“You’d think they’d at least put Alchemy after lunch,” Aria said as we climbed the stairs to the Alchemical Sciences Building. “My brain doesn’t wake up until noon.”

  I shifted my notes to the other arm. “You were awake enough to complain about breakfast being too bland.”

  “That’s different. Food criticism is instinct.” She pushed through the entrance doors. “This is going to be calculations and measurements and probably math.”

  “We don’t know that yet.”

  “The syllabus literally said ‘Precision Measuring Equipment.’” Aria groaned. “Why can’t we have more classes like Seduction Theory? Or Practice of the Flesh?”

  “We haven’t had Practice of the Flesh yet,” I pointed out. “Neither seminar nor lecture. You don’t know what it involves.”

  “The name tells me everything I need to know.” Her tail swished enthusiastically. “It’s going to be amazing. Unlike Alchemy, which sounds like the kind of thing that involves titration and pH balances.”

  I had to concede the logic. Names did tend to be descriptive here. Unfortunately, that same reasoning led me to very different expectations about Practice of the Flesh—specifically, that it would involve exactly the kind of hands-on activity I wanted nothing to do with.

  “It probably does involve calculations,” Aria continued as we navigated the corridor toward the ground floor workshops. “And boring measurements. And—”

  “Can you stop complaining? You’ve been at it since you woke up.”

  She grinned. “But I love complaining. Besides, someone has to make up for you being serious all the time.”

  The comment surprised a laugh out of me. “I’m not that serious.”

  “Uh huh. And I’m the Queen of Hell.”

  I shot her a look. “Fine. But someone has to make up for you being carefree all the time.”

  “See?” Aria nudged me with her shoulder. “We balance each other perfectly.”

  The workshop door stood open ahead. Bright white light spilled into the hallway—a sharp contrast to the dim crimson that pervaded most Academy buildings.

  We stepped inside.

  The workshop’s white light felt clinical. Wrong. Most Academy spaces drowned themselves in crimson ambiance and velvet shadows—spaces designed for seduction as much as education. This room refused that aesthetic entirely.

  Rows of stone workstations filled the space, each topped with brass scales, glass vessels, and small iron cauldrons. The walls held floor-to-ceiling cabinets of labeled reagents. Deep sinks lined the sides. Everything smelled of herbs and astringent chemicals rather than the pheromone-thick air I’d grown accustomed to elsewhere.

  “This looks exactly like math class,” Aria muttered beside me. “Boring and practical.”

  Students already occupied several stations despite the early hour. I scanned the room. Isabella sat near the front, reviewing what looked like preparatory notes. Her posture radiated the same controlled elegance she’d displayed in the cafeteria. Valentina claimed a station in the second row, examining her nails with apparent disinterest. Her entourage clustered nearby.

  So our groups shared Alchemy labs. Wonderful.

  A woman stood at the instructor’s dais, arranging glassware with methodical care. Golden hair in a practical braid, golden eyes that swept across the room as we entered. Her features carried an ethereal quality—high cheekbones, slightly pointed ears.

  “Good morning,” she said. Her voice held warmth without familiarity. “Please remember to restrain or glamour your hair, wings, and tail before beginning work. Safety protocols are not negotiable.”

  Aria groaned but complied, tying back her short hair with a ribbon she produced from somewhere. Her wings and tail vanished under glamour.

  I focused on my own glamour. Wings and tail were already partially concealed—making them disappear entirely took minimal effort. Hair presented more challenge. I’d never learned to actually style it beyond basic brushing. Tying hip-length hair into anything secure would take time I didn’t have.

  The glamour responded to intent. My hair shortened dramatically, compressing into something manageable. A pixie cut, basically. Efficient.

  “Excellent.” The professor stepped forward. “I am Professor Auriel Silvan. Welcome to Introduction to Alchemy.” She gestured toward the workstations. “Each station has instructions for today’s assignment. You’ll work in pairs to prepare a basic alchemical intermediate—nothing complex, but it will demonstrate fundamental technique. I’m here to assess your current skill level and problem-solving approach, not to grade perfection.”

  Students moved toward the stations. Aria grabbed my arm and pulled me toward one in the middle row—far enough from Valentina to avoid immediate confrontation, close enough to Isabella that I could observe her technique if needed.

