Sunlight filtered down through the canopy. The forest was alive with the hum of insects and the lazy call of birds somewhere high above.

  Thwack.

  The axe split the wood clean. The man exhaled hard, planting the blade into the stump before leaning on the handle. Veins on his forearms stood out like cords beneath papery skin. His hands trembled faintly where they gripped the axe.

  He closed his eyes and breathed. Just breathed.

  A breeze stirred the canopy, and for a moment the only sounds were wind hissing through the leaves and birds singing.

  Then came small footsteps. Quick and light, pattering over moss and root.

  "Papa! Papa, look!"

  He opened his eyes. The exhaustion vanished from his face like a curtain being pulled aside.

  The girl came bounding through the ferns, her dark hair bouncing. She held her arms out in front of her, cupping something with care, as though she were carrying a wounded bird.

  "Close your eyes!" she demanded, skidding to a halt in front of him.

  "Again?" He raised an eyebrow, but he was already smiling. He knelt down with a grunt and closed his eyes obediently. "Alright. They're closed."

  She placed something in his open palm. It was light, almost weightless, and it smelled sweet, like crushed honey and rain.

  "Now look."

  He opened his eyes.

  In his rough, calloused hand sat a small cluster of wildflowers, white ones this time, tiny star-shaped blossoms with petals so thin they were almost translucent. She had arranged them carefully, their stems twisted together in a clumsy braid.

  “I found a whole patch,” she said breathlessly, bouncing on her heels. “Behind the big rock, near the stream. The ones from yesterday were already wilting, so I went further today. These ones are better. See how white they are?”

  He turned the little bundle in his fingers and said, “They’re perfect, my little gatherer.”

  "I braided the stems so they'd stay together," she added, clearly proud. "It took me three tries. The first one fell apart."

  “Three tries,” he repeated, nodding. “That’s a master craftsman’s work.”

  She beamed.

  He tucked the flowers carefully into the pocket of his shirt, arranging them so the white heads poked out above the fabric. He patted the pocket once.

  “There. Now I have them with me while I work.”

  The girl watched him with satisfaction. Then her expression changed. She stepped closer, and her small hand reached up to touch his face, her fingertips brushing the dark hollows beneath his eyes, the lines that she hadn’t noticed before.

  “Papa,” she said quietly. “Why are you always so tired?”

  He didn’t flinch, but something behind his eyes tightened.

  “It’s hard work, cutting wood,” he said lightly. “The toughest trees don’t like to come down.”

  He looked at her for a long moment.

  Then he sat on the stump, pulling her gently onto his knee. She went willingly, settling against his chest, her head tucked beneath his chin.

  “Do you know why I cut the trees?”

  “Because you use it to build homes,” she said matter-of-factly. “And to make fires.”

  “That’s right.” He rested his chin on the top of her head. “And as long as they need wood, as long as I’m useful to them, they let me stay here.” He glanced toward the spires barely visible above the treeline. “In the forest. With you.”

  "What happens if you stop?"

  He was quiet for a moment.

  "If I stop," he said carefully, "then I'm not useful anymore. And people who aren't useful... they don't get to live in the forest. They don't get to choose where they sleep, or when they wake up, or who they spend their days with."

  He turned her gently so she was facing him. His hands held her small shoulders with unbearable tenderness.

  “Every tree I cut buys me another day with you,” he said. “Every log I stack means I get to hear you laugh. I get to hold these.” He tapped the flowers in his pocket. “And know that somewhere in this forest, you’re looking for white flowers because you know they’re my favourite.”

  The girl's lower lip trembled.

  "So I'll keep cutting," he said, smiling. "Even when my arms shake. Even when I'm tired. “Because I’d rather be tired with you,” he said. “Than rested without you.” Do you understand?"

  She nodded slowly.

  Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed with all the strength her small body had.

  "Then I'll keep bringing you flowers," she whispered fiercely into his collar. "Every day. So you always have something beautiful. So the work isn't so hard."

  He closed his eyes. His jaw clenched. A single tear cut a clean line through the dirt on his cheek, but when he spoke, his voice was steady.

  "That's a deal, little gatherer."

  She pulled back and looked at him with absolute seriousness.

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Satisfied, she hopped off his knee and brushed the moss from her dress. “Now finish that tree so we can eat. I’m starving.”

  He laughed, a real laugh, rough and warm, shaking loose something heavy from his chest.

  He stood, gripping the axe handle. The trembling was still there, but he swung anyway. Thwack. The blade bit deep.

  The girl didn't wander far. She sat on a nearby root, legs swinging, collecting fallen petals from the forest floor and sorting them by colour — blue in one pile, white in another, yellow in a third. Every few minutes she would glance up to check on him, and every time she did, he was already looking at her.

  He always was.

  Then, from somewhere far away, or perhaps from no direction at all, a sound bled into the air.

  It wasn’t the crack of wood. It wasn’t wind or birdsong.

  It was a piano.

