at this academy will believe me—only people like Valeria. Because "Nullblood saves Prince" sounds like a bad joke, not something that actually happened.
Ivy knocks when I'm staring at that strip of light.
"Leah?" Her voice comes through the door, with that usual brightness, but there's worry underneath. "You okay? You didn't come back last night."
I take a deep breath, pull the scarf up higher, make sure there aren't any gaps. Then I open the door.
Ivy stands there holding two cups of bloodrose tea. Steam's still rising from the cups, sweet smell filling the air. Her eyes scan my face—how pale I am, how puffy my eyes are—then land on my neck.
"What's that?" She points at the scarf.
"Allergy." My voice comes out dry. "Got into some shadowmoss during Arcanum. Broke out in a rash on my neck."
Ivy raises an eyebrow. She's Halfblood—her half-human side makes it easier for her to walk around in daylight than Purebloods, and her sense of smell isn't as sharp, but it's still good enough to pick up most scents. I sprinkle another layer of powder on the scarf, my heart pounding like a drum.
"Let me see." She reaches out.
"It's fine." I step back. "Almost healed anyway."
Ivy's hand stops in mid-air. Her eyes—amber, with this sharp quality to them—stay on my face for a long moment. That look is like a precision scanner, going from my forehead to my chin, from the scarf to my fingers. Then she drops her hand and passes me a cup.
"The thing with Lucian," she says. "I heard about it."
My fingers tighten around the cup, the heat burning through the numbness.
"The bet, the bloodrose, the public humiliation." Ivy's voice is calm, like she's reading off an experiment report, but there's something held back underneath. "The whole academy's talking about it. There are at least twenty posts on the hemacrystal communicator discussing it."
"Yeah."
"Where were you last night?"
"Walking."
"All night?"
"Yeah."
Ivy sighs. She comes in and sits on the edge of my bed, patting the spot next to her. The mattress dips under her weight with a faint creak. I hesitate, then sit down.
"Leah," she says, her voice getting softer, like a feather brushing my ear. "You can tell me. Whatever happened."
I look into her eyes. Those eyes hold sincerity, worry, and something else I can't quite name. If I told her everything—the Bloodbond, Kael, the silver scar, the cure I mixed in forbidden territory—what would she do? Help me? Or look at me the way my mother does, with those I knew you'd screw up eyes?
I think about my mother. She always looked at me with this exhausted expression, like just my existence was a burden. Every time I tried to do something, she'd say Stop dreaming, Leah, people like us don't get that. Every time I came home, she'd ask Got any money? instead of How are you doing?
"I'm fine," I say.
Ivy watches me for a long time. Long enough that the steam from the tea starts to fade. Then she reaches out and brushes my hair away from the edge of the scarf, her touch so light it's like she's afraid of hurting me.
"This scarf," she says. "Nice work. But wearing it in summer is going to roast you alive."
"I don't mind the heat."
"You're afraid of being seen."
I freeze.
Ivy pulls her hand back and lifts her own tea, taking a sip. "Your scent changed," she says, her tone flat, but every word hits my heart like a hammer. "There's peach and rust underneath, plus something else."
My blood turns to ice.
"Herbal smell," she adds, those amber eyes searching my face. "Strong herbal smell. You used dragonblood powder and night-owl ash? That combination irritates the skin. And..." she pauses, "that mixture is usually used to mask bloodkind scent."
Relief floods through me so fast I almost collapse. She thinks it's just the herbal smell, not the Bloodbond scent. She doesn't know.
"I'll be more careful," I say.
Ivy looks at me, her gaze lingering on my scarf for another moment. There's something in that look I can't read, like she's making some kind of decision. Then she stands up, walks to the door, and turns around. Morning light from the window outlines her in gold.
"Leah," she says, her voice light but each word hitting my eardrum hard, "your person is still out there somewhere. He's ten thousand times better than Lucian. He'll see you at your worst, not just choose you at your best."
The door closes.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my fingers tracing the edge of the scarf. My person. If she knew my "person" was Kael de Noct, Senior Adjudicator transferred by the Council, would she still say that?
Impossible. So I have to hide. Hide until the mark fades, hide until the scent goes away, hide until tonight becomes a dream I refuse to remember.
But when my fingers touch the scar beneath the scarf, the mark burns. Like a tiny ember buried under my skin that refuses to go out.