Mo jerked awake before dawn, her fingers still tracing phantom sigils in the air. Her nightshirt clung to her skin, damp with cold sweat. Sleep had been a battlefield of its own—her dreams a chaotic blend of botched combat spells, Julian's trembling hands beneath cruel hexes, and the smug curve of Valerius's smile as he prepared to destroy her.

  The memory of Lady Thornheart's interruption crept into her thoughts—how the Dormitory Sentinel had materialized through the wall hours earlier, her severe face etched with disapproval. The ancient guardian's eyes had narrowed to slits at the sight of Lucian demonstrating an ice shield formation in their common room.

  "Mr. Frostbrook," she said, "male students are expressly forbidden from female dormitories after the Witching Hour, as decreed by the Umbral Code of Conduct, Section VII, paragraph iii." Her spectral form had flickered with indignation. "Even if said male is an heir to the Frostbrook Dynasty."

  Lucian had bowed with perfect, frost-edged formality before gathering his books. "Time, the thief of practice, steals away my chance to help," he'd murmured to Mo. "Remember—deflect, ground, redirect. The pattern is the power."

  Without Lucian's calm precision guiding her through the more complex defensive spells, Mo had struggled through another hour of preparation with Nyx before collapsing into bed.

  "Deflect, ground, redirect," Mo muttered, repeating Lucian's instructions as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her muscles screamed in protest, magical burnout throbbing bone-deep. Each sigil they'd practiced, each spell they tried, had left invisible brands on her soul. Reminders of how long she'd let her powers lie dormant.

  Outside the window, the Academy's perpetual twilight was just beginning to brighten to something resembling morning. Mo stretched, wincing as her shoulders protested. Who knew magic practice could leave you feeling like you'd been hit by a truck?

  A tap at the window made her jump: a raven perched on the sill, its feathers pitch black against the gray light. A letter was clutched in its beak, sealed with something that vaguely resembled the crest of Blackthorn Keep.

  "Seriously?" Mo groaned. "Now what?"

  She cracked the window, allowing the bird inside, dropping the letter onto her nightstand before fixing her with an expectant stare. Unlike the messenger that visited her on Earth, this one clearly wasn't leaving without acknowledgment.

  "Fine," she muttered, breaking the seal. "But I don't have any treats for you."

  The letter unfolded itself, the parchment crackling with faint energy. The handwriting was cramped, angular, and oddly formal:

  To Her Imperial Dread Sovereign, Lady Morgana Elaris Vexaria Nyx Nightshade (Provisional),

  I am writing to inform you of urgent news concerning our agreement. The Council has moved to nullify your decree regarding tax relief for goblin workers, citing your "provisional" status as grounds for overruling economic decisions that "impact the long-term stability of Blackthorn Keep."

  My people grow restless. Already, there is talk of more aggressive action—total work stoppage, blockades of essential supply routes, and even infiltration of the Keep's underground passages.

  I have urged restraint, reminding everyone that you gave your word. But words grow thin when bellies remain empty and burdens heavy.

  We require your intervention, Dark Lady. We cannot guarantee peace if you cannot honor your promise.

  —Grimz, Elected Representative of the United Goblin Workers

  P.S. Lord Aldric seemed particularly pleased about this development. Thought you should know.

  Mo crumpled the letter, then immediately smoothed it out again, her fingers leaving faint scorch marks on the parchment. Of course, the Council would undermine her the moment she left. Of course, they'd use her 'provisional' status against her when it suited them. And, of course, Aldric would be behind it.

  "Problems?" Nyx's sleepy voice came from their bedroom. "A bird in the morning. Couldn't be anything but problems."

  "Council politics," Mo sighed, tossing the letter onto her bed. "They're blocking the goblin tax relief I promised, and now there might be a full-scale rebellion at home."