  The instruction sheet lay beside our cauldron. I scanned it quickly. Extract the essence of dried moonpetal, stabilize it in a neutral carrier solution, monitor for color shift indicating successful binding.

  Simple. Except for the part where it required actively channeling mana.

  I stared at the ingredients. Moonpetal fragments in a small glass dish. A vial of clear liquid labeled “distilled water.” The brass scales. The cauldron with runes etched around its rim.

  Every book I’d read assumed mana manipulation was instinctive. Feel the energy. Direct the flow. Saturate the reagent until the essence unlocks.

  I couldn’t feel anything.

  My spatial ring worked. Glamour worked. Both supposedly required mana. Maybe the body operated on autopilot when I focused hard enough. Maybe real Lily’s instincts would carry me through this like they carried me before.

  Maybe I’d fail spectacularly and expose myself as defective.

  “So,” Aria said, pulling a stool closer. “Where do we start?”

  I handed her the instruction sheet. “You handle the mana infusion. I’ll prep the ingredients.”

  She read through it, nodding. “Makes sense. You measure, I saturate. Teamwork.”

  Relief washed through me. She accepted the division without question.

  I measured moonpetal fragments onto the scales—three grams exactly. Transferred them to a mortar. Ground them into fine powder while Aria studied the cauldron’s runes, fingers tracing the patterns.

  “Okay,” she said. “So I push mana into the powder until it starts glowing, then we add the water to stabilize it. Easy enough.”

  I swept the powder into the cauldron and stepped back. Aria leaned over it, hands hovering above the rim. Her eyes half-closed.

  The powder began to shimmer.

  I watched her face. Concentration, but not strain. She hummed softly—some melody I didn’t recognize—as faint light spread through the powder. Her fingers made small circling motions, guiding something I couldn’t see.

  After two minutes, the powder glowed pale silver.

  “Now?” she asked.

  I checked the instructions. “Now.”

  She added water while I stirred with the glass rod. The glow dissolved into the liquid, turning it translucent silver. The instructions said to wait for color stabilization—should take five minutes.

  Aria settled onto her stool, still humming.

  The alchemical process continued around us. Quiet bubbling. Soft scraping of mortars. Occasional murmured consultation between pairs.

  “This is actually kind of relaxing,” Aria said.

  I looked at her. “What?”

  “This.” She gestured at the cauldron. “I thought it’d be all rigid measurements and boring calculations. But it’s more like… feeling your way through it? The mana part, anyway. It’s intuitive.”

  A laugh escaped before I could stop it.

  “What?” She tilted her head.

  “You literally complained about how boring this would be. Twenty minutes ago.”

  Her tail would definitely be swishing in indignation if it could. “I’m allowed to be wrong.”

  “First time for everything.”

  “Hey!” She nudged me with her elbow. “I admit when I’m wrong. That’s mature and growth-oriented.”

  “Very impressive.”

  “Thank you.” She peered into the cauldron. “Is it supposed to get lighter?”

  I checked. The liquid had shifted from silver to pale pearl. “According to this, yes. We’re on track.”

  The instructions felt backward to me. As an engineer, I wanted concrete measurements, reproducible processes, clear cause-and-effect. This reliance on intuition and “feeling” made documentation nearly impossible. How did you teach someone to replicate a sensation?

  Still. Interesting problem. Just required unlearning what I knew about how processes should work.

  Aria resumed humming. The pearl liquid continued its slow brightening.

  We worked in companionable silence, monitoring the stabilization. The rhythm had come too easily.

  * * *

  The pearl liquid stabilized after another three minutes. I transferred a sample to the testing vial. The colour held—successful binding. Professor Auriel nodded when she examined it, made a note on her tablet, and moved to the next station.

  “See?” Aria said as we cleaned our workspace. “Totally relaxing.”

  I dried the cauldron. “You did most of the work.”

  “You measured everything. Division of labour.” She stored her stool under the workbench. “Besides, teamwork makes the dream work, right?”

  “Did you just quote a motivational poster at me?”

  “Maybe.” She grinned. “Is it working?”

  “Not even slightly.”

  We filed out with the rest of the class. The hallway smelled faintly of sulphur and burnt herbs—residue from the upper-floor laboratories. Students dispersed toward different destinations. I checked my mental schedule. Two hours until the next lecture.

  “Nightstar.”

  I turned. Valentina stood three meters away, flanked by her usual entourage. They’d positioned themselves to block the corridor’s main flow, forcing students to detour around them.

