Tamsin leans in. “Welcome to the Undercourt.”
The Undercourt thrums with energy. It’s not orderly like the academy above. Here, the Houses blend, but not in any friendly way.
Blood House students lounge near the pillars, draped in expensive leathers and velvet-trimmed cloaks, eyes glittering like knives. Bone witches cluster in tight circles, whispering under their breath, pale runes flickering across their skin. Fang shifters slouch on the stone steps, sharp-eyed, restless, a little too eager when the magic flares in the pit. Veil fae mages drift along the edges, faces shadowed, cloaks darker than the space should allow. And scattered among them—other students I can’t place. Most keeping to the walls.
Tamsin steers us through with practiced ease.
“Stick close,” she murmurs. “Wrong look here can get you hexed before you blink.”
I nod, heart kicking harder.
Then I see him. Auron. Leaning against one of the rune pillars with two Bloods flanking him. Laughing at something low. His gaze sweeps the crowd—then lands on me. The sneer he throws my way is pure poison. Tamsin catches it too. Her fingers brush my arm, subtle but steady.
“Come on,” she says quietly. “Other side’s better.”
She angles us away, weaving through the shifting crowd. We pass a pair of Bone students arguing over a duel bet, a Veil mage weaving something dark and slow between her fingers. The further side of the chamber isn’t exactly safe, but less Blood-heavy.
Tamsin claims a narrow gap between two broken columns and pulls me in.
“Here,” she says. “Good sightline. Easier to slip out if shit goes sideways.”
I nod, pulse still racing. In the pit, the duel explodes; one fighter slamming a blast of raw energy across the ring. The crowd roars.
She grins, eyes bright. “This,” she says, “is where you learn who really matters.”
The duel is brutal, and Tamsin is completely locked on it.
She leans forward, elbows braced on the stone, eyes tracking every move in the pit. "Watch her," she says under her breath. "Veil mage’s got ridiculous control—see the turn?"
I nod, pretending like I’m absorbing the strategy. But my attention keeps drifting.
At first, I chalk it up to the crowd. The buzz, the shouting, the sheerweightof magic in the air. It’s louder than anything I’ve felt all day. Rougher. Unfiltered. But the longer I stand there, the more I notice something else.
The energy is changing. Not in the pit. In the crowd.
Voices drop. Conversations falter mid-word. Glances sharpen, heads turn and not toward the fight, but toward the edges of the room.
A strange pressure builds behind my ribs. Subtle at first, but growing with each breath. I shift my stance, trying to shake it off. Maybe it’s just the ambient magic. Maybe it’s just me.
But the feeling creeps deeper. The air feels thicker, heavier. Like the space is holding its breath.
Tamsin doesn’t seem to notice. She’s leaning closer to the ring now, grinning as another spell arcs through the air. "She’s going to end this."
I try to focus. I really do. But every instinct in me is screaming that something isoff.
I glance around.
The Blood students, normally all smug smirks and superiority complexes, are stiff-backed and silent, like someone hit pause on their arrogance. Even the Fang shifters are tensing, heads tilted toward the darker edges of the chamber.
That’s when I notice the changes.
It’s not dramatic. No growling transformation montage. No bones snapping or bodies morphing. Just...subtle shifts that feel all wrong.
Ears—longer, furred, and twitching. Eyes catching the torchlight in inhuman golds and silvers. One guy’s smirk shows teeth that are just a little too sharp. Another’s tail—tail—lashes behind him, slow and agitated.
Still mostly human.
Mostly.