  "Mmm, rebellions before breakfast? Absolutely dreadful timing, darling." Nyx's form solidified as they entered the common room, stretching dramatically with limbs elongating several impossible inches. Their hair cycled through a spectrum of blues and purples before settling. "Want me to turn someone into a particularly warty toad for you? I've been perfecting the most delightful lime-green shade—very fetching with bloodshot eyes."

  Despite everything, Mo snorted. "Thanks, but I think that would just make things worse." She rubbed her temples, where a headache was beginning to form. "Also, isn't it a bit stereotypical and racist offering to turn someone into a toad while I'm dealing with a goblin rebellion?"

  "Ah, yes, you are right, let's avoid that."

  "Anyway," said Mo, setting the letter aside. "First, I need to focus on surviving today's duel. I can deal with everything else after I avoid being publicly eviscerated by Valerius."

  The memory of last night's practice session flashed through Mo's mind—Nyx demonstrating offensive spellcasting with fluid, ever-changing gestures; Lucian creating intricate ice shields that refracted magic back at its caster; Mo struggling to keep up with both, her own powers rusty and uncooperative after years of disuse.

  She'd finally managed to produce a passable protection sigil sometime just before midnight, collapsing onto her bed shortly after. But even that small victory felt hollow now. How was she supposed to duel someone who'd been training for years when she could barely remember the basics?

  Worse, how could she focus on magical combat when her realm was falling apart in her absence?

  "I swear, they're doing this on purpose," she muttered. "Waiting until I'm gone to pick apart whatever authority I have left. Why did they even bother to notify me in the first place?"

  Nyx was fully awake now, their form settling into something with slightly sharper edges than usual. "So what's the plan? Emergency portal home? Assassination? Strongly worded letter?"

  "Focus!" Mo said, reaching for her spellbook, "The plan is to not embarrass myself in front of the entire Academy first. Then figure out how to stop a goblin rebellion from another dimension."

  She glanced at the clock—still two hours before Combat Applications class. Two hours to prepare for a magical duel with her teenage nemesis. Two hours to somehow become the Dark Lady she'd spent years avoiding.

  The raven, still perched on the windowsill, cawed impatiently.

  "Tell Grimz I received his message and am working on a solution," she said. The bird tilted its head, clearly wanting more. "That's all I've got right now. Go on. Shoo!"

  With what seemed like an avian shrug, the raven took flight, disappearing into the gloomy morning sky.

  Mo turned back to her spellbook, flipping to the section on defensive magic. She had two hours. It had to be enough.

  ***

  Mo stopped dead in her tracks as she entered the Combat Applications classroom alone. The iron-tinged smell of old magic and something disturbingly like dried blood hit her nostrils. Instead of the expected rows of desks and lecterns, she faced a sunken circular arena ringed with tiered seating that resembled an ancient gladiatorial colosseum in miniature. Obsidian tiles covered the floor, each etched with protective runes that glowed faintly purple in the dim light. Four ornate pillars carved with twisted, snarling faces marked the cardinal directions, crackling with containment magic that sent shivers down Mo's spine—magic clearly designed to keep spectators safe and combatants trapped until a victor emerged.

  "The Pit," a voice whispered behind her. "Where Umbra Academy's finest attempt to murder each other for extra credit."

  Mo turned to find Lucian. "You're alone," he said. "Where's Nyx?"

  "Still at the dorm when I left," Mo answered. "Said something about 'making an entrance worth remembering' and practically pushed me out the door."

  Students were already filling the stands, an excited buzz of conversation punctuated by the occasional laugh or shout. Near the entrance, a girl with six arms was taking bets, writing names and odds on several floating scrolls simultaneously.

  "What are the odds on the Nightshade match?" a student with antlers asked, dropping several coins into one of the girl's outstretched palms.

  "Five to one against," she replied without looking up. "Valerius is heavily favored."

  "Make it ten coins on Nightshade then," the antlered boy said, surprising Mo. "I like underdogs."