  “We need to talk,” Valentina said.

  The phrasing made my shoulders tense. Nothing good ever followed that particular phrase.

  “What do you want?” I kept my voice level.

  “To speak with you. Privately.” She glanced at Aria. “About our… previous misunderstandings.”

  Misunderstandings. An interesting word choice for her attempting to humiliate Aria in a corridor and getting her drink spilled over herself. I wouldn’t call those encounters misunderstandings.

  But voicing that opinion would only escalate things. I’d already made Aria a target by antagonizing this woman. Better to listen to whatever performance Valentina wanted to stage. Maybe she’d lose interest afterward and focus elsewhere.

  Unlikely, but I owed Aria—

  I paused mid-thought. Owed her? Since when did I owe Aria anything? Yes, I’d made her a proxy target, but who was she to me? A roommate I’d known for three days. A demon who viewed humans as food.

  Someone whose laugh I’d started recognizing in crowded hallways.

  I shook my head slightly.

  “Sure,” I said. “What did you want to talk about?”

  Valentina’s expression shifted—satisfaction flickering across her features before smoothing into practiced contrition. “I know I behaved… unbecoming of my status. I’d like to make amends.”

  The performance was almost convincing. Almost.

  “I’m hosting a tea party,” she continued. “I’d be honoured if you’d attend.”

  Her gaze slid to Aria, and the mask slipped. Pure disdain in the curl of her lip, gone in half a second. “You can come too, I suppose.”

  Aria’s tail twitched against my leg—hidden warning.

  I sighed. “Fine. When and where?”

  “Academy Gardens. After classes today.” Valentina smiled. “Do be sure you’re not late.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  She swept past us, entourage following like trained shadows. The corridor traffic resumed its normal flow.

  “You know that’s a trap,” Aria said quietly.

  “I know.”

  “Then why did you agree?”

  I watched Valentina disappear around the corner. “Didn’t want to cause you more trouble.”

  “Aww.” Aria bumped her shoulder against mine. “You didn’t have to do that. She already hates me enough.”

  “Exactly my point.”

  “Well, I’m coming with you.” She linked her arm through mine. “If we’re walking into a social ambush, might as well be trapped together.”

  Something warm settled in my chest—gratitude, maybe. Or relief at not facing Valentina’s performance alone. Dangerous emotions, both.

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  “Thanks,” I said.

  We headed toward the main academic building. Infernal Politics & Geopolitics occupied a lecture hall on the third floor—Professor Scarlet’s domain. I’d reviewed the course description last night during my library session. Statecraft as applied domination. Leverage, psychological pressure, and control.

  Should be fascinating. Or horrifying. Possibly both.

  “At least Politics class should be entertaining,” Aria said as we climbed the stairs. “Professor Scarlet doesn’t tolerate stupidity.”

  “Define ‘doesn’t tolerate.’”

  “Let’s just say she believes in… behavioural correction.” Aria’s grin turned wicked. “Very hands-on teaching methods.”

  The warm feeling in my chest evaporated. “Wonderful.”

  We reached the third-floor corridor and joined the stream of students heading toward the lecture hall.

  * * *

  The lecture hall doors stood open. A succubus in a sharp black dress waited at the centre of the room, a riding crop held loosely in one hand. White hair pulled into a severe bun. Yellow eyes that tracked every student entering.

  Professor Scarlet Obsidium, presumably.

  Aria and I claimed seats in the middle tier—our usual compromise between visibility and anonymity. Students filed in around us, filling the curved benches. The hall smelled of old parchment and something metallic I couldn’t identify.

  When the last student settled, Professor Scarlet moved to the front. No preamble. No introduction.

  “Politics,” she said, “is the art of making others believe they chose their own chains.”

  The riding crop tapped against her palm.

  “Over the next year, you will learn to identify leverage, manufacture debt, and exploit weakness. You will study the architecture of Hell’s power structures and the psychology required to navigate them.” Her gaze swept the room. “Some of you will fail. Most of you will remain mediocre. A select few will learn to rule.”

  Someone laughed in the back rows—cut off abruptly. I glanced over my shoulder. The three students who’d been snickering now sat rigid, faces flushed. Silent.

  Scarlet’s discipline, apparently. Fast and effective.

  I turned back to the front and pulled out parchment.

