InkHeartThe academy gates are black iron spires, sharpened to points that tear at the perpetually gray sky. I clutch the strap of my bag, the cracked pleather digging a familiar groove into my shoulder. The air inside the walls is different—cleaner, but with an undercurrent of ozone and something metallic, like the taste of a bloodied lip.
Obsidian Moon Academy. My pack called it an opportunity, a way to settle a debt with a rival. I knew the word for a sacrifice when I heard one.
Dorm room 2B is at the end of a hall paneled in wood so dark it seems to drink the light. The door is already ajar. I push it open and the scent of rosewater and cloying perfume hits me, a chemical sweetness that fails to mask the territorial musk of Alphas.
Three girls are inside. Two of them, a blonde with violet eyes and her dark-haired echo, occupy the room’s only plush armchair and the space around it, a silent throne room. The blonde, Camille, is polishing a small, wicked-looking silver dagger. The other, Brina, watches her with rapt attention.
The third girl is perched on the edge of a simple cot that must be mine. She gives me a small, hunted look. “You’re Aria?”
I nod, my throat tight.
“I’m Milla,” she whispers.
Camille looks up from her blade, her movements slow and deliberate. “Did the wind blow in some trash?” Her violet eyes assess my worn boots, my patched jacket, the faint scent of pine and damp earth that clings to my clothes. The smell of my home.
Brina snickers, a thin, imitative sound. “It’s the scholarship case. From the Timberwood pack, wasn’t it? I hear they’re practically feral out there.”
My cheeks burn. I drop my bag beside the cot. It lands with a soft, pathetic thud. “Sorry,” I say, the word tasting like rust. “I’ll try not to shed on the rug.”
Camille’s lips thin. She sets the dagger down and rises, gliding toward me with a predator’s unsettling grace. The air crackles around her, a pressure that makes the hairs on my arms stand up. She brushes past, her shoulder deliberately knocking into mine, and the force of her lineage is a physical blow that makes me stumble. Brina follows, shoving me harder as she passes.
When the door clicks shut behind them, Milla lets out a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry. She’s… she’s from one of the founding lines.”
“I figured,” I say, rubbing my shoulder. The words are ash in my mouth.
“Just try to stay out of her way,” Milla advises, her eyes wide and serious. “Out of everyone’s way.”
The assembly hall is a gothic cavern, all vaulted ceilings and stone arches. The sheer density of werewolves packed inside makes the air feel thick and volatile. I stick close to Milla, keeping my eyes on the floor, trying to follow her advice.
Then a hush falls over a section of the crowd. The pressure in the room intensifies, coalescing around a single point. I look up toward the stage where a group of students sit behind the faculty. In the center is a young man with hair as black as chipped obsidian. Prince Ronin. He isn’t watching the Headmaster speak; he’s staring into the crowd with an unnerving stillness, his gaze seeming to pass through people as if they were smoke.
Even from across the hall, the weight of his presence is suffocating. It’s a physical pressure against my sternum, a silent command to submit.
Headmaster Valerius finishes his speech about legacy and honor, then steps down. The faculty files out of the hall, and the heavy oak doors are pulled shut with a definitive thud. A low murmur ripples through the student body as the air shifts, growing taut and dangerous.
“What’s going on?” I ask Milla.
“The welcome,” she whispers back, her face pale. “Don’t move. Don’t look at anyone.”
A group of older students, their shoulders broad with the easy dominance of established Alphas, moves into the center of the hall. They walk through the crowd of new students, their movements casual, their eyes searching. One of them, a thick-necked boy with a cruel smile, grabs a small, terrified-looking girl by the arm. She makes a choked, whimpering sound.
He drags her into the open space. “New tradition,” he announces to the silent hall. “We need to test the new stock. See who breaks.”
Laughter, low and ugly, ripples from the upperclassmen. The girl trembles, sobbing openly.
My blood runs cold. I can’t tear my eyes away. This is happening in front of everyone, and no one is moving. My hands clench into fists at my sides.
“Don’t, Aria,” Milla’s hand clamps onto my arm, her nails digging into my skin. “This is how it is. You get involved, and you’ll be next.”
I look toward the stage. Prince Ronin is watching now. His expression is one of detached curiosity, as if observing an insect. For a split second, his gaze sweeps the crowd and locks with mine. There is no smirk, no amusement. There is nothing. Just a flat, cold acknowledgment that he sees me, sees the horror on my face, and that it is utterly insignificant. He is a god, and we are mortals bleeding on his altar.
He looks away.
The Alphas start dragging the sobbing girl toward a side door. Her pleas echo in the cavernous space before the door slams shut, cutting them off. A chilling silence descends.
Milla’s grip on my arm is painfully tight, her voice a ghost of a whisper in my ear. “That’s the first lesson. Keep your head down. Don't ever let them see you.”