  Lucian steered Mo away before she could hear more. "Ignore them. Betting is half the entertainment around here."

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  "Great," Mo muttered. "Nothing like knowing everyone expects you to fail." Her eyes nervously scanned the room. "Any sign of Valerius?"

  "Not yet, but..." Lucian began, then froze mid-sentence.

  A side door opened, and Professor Ossian swept in, his robes the color of dried blood. "Aspirants of the Dark Arts," his voice boomed, magically amplified to fill the chamber. "Welcome to Combat Applications."

  The gathered crowd roared at the professor's words and he waited for a moment while the noise subsided.

  "We have a tradition of starting the year with some healthy competition," professor continued. "Today's matches will show us your practical ability to channel offensive and defensive magic under pressure." His gaunt face swept across the gathered students. "Victory comes through submission or incapacitation of your opponent."

  An assistant stepped forward, unrolling a scroll. "Standard safety protocols are in effect," he announced. "Permanent physical damage is discouraged but not prohibited. Mental manipulation lasting beyond match parameters is forbidden. Death results in automatic failure of the course."

  A ripple of laughter passed through the crowd. Mo couldn't tell if they found the death penalty funny or just the idea that anyone would care.

  "First match," Ossian continued, consulting the scroll. "Nyxir Obscuris versus Damien Ravencroft."

  "But of course," said Lucian. "It's their turn and they are nowhere to be seen!"

  The crowd erupted in excited whispers. Mo's head snapped toward the entrance, but there was still no sign of Nyx.

  "Where are they?" she hissed to Lucian. "They can't miss their own duel!"

  Lucian's expression remained calm, though a delicate frost pattern spread across his collar. "I agree, that's odd. But I'm sure, Nyx wouldn't miss an opportunity for drama."

  As if summoned by his words, the main doors burst open with a bang. The torches on the walls flickered wildly, some of them extinguishing completely. In the momentary darkness, a figure stood silhouetted against the corridor's faint light.

  Nyx glided into the room, their form a masterpiece of calculated rebellion. They wore what at first glance appeared to be a formal battle gown, but convention shattered with each step. The high-necked bodice of midnight blue seamlessly transitioned into a flowing skirt that rippled like liquid shadow, defying gravity as panels shifted to reveal glimpses of deep purple underneath. Silver sigils crawled across the fabric like living things, occasionally pulsing with inner light that matched the rhythm of Nyx's movements. Instead of the traditional flowing sleeves, the gown featured sharp, angular shoulder pieces that morphed subtly in shape whenever anyone stared too long. Nyx's hair had been styled into an impossible crown of obsidian spikes that occasionally liquefied and reformed in different patterns.

  The crowd fell silent, captivated. Even Professor Ossian seemed momentarily at a loss for words.

  "Apologies for my tardiness," Nyx announced. "I simply couldn't decide which face to wear for my debut."

  As if to emphasize the point, Nyx's features briefly melted and reformed, cycling through three different appearances before settling back into their current form.

  Damien Ravencroft, a lean vampire with aristocratic features, sneered from his position at the arena's edge. "I've heard about you, Obscuris. Theatrical, as always. Flashy." He looked around, playing for the audience. "You see, he is just playing mind games with his father. From a safe distance."

  Nyx's smile was shark-like. "Flash is merely the warning before the strike, darling." They descended into the arena with fluid grace. "But… I thought even your small brain filled with borrowed blood would understand that on this occasion, 'she' would be a much better pronoun. Still, I'll make it even simpler for you. From now on, just use 'they.'"

  The audience gasped at the barrage of insults coming from both sides. However, some students giggled, and Professor Ossian's assistant was already scribbling notes. It was all part of the arrangement. It was the first act of the duel.

  Mo leaned closer to Lucian. "Is Nyx going to be okay? They didn't practice with us as much as they should have focusing on helping me."