  The lecture itself proved… surprisingly coherent. Scarlet dissected Hell’s feudal structure—the relationship between Circle Lords and the Crown, how noble houses maintained power through carefully cultivated debts and strategic marriages. She explained leverage as a resource to be hoarded and deployed precisely.

  I took notes. Not because I planned to rule Hell, but because the principles translated. Strip away the demonic terminology and it was corporate politics. Assets, liabilities, strategic positioning. Using what you had—wealth, connections, information, or in a succubus’s case, beauty and sexuality—to secure what you needed.

  Actually useful, if deeply cynical.

  The hour passed. No demonstrations beyond that initial silencing. Scarlet lectured, occasionally pointing her crop at a flowchart she’d conjured with illusion magic. Students scribbled notes or watched with varying degrees of attention.

  When she dismissed us, I stored my parchment in the spatial ring.

  “That wasn’t bad,” I said as we descended the stairs. “Actually quite interesting.”

  Aria stretched, wings rustling. “Glad you think so. Not really my thing.”

  “No?”

  “Too much thinking.” She grinned. “Give me a dance floor over a political chess match any day.”

  Fair enough. Though I suspected Aria was better at reading social dynamics than she let on.

  “Feels like something my mother would be into,” Aria continued. “Sombra’s probably written a textbook or two on this stuff.”

  “Your mother writes textbooks?”

  “Who knows? She says she’s just a simple merchant, but the boutique is definitely cover for something.” Aria’s tail flicked dismissively. “She never shares her plans with assets.”

  Assets. The way Aria said it—flat, matter-of-fact—made something tighten in my chest.

  Three students stumbled past us in the corridor. Flushed faces, unsteady gaits. One braced herself against the wall, breathing hard. Their expressions held a desperate edge I couldn’t quite parse—arousal mixed with exhaustion.

  What had happened to them during the lecture?

  I frowned, but Aria was already moving forward.

  “Occult Law next!” She bounced slightly. “I wonder if we’ll get summoned by mortals for the practical component. I’d love to see how wild ones differ from the trained stock.”

  The casual cruelty in that statement landed like ice water. Right. To demons, humans were livestock. Food, labour, entertainment. Pets at best.

  I was the exception. The fraud wearing a demon’s skin.

  “Occult Law,” I repeated, pushing past the discomfort. The name suggested potential—laws governing summoning, contracts, bindings. Exactly the kind of information I needed to research dimensional travel and find a way home.

  “Let’s go,” I said. “One more lecture before the death trap Valentina’s prepared for me.”

  “Us,” Aria corrected. “Death trap for us. We’re a package deal now.”

  I glanced at her. She grinned back, completely unworried about walking into obvious danger.

  Despite myself, I smiled.

  Aside from the disturbingly demonic elements, Aria was growing on me. Her energy, her loyalty, the way she treated our partnership as unquestionable fact.

  I didn’t know if that was good.

  Caring about people here made leaving harder. And I would leave. Had to. Before the hunger returned, before I fed again, before this body’s instincts eroded what remained of who I was.

  But for now, I had a roommate who’d walk into a trap beside me without hesitation.

  We headed toward the Occult Studies Tower.

  * * *

  The Occult Law seminar passed quickly. Too quickly.

  I’d hoped Professor Zellaris would provide answers—loopholes in summoning contracts, methods for dimensional transit, anything I could use to engineer a way home. Instead, we got contract terminology and jurisdictional theory. Foundational material.

  Useful, maybe. Eventually. But not what I needed.

  Zellaris made it clear: practical summoning work wouldn’t begin until the end of the year. Students had to master the legal framework before the Academy trusted them with live mortal summoners.

  A year. I didn’t have a year.

  Two weeks before the hunger returned. Less, if the timeline accelerated.

  I stored my notes in the spatial ring and followed Aria out of the tower.

  “That was boring,” Aria declared, stretching her arms overhead. “I thought we’d at least get to see a summoning circle.”

  “Foundations first,” I said automatically, though frustration coiled tight in my chest.

  Another dead end. Another wasted opportunity.

  But I couldn’t dwell on it now. We had Valentina’s tea party to survive.

  * * *

  The Academy Gardens spread across the southwestern corner of campus, terraced levels descending toward the perimeter wall. Obsidian pathways wound through beds of bioluminescent flora—hellfire flowers glowing crimson and violet, ember vines climbing wrought-iron trellises.