  The melody came softly at first, a single note sustained like a held breath. Then another, and another, slow and aching, unbearably tender. Each note trembled as though the instrument itself were remembering something it had lost.

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  The forest rippled. Colours bled together, greens running into golds, the bark of the trees dissolving like wet ink. The girl’s laughter stretched thin, distorted, fading into the space between notes.

  The smell of pine and crushed petals vanished, replaced by the scent of old dust and lavender.

  The man’s face was the last thing to go. He was smiling, looking at his daughter, the white flowers still tucked in his pocket.

  Then he was gone.

  Selene gasped, her eyes snapping open.

  She was staring up at the dark canopy of the four-poster bed. The velvet drapes hung motionless. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow seeping beneath the heavy oak door.

  But the music was real.

  It drifted through the walls, winding its way down the stone corridors of the residence, slow and deliberate.

  Someone was playing.

  The melody hadn’t stopped in her mind. It was real.

  Selene threw the covers off and sat upright in the darkness. Her sheets were tangled around her legs. For a moment she didn’t know where she was, the stone ceiling, the velvet drapes, the heavy oak door.

  But the sound anchored her.

  The piano notes climbed and fell in complex, beautiful scales, drifting through the heavy door, echoing through the dark stone walls.

  She needed to move. She needed to find the source of that sound.

  She opened her door. The corridor was dim, lit only by low-burning lamps that cast long, flickering shadows. The residence was silent save for the music. It echoed like a ghost, bouncing off the vaulted ceilings.

  She followed it.

  Barefoot, she walked past closed doors, down a winding spiral staircase, and through a gallery where the portraits of vampires seemed to watch her pass. The music grew louder, richer. It was a piece of immense difficulty, played with a tenderness that seemed impossible for this place.

  She reached a set of double doors that were slightly ajar. Moonlight, spectral and blue, spilled from within.

  Selene pushed the door open just enough to slip inside.

  It was a large, elegant room. In the center, bathed in the pale light of the high window, sat a grand piano.

  And at the keys sat a boy.

  He was young, perhaps fifteen, with messy brown hair and a slight frame. He wore a white shirt detailed with faint vertical pleats down the front and sleeves that gathered at the wrists, tucked into dark, high-waisted trousers. His posture was slumped, exhausted, but his hands moved with a fluidity that was mesmerizing.

  Selene took a step forward. The polished floorboard creaked under her weight.

  The music cut off instantly.

  The boy flinched violently, his hands jerking away from the keys as if they burned. He spun around on the bench, his eyes wide with fear. When he saw her standing in the shadows, the terror softened into a flustered, terrified apology.

  "I— I am so sorry!" he stammered, standing up quickly and bowing his head. "I didn't know anyone was listening. I hope I wasn't causing a disturbance. I'll stop immediately."

  Selene stayed near the door, surprised by the boy's reaction. "It was beautiful. I've never heard anything like it."

  The boy blinked, looking up. He seemed genuinely shocked by the compliment. He rubbed his arm nervously. "Thank you. Usually, Philippa tells me to be quiet."

  "Who are you?" Selene asked, her voice raspy.

  "I… just — a guest," the boy said softly, his two hands holding each other as he looked at them. He glanced up at her, his gaze drifting to her hair, which glowed faintly in the moonlight. "You're Selene, aren't you?"

  Selene stiffened. "How do you know my name?"

  "Your friends," the boy said with a tentative, small smile. "Garen and Selis. I've spoken with them. They... they talk about you a lot."

  A pause. The boy's smile faded slightly.

  "They were very worried," he added quietly. "You've been asleep for two days. They were afraid you wouldn't wake up at all."

  Two days. The realization settled over her like a weight.

  "Where are they now?" Selene asked.

  “I don’t know exactly. Sebastian, it’s… he’s always given them something to do,” the boy said, choosing his words carefully. He looked down at his hands again.

  She was quiet for a moment. “Does Sebastian keep many humans here?”

  The boy’s smile faltered. He looked at his hands, hands that created beauty in a house of predators.

  “Not… not really,” he whispered. “I try not to ask things like that.”

  “An excellent survival strategy. You should continue to practice it.”

  The voice cut through the room like a whip.

  Selene spun around. Headmistress Philippa stood in the doorway, her silhouette severe against the hall light. She leaned on her metal walking stick, her scarred face impassive and cold.

  “Good. You’re awake at last—perfect timing, nonetheless,” Philippa said, looking at Selene.

  Then Philippa looked at the boy. “Leonard, it’s time for your meal. Please go to the kitchen—Melanie is waiting for you. You always forget yourself when you lose yourself in that horrendous instrument.”

  The boy didn't hesitate. He gave Selene a fleeting, apologetic look, then hurried past the Headmistress with his head bowed, disappearing into the dark hallway.

  “Now then,” Philippa said as she stepped into the room. Behind her, Cassandra entered, carrying a silver tray. On it sat a porcelain bowl filled with a thick, inky black paste, a brush, and a bundle of deep red folded fabric.

