The scent of rain clung to the midnight air as Selene Raventhorn stepped through the iron gates of Blackthorn Academy. The storm had passed, but the ground shimmered like onyx glass beneath the pale, red-tinted moon. A hunter's moon—the kind that whispered of hunger, the kind that stirred ancient thirst in creatures who had long since forgotten restraint.
The Academy stood at the edge of the known world, deep in the mist-choked forests of the Northern Vale. Its gothic spires clawed into the sky, and jagged gargoyles perched like sentries atop every ledge, watching, waiting. Blackthorn was not just a school—it was a sanctuary for monsters. And a prison for those they feared.
Selene paused at the threshold, heart thudding beneath layers of velvet and steel. This was where her life changed. Again.
She pulled the black hood lower over her silver-blonde hair, the color of moonlight on a blade. Her gloved fingers lingered briefly at the pendant on her chest—an old heirloom, one of the few relics left from her mother. A symbol of her bloodline. A bloodline that had been hunted to extinction.
Almost.
She was the last pureblood. Born, not turned. Noble by legacy, cursed by lineage. And everyone inside that building would know it. Some would want her dead. Others would want to use her. All would want to see her fall.
She walked forward, heels silent now on the damp cobblestones. The gates groaned shut behind her, sealing her in. The Academy loomed taller with every step, each window a watchful eye, each shadow a secret. Rumors had spread like wildfire the moment her enrollment was confirmed. A pureblood had returned. A myth had stepped into reality.
Let them wonder. Let them fear.
Inside, Blackthorn was colder than she expected. Candlelight flickered along the vast entrance hall, casting long shadows that danced across velvet-lined walls and portraits of long-dead heads of House. A grand staircase wound upward like a spine, splitting the wings of the castle in two. Statues of warlords and traitors stood in grim silence beneath the chandelier, its crystals trembling with each passing breath of wind.
The air smelled of wax, iron, and ancient parchment—but underneath it, something else. Something feral.
Selene took one step forward—then another. The silence pressed in.
"Selene Raventhorn."
The voice coiled through the hall like smoke. Smooth. Commanding. Dangerous.
She turned.
He was there, leaning against a marble pillar as though he owned the ground it stood on. Matthew Duskbane. The name echoed through every corridor of vampire society, whispered with awe, fear, and grudging respect. The son of a noble House. The Academy's highest-ranked student. A half-blood—but stronger than any turned vampire had a right to be.
He was tall, his frame lean but powerful, wrapped in black with blood-red trim, his House sigil stitched over his heart. His hair was dark as midnight, tousled like he'd just stepped from battle—or a dream. But it was his eyes that held her. Crimson, like smoldering coals in the dark, unblinking and far too knowing.
He didn't smile. Not really. But there was a quirk at the edge of his mouth, a silent provocation.
She lifted her chin. "Duskbane."
"You made quite the entrance," he said, voice cool. "They say purebloods are extinct."
"Clearly, they're wrong."
He pushed off the pillar and approached, slow and deliberate. The tension in the air sharpened. Power rolled off him like mist, the kind that didn't need to be loud to be deadly. He moved like a predator—elegant, efficient, certain.
"You don't belong here," he said.
"And yet here I am."
They stood inches apart now. Selene refused to back down. His presence was suffocating, yes—but something deeper stirred within her. Not fear. Something else. Something far more dangerous.
He studied her. "You're not what I expected."
"Neither are you," she replied coolly.
His gaze dipped to the pendant at her neck, and for a flicker of a moment, something unreadable passed through his expression. Recognition? Warning? Desire?
Then he was gone—just like that. One second he stood before her, the next he vanished into the shadows of the hall like he was never there at all.
"Welcome to Blackthorn, princess," his voice echoed from somewhere above, almost amused, almost cruel.
Selene stood there for a moment longer, exhaling slowly. Her heart was steady, but her blood hummed beneath her skin.
This place was a battlefield. A masquerade of monsters.
And Matthew Duskbane had just declared war.
But Selene?
She never lost.
The silence returned, thick and watchful. Selene stood alone in the grand hall, but she didn't feel alone. Whispers slithered just out of earshot—curious minds in the walls, old spirits of the academy, or perhaps worse: students already testing her. This place pulsed with old magic, dark magic, the kind that remembered everything.
A sound echoed from above—soft, hurried footsteps. Then more. She wasn't imagining it. The vultures were circling.
She took one last look at the chandelier above her. Each crystal shard was stained faintly pink, as though it had once been soaked in blood.
Fitting.
A robed attendant appeared from the shadows, as if summoned by her thoughts. His face was lined, his eyes dark and unreadable.
"Lady Raventhorn," he greeted with a stiff bow. "We've prepared your quarters. Follow me."
Lady Raventhorn.
Even now, the title chafed. She'd never been raised with nobility, not truly. Her lineage had made her a target, not royalty. But here, at Blackthorn, that name meant something. It would draw enemies as quickly as allies.
She followed in silence, her boots muffled on the deep crimson carpet. The halls stretched endlessly, portraits watching her pass—some with blank eyes, others with a faint glimmer of movement. At the end of one hallway, a girl's reflection in a cracked mirror turned and smiled at her before vanishing into mist.
Blackthorn wasn't haunted.
It was the haunting.
As they climbed higher, the light dimmed. There were no candles here—only soft-glowing lanterns pulsing like dying embers. Whispers returned. Selene tuned them out.
They reached her room at the top of the western tower—far from the others. Isolated. Of course.
The attendant handed her a brass key, ancient and heavy. "You're not like the others," he said, almost too quietly. "You should be careful. Even legends can be unmade here."
Selene met his gaze. "So can monsters."
He gave her a tight nod, then disappeared as silently as he'd come.
She opened the door slowly.
Her room was beautiful in a cold, forgotten sort of way. A high-arched window overlooked the forest, red moonlight pouring across a silver-draped canopy bed. Ancient books lined dark shelves, and a black vanity stood near the corner, its mirror covered with dark silk. The air inside held a faint trace of roses and something metallic. Something old.
She let her cloak fall to the floor and crossed to the window.
From here, she could see almost everything. The outer walls, the training grounds, the watchtower with its ever-burning torch—and far below, the courtyard. A figure moved alone through the shadows there.
Matthew.
Of course.
He paused for only a second, head turning just slightly—as though he knew she was watching.
Then he vanished again, swallowed by the dark.
Selene stood there long after he was gone, staring out into the night. Her reflection in the glass stared back—pale skin, sharp eyes, haunted strength.
She didn't come here to make friends. She came to survive. To uncover the truth buried beneath centuries of lies. To find out what really happened to her family—and to protect what was left of her kind.
But Matthew Duskbane was a complication she hadn't anticipated.
And Blackthorn? It was already testing her.
She touched the pendant again, eyes narrowing.
Let them come.
Let the bloodlines clash, let the predators circle.
She wasn't prey.
She was Raventhorn.
And this time, the story wouldn't end in ashes.