  Surprisingly peaceful for Hell.

  The usual cacophony of the Academy—students arguing, wings beating, distant moans from the training grounds—faded to background murmur. Crystal lamps lined the paths, their light soft enough not to compete with the volcanic glow from Gehenna’s sky.

  Too quiet.

  My tail twitched. The body recognized a trap before my conscious mind caught up.

  “This way,” Aria said, tugging my sleeve. She led us down the central path toward the middle terrace, past a fountain where heated water flowed over carved obsidian sculptures. The sound should have been soothing.

  It wasn’t.

  We rounded a hedge of whispering ferns, and there she was.

  Valentina stood in a gazebo—five meters across, wrought iron frame, climbing vines with small purple blooms. A low table occupied the center, surrounded by cushioned benches. Seven other students sat or stood nearby, most of them commoners judging by their smaller horns and wings. Sycophants, probably. The kind who attached themselves to purebloods for scraps of influence.

  Not exactly the intimate reconciliation tea party I’d expected.

  Valentina’s gaze locked onto me the moment we appeared. Her expression shifted—a flicker of something that might have been genuine pleasure, there and gone in a heartbeat.

  Then her eyes slid to Aria.

  The smile curdled.

  She smoothed her features into practiced neutrality, but I’d already seen it. Whatever this was, it wasn’t about making peace with both of us.

  “Lily,” Valentina said, voice carrying across the space between us. “I’m so glad you came.”

  She didn’t acknowledge Aria at all.

  We approached the gazebo. My boots clicked against the obsidian path. The other students watched us with varying degrees of curiosity and contempt.

  Valentina gestured toward two empty cushions on the bench opposite her. “Please, sit. Both of you.”

  The courtesy sounded forced.

  I sat first, tucking my tail to the side. Aria dropped onto the cushion beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touched. Defensive positioning.

  “I wanted to apologize,” Valentina began, folding her hands in her lap. “For my behavior in the cafeteria. It was beneath me.”

  Her tone suggested she believed the opposite.

  “Apology accepted,” I said, because refusing would escalate things immediately.

  Valentina’s smile widened. She lifted a delicate porcelain teapot—black with gold trim—and poured amber liquid into two cups. Steam rose, carrying a floral scent I didn’t recognize.

  She slid the cups across the table toward us.

  Aria leaned in, her lips brushing my ear. “Watch for poisons,” she whispered, barely audible.

  Right. Because of course that was a possibility here.

  I picked up the cup, turning it slightly to catch the light. The tea looked normal—clear, no suspicious sediment. But Hell didn’t operate on mortal toxicology. For all I knew, this could be laced with something that wouldn’t kill me but would make me pliable. Compliant.

  Valentina lifted her own cup to her lips, sipping delicately. A show of good faith, perhaps. Or she’d already built immunity to whatever this was.

  The other students settled into seats around the gazebo, forming a loose circle. Conversations started—idle gossip about professors, upcoming assignments, speculation about which students would fail out by semester’s end.

  But all of it felt staged. Rehearsed.

  I set the cup down without drinking.

  Valentina’s gaze flicked to my untouched tea, then back to my face. Her smile didn’t falter, but something cold flickered behind her crimson eyes.

  “Not thirsty?” she asked.

  “Just being cautious,” I said evenly.

  Aria mimicked me, setting her cup down as well. Solidarity, or self-preservation.

  Valentina’s fingers tightened on her own cup. The porcelain didn’t crack, but I saw the tension in her knuckles.

  “Well then,” she said, voice still sweet. “Shall we begin?”

  * * *

  The tea party unfolded exactly as I’d expected.

  Corporate networking, but with more venom and fewer pretences.

  Valentina held court like a manager schmoozing clients, her voice bright and her compliments sharp enough to draw blood. The sycophants laughed at her jokes, agreed with her observations, and positioned themselves to catch her attention.

  “So, Lily,” Valentina said, leaning forward with rehearsed interest. “Your mother is a merchant, yes? What does she trade in?”

  I kept my expression neutral. “Raw materials. Textiles from Emberweave, mostly.”

  “How practical.” Valentina’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “My house maintains contracts with several textile guilds. Perhaps our families have crossed paths.”

  Doubtful, considering my “mother” was made-up.

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  One of the sycophants—a succubus with short copper horns—leaned in. “Emberweave exports are so competitive now. The quality has declined, I’ve heard.”

