CH- 32

CH- 32
Aria POV

There’s no academy seal nor the Headmistress signature on it.
Just a new sigil…
One I’ve never seen.
But that pulses—
like it’s watching me.

\=============

The gates of Blackthorn creak open, and the cold rushes in like judgment.
A sleek black limo waits beyond the wards—elegant, rimmed in silver, and too still. At first glance, it could belong to any wealthy aristocrat. But look too long, and the illusion cracks.
The wheels don’t touch the ground.
The driver’s face is glamoured into featureless blur.
And instead of headlights, soft white sigils pulse across the hood like eyes.
Magic, dressed up in technology.
Traditional bloodlines love to pretend they’re evolving.
They’re not.

My boots crunch on the gravel as I step toward the limo, one duffel bag in hand. Inside it: clothes, a brush, and the letter that shouldn’t exist.
Blood Moon Week is supposed to be a break.
A week of release.
But not for me.
The Headmistress made that clear before I left:
“Your bond state is unstable. You’ll remain on campus under surveillance.”
So when this letter appeared—unsigned, unsealed by Blackthorn’s mark—I expected them to burn it.
They didn’t.

They just handed me my bag and said, "Your guardian has requested you. You're excused."

Requested. Not invited.

Inside the limo, it smells like rosewood, leather, and a faint undercurrent of iron.
I sit without speaking.
Next to me: Lysandra Vale.
My mother’s half-sister.
The only living family I’m supposedly allowed to see.
Her beauty is glasslike. Sharp. Untouched by time. Her nails are red. Her gaze, unreadable.
And she hasn’t said a single word since I stepped in.
I try not to stare, but every few seconds, I glance at the window, half-expecting to see the world I remember—gas stations, cities, kids with phones.
But the view outside shifts.
Like someone’s filtering reality.
I don't know what's worse—the glamour, or the idea that it might not be one.

“Where are we going?” I finally ask.
Lysandra’s lips curve faintly. “Home.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” she agrees. “It’s not.”

The drive lasts too long. My limbs ache from sitting. The silence stretches so tightly, I feel like I might break from the weight of it.
Finally, the limo slows.
The gates that rise before us are wrought-iron laced with obsidian and thorns—just like the wax seal on that letter.
The house beyond them looms like it was carved from shadow.
Not old.
Ancient.
But not crumbling. Not forgotten.
Preserved, like something dangerous kept beneath glass.

\=====================

Inside, the mansion is silent.
Not quiet.
Silent.
Like no one’s spoken here in a century.
No paintings. No TV. No clocks. Just high ceilings, black wood, and the faint shimmer of runes along the walls.
There’s no sign of tech. No Wi-Fi. No signal.
I check my phone—an old one I kept hidden in my drawer since arriving at Blackthorn, now tucked in my coat pocket.
No bars.
No time.
No access.
Figures.

Lysandra leads me up a winding staircase to a room on the second floor. Its door is carved with a symbol that matches the sigil burned into the letter.
My sigil throbs the moment I cross the threshold.
The room is too clean. The bed too white. There’s a mirror above the desk, but it doesn’t reflect properly. My face lags behind my movements.
And the key she leaves on the desk is silver.
Why would I need a key from the inside?

“You’ll rest here,” Lysandra says, voice smooth. “Eat. Recover. No wandering past the second floor.”
“Because I’m not allowed?”
She shrugs. “Because it’s not safe.”
“For who?”
Another smile. “For either of us.”

After she leaves, I strip down and sink into the bath, hoping the water might soothe something inside me.
It doesn’t.
It smells faintly of myrrh and… blood.
Not enough to be alarming.
Just enough to make me wonder if it’s meant to awaken something.

I skip dinner.
The silent, red-eyed servant leaves a tray on the desk, but the food gleams too perfectly—glamoured meat, maybe. Or something worse.
My stomach grumbles, but I don’t trust it.
I lie in bed, aching, the silence pressing against my skull like a curse.
And when sleep finally comes—
He finds me.

The third.
The silver-eyed man who doesn't belong to my world.
Not Blackthorn. Not the academy. Not even this house.
But me.
He walks from a black forest, barefoot, mouth stained crimson, his hands etched in runes that flash in rhythm with my heartbeat.
He speaks without speaking.
“They made you beg.
I make you burn.”
I try to run.
He catches me in an instant.
Lays me down like something sacred.
Like something already his.
His mouth finds mine.
His palm presses to my thigh.
And I wake up—

Gasping.
Wet with sweat.
Heart hammering.
And when I throw back the sheets, I see it—
Burned into the soft inside of my thigh.
Not Lorien’s mark.
Not Sebastian’s.
His.
Black. Silver. Sharp like a blade.
Still glowing faintly.

A knock at the door.
I scramble to pull the covers back up.
The knob turns.
Lysandra steps in, her crimson heels clicking against the dark wood floor.
She looks me over once, eyes narrowing—then widening slightly as she sees the sigil.
But she doesn’t gasp.
She smiles.
Cool. Knowing.

She walks to the bed.
Sits gracefully.

Then leans in close, dragging a crimson-tipped nail down my bare leg, just short of the mark.

“You should be proud,” she says softly.

“Why?”

“Because you’ve done what no girl in your bloodline has survived.”

I swallow hard. “And what’s that?”

Lysandra leans in until her breath brushes my ear.

“You’ve awakened him.”