Tamsin plops onto the edge of my bed, kicking one boot off. “Cute plan. Except if you skip tonight, you’ll regret it.”
I sigh. “Why?”
She leans in. “First night tradition. Everyone goes to the Undercourt. The Houses notice who doesn’t.”
I frown. “Undercourt?”
She winks. “Underground duels. Off the books. Don’t worry, you’re not fighting. You watch. Learn. Show face. See who's dangerous.”
Undercourt. Of course there’s a magical fight club that sounds like it belongs in a fantasy fairy world. Sure. Totally normal.
I push upright, wariness flickering. “And if I don’t?”
Her grin turns mischievous. “Makes you a target.”
I rub the back of my neck. “Great.”
Tamsin hops to her feet. “Come on. Meet me by the North Tower in fifteen. Wear something dark. And be stealthy. I’d tell you to use a cloaking spell, but I’m sure you don’t know any, and they are too complex to teach right now. That’s a task for another night.”
I groan again but sit up anyway. I better get dressed. Because if surviving Blackthorn means knowing when to say no, I highly doubt tonight’s the time. I tug on dark jeans, a fitted black shirt, and the plain brown cloak they gave me. It’s not exactly stealth wear, but it’ll have to do.
Hood up. My hair tucked in.
I ease out of the dorm and into the night.
The courtyard is mostly empty, but not silent. Distant voices echo from open windows. The occasional flicker of spell light dances behind drawn curtains. I keep to the edges, steps light, breath tight. Halfway across campus, a pair of students rounds the far corner, laughing. I press flat against the nearest pillar, heart hammering, and wait until they pass.
The North Tower looms ahead. I’m almost there when a new sound prickles my nerves—measured footsteps, heavier. Authority in every step.
A Professor.
Shit.
I flatten deeper into the shadows of a stone archway, barely daring to breathe. My fingers twitch—not with power, just nerves burning beneath my skin. A cloaked figure passes not ten feet from me, cloak rustling faintly. I stay frozen until the steps fade down the hall.
Then I move. Quick and quiet. Tamsin’s already waiting at the base of the tower, hood drawn low. Her grin flashes when she spots me.
“Not bad,” she murmurs. “Didn’t peg you for stealthy.”
“Neither did I,” I breathe.
She motions for me to follow, leading me around the side of the tower. Past the old stone benches, past a crumbling fountain choked with ivy. We stop in front of what looks like nothing but overgrown shrubs. Tamsin smirks, pushes a branch aside, and traces a sigil into the air with two fingers.
The glamoured doorway shimmers into view—an arched opening leading to a narrow stone stairwell winding down into darkness.
Of course. Secret magical staircase in the shrubbery. Totally normal.
“After you,” she says, eyes sparkling with excitement.
I swallow hard but step through. The air shifts; it’s colder and heavier.
Stone walls close in around us as we descend. The sound of distant voices rises with every step. At the bottom, the tunnel widens into a vast underground chamber. The floor is rough stone, cracked and worn. Torches line the walls, flames flickering an eerie blue. The air smells of smoke, sweat, and something sharp and electric. Magic, maybe.
A circular pit dominates the center, ringed by jagged rune-carved pillars. Students cluster in loose groups. House cloaks are gone, swapped for dark streetwear. The mood is electric. Tense.
Spells flicker. Wards hum.
And in the pit, two duelists circle each other, magic snapping between them like lightning in a bottle.