  “Only if you shop at the discount markets,” I replied.

  Valentina laughed, a crystalline sound. “Exactly. You have to know where to look.”

  She turned her gaze toward Aria, who’d been silent for the last ten minutes.

  “And your mother, Aria? She runs a boutique, doesn’t she?”

  Aria’s tail twitched. “Sombre Silks. In Ardorkeep.”

  “Oh yes, I’ve passed it.” Valentina’s tone shifted, sweetness curdling into condescension. “Charming little shop. Very… quaint.”

  The copper-horned sycophant snickered.

  Aria’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

  The conversation continued. Valentina wove between topics—upcoming assignments, gossip about other students, speculation on which professors were sleeping with whom. Every few minutes, she’d circle back to Aria, dropping casual barbs disguised as compliments.

  “You know, Aria, that outfit is so bold. Not everyone could pull off that shade of purple.”

  Translation: It looks terrible on you.

  “I admire how confident you are. Not worrying about what others think takes courage.”

  Translation: You should be embarrassed.

  The sycophants piled on, their laughter filling the gazebo. They weren’t loyal to Valentina—they just enjoyed having someone beneath them for once. Aria was convenient.

  My fingers curled against my thigh.

  This wasn’t reconciliation. It was a performance. Valentina wanted to humiliate Aria in front of me, to demonstrate her superiority and force a wedge between us.

  And Aria was enduring it because she thought I wanted this.

  I glanced at her. She sat stiffly, her wings pulled tight against her back, her tail coiled around her ankle. Her usual brightness had dimmed.

  She stayed because of me.

  I came here because I’d dragged her into Valentina’s line of fire.

  I stood.

  “Thank you for the tea,” I said, keeping my voice even. “But we have studying to do.”

  Valentina’s smile froze. “Already? But we’ve barely started.”

  “I think we’re done here.”

  Aria rose beside me, relief flashing across her face.

  Valentina’s expression shifted. The sweetness evaporated.

  She lifted one hand.

  The sycophants moved. They didn’t rush—they simply repositioned, blocking the gazebo’s exits with casual precision. Wings spread slightly, tails swaying.

  Seven against two.

  “The tea party isn’t over,” Valentina said, her voice sharp. “It would be rude for you to leave.”

  I stopped. “We’re done, Valentina. There’s nothing more to talk about.”

  Aria stepped closer to me, her shoulder brushing mine. “Don’t even think of stopping us. The Academy’s rules are clear.”

  Valentina laughed. “The dog has finally learned to bark.” She tilted her head, gaze fixed on Aria. “No longer hiding behind your mistress?”

  Aria’s wings flared.

  “You know what?” Aria’s voice cut through the garden’s false serenity. “I’ve had enough of pretending you’re worth shit.”

  The gazebo went silent.

  “I came here to make sure Lily stayed safe,” Aria continued, her words clipped. “I endured your pathetic insults because Lily was trying to be nice. Because she went out of her way to reconcile with you, and I didn’t want to make things worse.”

  She took a step forward.

  “But you’re not worth it. You’re a spoiled brat playing queen because your house is too weak to matter anywhere else. You surround yourself with sycophants who hate you almost as much as I do, and you think that makes you powerful.”

  Valentina’s face flushed crimson.

  “You’re nothing,” Aria finished. “And everyone here knows it.”

  For a heartbeat, no one moved.

  Then Valentina stood, her hands trembling.

  “Restrain them,” she said.

  The sycophants closed in.

  * * *

  The first sycophant lunged.

  I sidestepped. Her claws raked empty air where my shoulder had been a heartbeat earlier. The second came from my left—I caught her wrist, twisted, and shoved her into the third. They tangled, wings flaring.

  The fourth attacked from behind. I dropped low, swept her legs. She hit the gazebo floor hard.

  I didn’t plan these movements. My body simply executed them.

  Three more converged. I ducked under a wing-strike, drove my elbow into someone’s ribs, felt bone flex beneath the impact. Too much force—I’d cracked something. The succubus wheezed and staggered back.

  This wasn’t judo. This wasn’t anything I’d trained.

  The copper-horned one grabbed my hair. Pain flared across my scalp. I twisted into the grip, hooked my leg behind hers, and we both went down. She landed beneath me. I pinned her wrist against the stone.

  “Let go,” I said.