  “Do you always sleep this long?” Philippa said, her dark red eyes sweeping over Selene’s disheveled appearance with critical assessment. “We were beginning to calculate the cost of your disposal.”

  "Where are my friends? I want to see them," Selene demanded.

  “Safe, doing whatever activities Master Sebastian keeps assigning them—as the boy told you,” Philippa replied. She gestured to the servant, who set the tray down on a side table. “But we have other matters to attend to. The Sebastian has arranged for your enrollment at the prestigious Royal Sanguine Academy.”

  Selene frowned. "The Academy?"

  “An institution for the… gifted humans,” Philippa said. “Classes begin when the moon reaches its apex. Your instruction starts tonight—quite late in the process, I might add. You have a great deal of catching up to do if you wish to be the Ascendant. The red moon is only a few days away.”

  Selene looked at the bowl of black paste. The smell of chemical dyes and crushed herbs wafted from it. "What is that?"

  “Your hair would present challenges if left as it is,” Philippa said bluntly. She stepped closer, reaching out to grab strands of Selene’s white hair. “Master Sebastian was quite clear. In the Carmyne Kingdom, this shade of white is a trait found only within the bloodlines of Royal Highnesses. If you were to enter the Academy, chaos would ensue almost immediately—especially because the deranged cult of the Church of the Holy Blood infests that place.”

  Selene pulled her hair away from the vampire’s grasp. “So Sebastian wants me to hide it.”

  “Precisely,” Philippa said. She pointed to a chair. “Now then, please sit.”

  Selene sat. For the next hour, she endured the silence as Cassandra worked the cold, foul-smelling paste into her hair. She watched in the reflection of the window as the radiant, divine white was smothered under a layer of artificial, dull black.

  When they rinsed it and dried it, she looked… just like any other dark-haired human in the kingdom.

  “I hope Master Sebastian knows what he is doing. He is placing a great deal of risk upon you,” Philippa noted. She brought a bundle forward. “This is your uniform. Take it to your room and change at once. We do not have time to spare.”

  Selene took the clothes and retreated to her quarters.

  Once the door was closed, she laid the Academy uniform on the bed: a deep crimson bodice, a stark white high-collar shirt, a dark pleated skirt, and a heavy ceremonial cape.

  She didn’t undress. She simply stood before the tall oval mirror and closed her eyes.

  She didn’t need to struggle with buttons or stiff fabric. She reached out with her mind, finding the hum of the Living Veil that rested against her skin.

  It’s been a while, she thought. I need your help.

  The Veil answered like water waiting for a current, like a second nervous system responding to her thought.

  Shift, she commanded silently.

  She visualized the uniform on the bed, the cut, the texture, the weight.

  The fabric on her body rippled. The existing fibers unwove and re-knit themselves in the span of a heartbeat. Silk hardened into the structured collar; soft cotton darkened and thickened into the crimson vest. The sensation was cool and liquid, a strange, shivering caress that vanished as soon as the form was complete.

  Selene opened her eyes.

  The reflection staring back was perfect.

  The uniform was severe but undeniably sharp. The crimson bodice fitted her torso like a second skin, enforcing a perfect, rigid posture. The white shirt was crisp, the high collar giving her an air of authority. The pleated skirt was practical, allowing for movement, while the heavy boots grounded her.

  She turned slightly, testing the feel of it, then looked at herself again. She liked it.

  A sharp knock at the door broke her concentration.

  Selene froze. Her eyes darted to the bed. The real uniform still lay there.

  She lunged forward, snatched the bundle of stiff fabric, and kicked it deep beneath the bed frame with the toe of her boot.

  "You can enter," Selene called out, smoothing the front of her mimicked skirt.

  Philippa opened the door, her eyes widening a fraction as she took in Selene’s appearance. She seemed surprised by the speed of the change, but said nothing of it.

  “Master Sebastian is the sponsor of your entry to the academy,” Philippa said, her voice dropping to a warning tone. “His reputation—and his protection—extends only as far as your competence. You represent us now. Do not make him regret it.”

  “I understand, but I did not ask for any of—” “Good,” Philippa said, already stepping aside. “You have been granted a rare honor. A Knight of the Kingdom will personally escort you to the gates of the academy.”

  Selene walked to the door, steeling herself. “A Knight?”

  "Indeed. Try not to thank her all at once."

  Selene stepped into the hallway. Standing there, leaning casually against the stone wall with a terrifying, elegant grace, Astraea.

  Selene stopped dead. It was her. Of course it was her.

  Astraea pushed herself off the dark wall. Her crimson eyes drifted over Selene’s new black hair and red uniform, a small, knowing smirk touching her lips.

  “So,” Astraea said gently, her tone almost mocking. “After you, my queen.”

  Selene’s expression darkened. Astraea noticed the look, her smirk widening, amused by the hatred.

  “Are you ready?” Astraea asked, gesturing down the hall with a gloved hand.