  "Watch," Lucian said simply, his eyes tracking Nyx's movements with analytical precision. "We haven't had a chance to study together. But I know a thing or two about each worthy opponent here. And Nyx… they are worthy."

  The bell tolled, and Damien wasted no time. His hands moved in rapid, practiced motions, launching three blood-red sigils that spiraled toward Nyx.

  Instead of dodging, Nyx attempted to spin directly into the attack's path, their body partially shifting to incorporeal smoke. Two sigils passed through harmlessly, but the third caught their shoulder, causing them to wince as they absorbed and contained its energy within their shifting form.

  Damien's confident expression faltered. "What…"

  Nyx's body solidified with glowing red patterns pulsing beneath their obsidian skin—the vampire's own attack, repurposed. "Titanborn demons are supposed to be rigid, unchanging," Nyx said conversationally, advancing with predatory grace. "But change is my greatest strength."

  They thrust both hands forward, struggling momentarily with the unfamiliar energy before releasing Damien's magic back at him—partially amplified but noticeably unstable. The vampire, caught off guard by the unconventional counter, managed to deflect most of it, though the backlash still scorched the sleeve of his uniform and left him grimacing.

  The crowd roared. Mo watched, transfixed, as Nyx continued to fight. Part dance, part shapeshifting miracle.

  When Damien unleashed a blast of darkness, Nyx's body split into three forms before recombining behind him. Trapped in a binding circle, they simply became something the spell couldn't recognize.

  It was beautiful chaos—pure Nyx: adaptable, unpredictable, authentic.

  The end came suddenly. Damien, growing desperate, attempted a deadly blood-draining hex. As the crimson tendrils reached for Nyx, they simply opened their arms in welcome. The magic connected, but instead of draining Nyx, it created a feedback loop. Damien gasped, staggering backward as his own energy was pulled into Nyx's ever-shifting form.

  "I mentioned the borrowed blood, haven't I?" Nyx asked loudly enough for everyone to hear, "I warned this poor chap right from the start. He just had to listen to the words I pronounced."

  They stepped closer to the collapsed form of their opponent. "The thing about young vampires, is that they never consider what happens when something drinks from them."

  Damien dropped to one knee. "I yield," he gasped.

  The crowd exploded in cheers and exclamations. Nyx took an elaborate bow, their battle gown momentarily transforming into enormous, feathered wings before settling back into fabric.

  Near the entrance, the six-armed bookie was suddenly surrounded by students frantically trying to adjust their bets. "Odds on Nightshade improved to three-to-one!" she announced, her multiple hands working furiously to update the floating scrolls. "Frostbrook now even money after that display!" Mo noticed the antlered student from earlier grinning as he pushed more coins toward one of the bookie's hands, pointing in her direction. The pressure in her chest tightened—Nyx's unorthodox victory had made people believe she might have surprises of her own.

  As Nyx climbed the steps out of the arena, they caught Mo's eye and winked. "Just be yourself," they mouthed before collapsing dramatically into a seat beside her.

  "That was..." Mo began.

  "Completely improvised," Nyx finished, grinning. "Father would be horrified. A proper Titanborn never displays their true nature so... fluidly."

  "Second match!" Professor Ossian announced, his voice cutting through the excited chatter. The words were followed by a pair of names neither Mo nor her friends recognized. And if Mo believed Lucian's earlier comment, that only meant those students weren't worthy opponents.

  The duels continued for an hour or so, with a few injuries but no dramatic endings, until another familiar name was mentioned.

  "Lucian Frostbrook versus Helena Thornblood," Professor Ossian said, getting the attention of the trio of friends.

  Lucian rose gracefully, frost patterns spreading from his feet as he stepped forward. Unlike Nyx's dramatic entrance, he moved with quiet, understated elegance. His opponent—a tall girl with thorny protrusions along her arms—was already descending into the arena, her expression hungry for victory.

  "Frost demon versus blood thorn witch," Nyx whispered to Mo. "Traditionally, he should be using his family's signature ice-spears by now. Watch how he doesn't."