  She didn’t.

  I squeezed. Her bones creaked. Her eyes widened.

  Two more piled onto my back. Weight crushed down. Hands locked around my arms, my wings. I couldn’t move—

  No. Wrong. I could move.

  I surged upward, throwing them off. One stumbled into the railing. The other caught herself mid-fall, wings snapping open.

  Where was this strength coming from?

  A hand clamped around my throat from behind. I grabbed the wrist, pulled forward, and flipped the owner over my shoulder. She crashed into the tea table. Porcelain shattered.

  Five against one. They kept coming.

  Pathetic.

  The thought surfaced unbidden, cold and certain. These creatures prostrated themselves before anyone with status, then turned that boot onto anyone weaker. They surrounded Valentina not out of loyalty but cowardice. They attacked me because she told them to.

  Disgusting.

  The fifth succubus tackled me from the side. We hit the floor together, her weight driving the air from my lungs. Another landed on top. Then another.

  Too many. My arms were pinned. Someone’s knee dug into my spine.

  Across the gazebo, Aria fought two students. She got one in a headlock before the second yanked her wings backward. Aria cried out. They forced her down, twisting her arms behind her back.

  Heat surged through my chest. My fingers curled—

  Something cracked. The stone beneath my palm splintered.

  The succubus on my back yelped. I looked down.

  My nails had lengthened into black claws, sharp enough to pierce flesh. The tips hovered a centimetre from the throat of the student pinning my torso.

  One thrust. That’s all it would take.

  A cough echoed across the garden.

  Everyone froze.

  I blinked. My hand was normal again. Blunt nails. Human proportions.

  Had I imagined it?

  The student beneath me didn’t react. No one else seemed to notice.

  Isabella stood at the gazebo’s entrance, arms crossed. Her silver hair caught the crimson light filtering through the gardens. Ice-blue eyes swept the scene with clinical precision.

  The rage drained out of me, leaving cold clarity in its wake.

  “I expected more from you, Valentina,” Isabella said.

  The sycophants released me immediately. They scrambled backward, reforming into a loose cluster near Valentina. Fear rippled through their postures—wings folded tight, tails still.

  Valentina straightened, smoothing her dress. “This is none of your concern, Isabella.”

  “Actually, it is.” Isabella stepped into the gazebo. “You’re breaking Academy rules.”

  “I haven’t—”

  “Two rules, specifically.” Isabella held up two fingers. “First, unauthorized combat on Academy grounds. Second, leveraging noble status to coerce students.”

  Valentina’s jaw tightened. “I did no such thing.”

  “You hosted a tea party,” Isabella said. “Blocked their exits. Ordered your entourage to restrain them. All while relying on your house name to shield you from consequences.”

  “They insulted me—”

  “After you spent twenty minutes insulting them.” Isabella’s voice remained level. “I watched the entire thing.”

  My head snapped toward her. Twenty minutes?

  “But more importantly,” Isabella continued, “you’re harassing my friends.”

  Valentina blinked. “Your what?”

  “My friends,” Isabella repeated. “Which makes this my concern.”

  Valentina opened her mouth. Closed it. Her gaze darted between Isabella and me, searching for something to leverage.

  “The tea party is over,” Isabella said. “Leave.”

  For a moment, Valentina didn’t move. Then she turned to her followers.

  “We’re done here.”

  They fled. Wings snapped open as they scattered across the gardens, putting distance between themselves and Isabella’s presence.

  Valentina lingered at the gazebo’s edge, her expression unreadable. Then she followed.

  Aria pulled herself upright, rubbing her shoulder. I stood, brushing stone dust from my skirt.

  Isabella watched us with faint amusement.

  “Thank you,” I said. “For the save.”

  “Of course.”

  “But that doesn’t mean I owe you anything.”

  Isabella’s eyebrow arched.

  “I could’ve handled it myself,” I continued. “Besides, you could’ve stepped in earlier if you wanted to truly help.”

  Isabella laughed—a genuine sound, not the polite amusement nobles used in conversation.

  “Wise,” she said. "Very wise of you not to acknowledge a debt.

  I shrugged. “What brought you here?”

  “I was looking for you both, actually.” Isabella’s gaze shifted between Aria and me. “I have a proposition.”

  “We’re listening,” Aria said cautiously.

  “Don’t worry.” Isabella smiled. “It’s just a simple give and take.”