“Yes, to all of your questions. As Princess Raven just said, I’m going to teach you about the signs that a male is your mate.” She turns and presses a button. A whiteboard drops down with a mechanical whir. “Does anyone know the first sign?”
Thorne raises her hand, and Samara acknowledges her with a nod. “He feels like home.”
“A feeling of warmth and safety is one of the key factors of the initial tether. What else?” Samara’s yellow eyes sweep the room. Another female mentions that he leaves presents for his intended.
“Very good. Has anyone received presents from a potential mate?” Three other females besides me raise their hands. Samara has each girl describe what they received before her attention turns to me.
“The first present was six matched throwing knives with carved bone hilts.” I can still feel its perfect balance in my hands. “The second was seashells and sea glass—two of my favorite things to collect.”
Samara nods, her smile warming her reptilian features. “All potential mates must make themselves known to the female’s father. He must prove he’s worthy of the daughter by whatever trial the father puts him through.”
I shake my head and look down, pulling out the piece of sea glass to examine its smooth edges. The blue seems deeper now, like ocean depths. “Dad is so going to kill him...”
“Shhh...” Thorne silences me, her hand covering mine with gentle pressure. The warmth of her touch is comforting.
Samara continues for the next hour, but all I can think about is my father’s legendary temper and what he’ll do to my mate when they meet. When class finally ends, I hug Thorne goodbye, breathing in her familiar vanilla scent, then spread my wings and take to the sky.
The wind beneath my wings clears my head as I soar toward Shadowcarve. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. Several minutes later, I land in the stone courtyard with a soft thud, and immediately I feel the shift. Here, within these ancient walls, I’m not just another student. I’m Princess Raven, daughter of Willamina, and every student knows it.
My spine straightens as I fold my wings against my back. The familiar weight of expectation settles around me like armor, but it doesn’t feel heavy—it feels right. This is my domain, my inheritance. The shadowsseem to bend toward me, welcoming me home. I can feel the power thrumming through the fortress walls, recognizing my bloodline, acknowledging my place.
A group of second-year initiates pause in their sparring practice to watch me cross the courtyard. Their eyes hold the same mixture of respect and wariness I’ve grown accustomed to. But there’s something more—a thread of genuine fear that makes my lips curve slightly.
Black dragons are rare on campus, and everyone knows there are only a handful of us. Which means they’re all doing the math, trying to figure out if I’m related to Abraxis, the feared general whose name makes seasoned warriors break into cold sweats, or Thauglor, the headmaster and great wyrm whose very presence can make the bravest souls tremble.
Either possibility is cause for serious concern, and they know it. The uncertainty keeps them guessing, keeps them on edge. I don’t acknowledge them directly. I walk with the fluid grace my mother taught me. Every step is deliberate, every movement calculated to remind them that whatever they’re imagining about my bloodline, the reality is probably worse.
Envelopes are pinned to the notice board—room reassignments for the females. I grab mine; the paper is crisp between my fingers. My name is written in Balor’s distinctive script, and I can almost hear the pride in those careful letters. Whatever room they’ve given me, it won’t be by accident. Nothing here ever is.
I head toward my assigned room, my boots ringing against the stone with quiet authority. Other initiates step aside without being asked, creating a path for me as naturally as water flowing around a rock. This is what it means to be a legacy—to carry the weight of a name that commands respect before you’ve even earned it yourself.
When I step inside, my breath catches. Paintings of Mom’s mates span one entire wall, each face rendered with loving detail. This is Mom’s old room. I reach out and touch the painting she did of my fatherThauglor, tracing the strong line of his jaw. I can see the love in every brushstroke. The way she captured the fierce tenderness in his sapphire eyes—eyes I inherited. I want a love like that someday.
I shake off the melancholy and change into my leathers. The familiar ritual grounds me—strapping my swords down the length of my back between my wings, sheathing my bone-hilted daggers at my ribs, securing additional blades to both inner forearms. Twelve blades and two swords rest against my body, not counting the garrote wire that can slice through wood or sever a head. The weight feels right, feels safe.
“Initiates!” Balor’s voice booms across the courtyard, making the stone walls ring. Four numbered flags flutter in the breeze—marking our years, I assume. I move to stand behind the number one flag, my boots crunching on the gravel.
Balor catches my eye and winks. I dip my head a fraction in acknowledgment, feeling the familiar flutter of nerves and anticipation.
Orpheus lines up behind me, and I catch his familiar scent—leather and steel. “Here we go,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear.
I nod, not trusting my voice. Azalea and Belle line up behind flag number two, their green and black hair catching the afternoon sun. Three blonde males suddenly materialize behind flag number three, their appearance so sudden it makes me blink.
“Blink hounds,” Orpheus supplies quietly. “They were in first period with me.”
The information settles in my mind like pieces of a puzzle. There are five other females in Shadowcarve with us, and it makes something tight in my chest ease. We’re not the only girls here after all.
“We’re going to start with sparring,” Balor announces, his voice carrying across the courtyard like rolling thunder. He stands on the stone platform, arms crossed, his scarred face serious as he surveys us. “But this isn’t practice-sword work, initiates. Today you fight withlive steel. When your name is called, you’ll move to the numbered ring indicated and face your opponent with real blades.”
A ripple of tension runs through the gathered students. Live steel changes everything—one wrong move, one moment of hesitation, and you’re bleeding on the ancient stones.
“The rules are simple,” Balor continues, his dark eyes glinting. “First blood ends the match. Deliberate maiming will result in immediate expulsion. Death...” He pauses, letting the word hang in the air like a blade. “Death will be investigated, but accidents happen when steel meets steel. Remember that.”
My gaze shifts to the instructors positioned around the six chalk rings. Ziggy stands imposing beside ring one, his presence commanding the same respect he’s always held in our family. Callan is positioned at ring four, arms crossed, his stance authoritative. And there, at ring six, stands Corvis.
Unlike the others watching with investment in our success, Corvis observes us with cold calculation. His pale eyes sweep over the initiates like a predator assessing prey. The contrast is stark—while most of the instructors want to see us succeed and grow stronger, Corvis has an entirely different agenda.
Leander moves to stand beside ring five, and there’s Abraxis at ring three—the feared general whose reputation precedes him into every room. I realize this isn’t just a sparring session. This is an evaluation by some of the most powerful beings in our world. The weight of their combined attention settles over the courtyard like a heavy cloak.