  Lucian entered the arena with a formal bows to his opponent, the professor, and the assistant. While Helena immediately took an aggressive stance, Lucian stood perfectly still, his posture relaxed but alert. Frost gathered around him, but not in the jagged, weapon-like formations Mo had expected from earlier stories about the Frostbrooks—instead, it formed delicate patterns that spread across the floor in elegant filigree.

  The bell tolled, and Helena attacked immediately, sending a barrage of thorny projectiles toward Lucian. He responded with a subtle gesture, creating not a shield but a series of graceful arcs of ice that reminded Mo the paths of bobsleigh and redirected the thorns around Lucian and above him.

  "He's treating combat like a dance," Mo realized aloud.

  Lucian moved with studied economy, each gesture creating beautiful formations that, despite their fragile elegance, mostly served their purposes. When Helena unleashed a whip of thorns aimed at his face, he hastily crafted an ice mirror that cracked upon impact but still managed to reflect not just the fragments of her attack but also the light from the multiple torches placed around the hall, momentarily disorienting the young witch.

  Where Nyx had been chaos and adaptation, Lucian was precision and transformation—turning each attack into something beautiful rather than brutal. He never struck directly, instead creating intricate ice structures that gradually limited Helena's movement, redirected and limited her attacks, or sapped her energy and warmth.

  The crowd watched in confused fascination. This wasn't how a Frostbrook was supposed to fight. Where were the impaling ice spears? The instantly frozen blood and shattered limbs that had made his family infamous?

  Helena grew increasingly frustrated, her attacks becoming wilder and less controlled. Finally, she slammed her palms against the obsidian floor, causing emerald vines laced with poisonous blooms to erupt from the ground. The plants writhed with malevolent intelligence, forming a cage of deadly flowers around Lucian as they reached hungrily toward him. Each blossom released a shimmering cloud of hallucinogenic pollen—a signature spell of the Thornblood family meant to trap opponents in their worst nightmares while the vines constricted them.

  In response, Lucian closed his eyes for a moment, his brow furrowing with concentration. Frost spread unevenly from his hands, and he bit his lip as he struggled to maintain focus. Instead of forming weapons or shields, the ice gradually took shape as a sculpture of himself—not perfect, but recognizable enough that several students gasped at the ambitious attempt.

  The plants immediately sensed the object and tightened around it. The blossoms turned toward the ice sculpture, releasing their full payload of hallucinogenic pollen, which swirled uselessly around the emotionless ice figure. As the vines squeezed, the sculpture began to fracture—but instead of shattering completely, each crack released a burst of freezing air that crystallized the pollen and spread frost along the vines.

  Helena's creation withered as its energy was absorbed into Lucian's ice, the magical backlash draining her own reserves. Her flowers drooped, and the vines crumbled into frozen fragments.

  "What is this trick?" Helena demanded, her voice cracking with exhaustion.

  "Not a trick," Lucian replied. "Just redirection."

  Helena staggered, her magical reserves depleted by the backfired spell. Lucian stepped forward and touched one finger to her forehead.

  Frost spread across her skin—not harmful, just enough to make his point. Still, she was too overwhelmed to continue. "I yield!" she cried, more from shock than pain.

  As the frost receded, Lucian bowed again and spoke clearly enough for everyone to hear: "Ice need not always pierce to prevail; sometimes it simply shows truth's cold reflection."

  The silence that followed was profound, broken only when Professor Ossian cleared his throat. "Victory to Frostbrook," he announced, sounding slightly perplexed.

  Lucian returned to his seat beside Mo and Nyx, seemingly unaffected by the stares following him.

  "Not exactly the Frostbrook way, is it?" Nyx teased, though their eyes showed genuine respect.

  "My family freezes hearts in fear," Lucian replied quietly. "I'd rather freeze moments in beauty."

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