Twelve horses. Two drivers. Three magical dampeners on each wheel, tuned to eliminate vibration. My mother had overseen the enchantments herself. It wasn’t luxury. It was expectation.
I hadn’t moved in over an hour.
Stillness is natural to me. Motion belongs to those with something to prove.
Outside, the forest blurred past the window in streaks of late-afternoon silver. Trees leaned inward, wind-touched and reverent. The sunlight filtered through in pale shafts, painting light across the obsidian trim of my sleeves.
I didn’t blink.
The handmaiden across from me cleared her throat. “Would Your Grace care for chilled plum nectar?”
I didn’t open my eyes.
“No.”
She withdrew the tray without question, as she should. I could have taken it. Vampires can consume food and drink. But it is a performance. A sweet, sticky pretense that offers nothing—no strength, no clarity, no use.
I feed when required. Discreetly. Elegantly. Never for pleasure. The rest of the time, I keep up appearances. Not out of shame, but discipline.
That is the Duskbane way.
Outside, the world trudged along at its usual, crawling pace.
Peasants dragging bundles of wheat. Barefoot children with cracked heels and dirt-blind eyes. A farmer guiding a half-dead ox down the road with a stick and some whispered prayer.
I observed them, not with disdain, but the detachment one feels watching insects rearrange a nest. Present. Necessary. Irrelevant.
One girl pointed as we passed. Her mother yanked her hand down and whispered in a rush. I couldn’t hear the words, but I recognized their shape.
Don’t look too long.
They teach that in most places now.
The interior of the carriage smelled of dried lilies and old candlewax. The cushions were trimmed in starlace. The House sigil—our black rose ringed in silver—was stamped discreetly on every surface. Even the floor beneath my boots.
The priestess sat across from me, her lips moving silently in a prayer I didn’t need. Wind howled faintly beyond the glass.
I ignored her.
Instead, I opened the leather-bound folder in my lap. My documents for the Grand Academy. Admission letter, blood seal, family lineage credentials, and—at the very back—a small parchment with the words Curriculum Declaration written in the old tongue.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
My fingers hovered above it.
One field.
One discipline.
That was the rule.
I frowned. One?
Limiting. Inefficient. Not unexpected, but still disappointing.
I could feel the weight of my mother’s expectations resting on my collarbone, heavier than any velvet or sigil. Become worthy, she had said the night before I left. Be more than the title.
She did not speak often. She didn’t need to.
And I do not bend. But I calculate.
And I calculated that “more” would be required.
“I will enroll in two disciplines,” I said aloud.
The priestess stopped murmuring. Her voice faded like a snuffed wick.
“Your Grace?”
“Political Sciences and Magical Research. I will study both.”
The handmaiden beside her fumbled a pin from her sleeve. “But… the letter said only—”
I raised one eyebrow. A slow, cold movement.
She went silent immediately. The priestess hesitated.
“The Academy has rules, First Daughter. Ancient ones.”
“So do I,” I said.
I wrote the words on the parchment with a fine silver-tipped quill. My handwriting was needle-straight, the ink dark as iron.
Dual Enrollment. Authorized: Duskbane.
The seal of my House would make it law.
It always did.
At dusk, our procession passed through the border checkpoint into the outer city of Lalehan.
The guards didn’t stop us.
They didn’t dare.
They knelt as we passed, foreheads pressed to cobblestone. Not out of fear. Not exactly. Reverence is a cousin of terror, after all.
The people on the street froze. Mothers clutched children. Merchants bowed mid-sale. A few brave—or foolish—souls tried to catch a glimpse through the carriage glass.
I opened the window a fraction. Just enough for the cold air to touch my cheek.
The priestess smiled faintly. “You are seen, First Daughter.”
I didn’t answer.
Of course I’m seen.
Our rooms in the royal quarter had been prepared in advance. Bonewood furniture polished until the grain shimmered in candlelight. Wards on the windows. Servants trained not to speak unless addressed.
I changed without assistance.
The new robes were heavier. Blacker. The inner lining shimmered faintly with shadowthread. Aesthetic and function, braided together—exactly as my mother would demand.
On the pillow lay the black rose she had given me that morning. A Duskbane tradition. A parting mark.
Its petals had not wilted.
They wouldn’t. I’d ensured it myself.
As the handmaidens braided my hair for evening ritual, one of them—new, I think—whispered:
“Are you nervous, Your Grace? About the exams?”
I tilted my head. The question itself felt… incorrect.
“Nervous?”
I turned the word over in my mind, like a glass shard between fingers. Fragile. Foreign.
Then: “No. The only uncertainty is how quickly I’ll be noticed.”
The girl flushed and dropped her gaze.
I didn’t say it to shame her. I said it because it was true.
I don’t crave attention. Or glory.
I crave necessity.
If I am to inherit Duskbane, I must be more than a name wrapped in silk and fear. I must be indispensable.
Before bed, I wrote a letter to my mother. Short. Precise. Balanced between pride and utility.
Mother,
I arrive at the Academy tomorrow. The journey was uneventful. My quarters are adequate. I have selected two disciplines. This will be noted. I intend to distinguish myself in both.
May the night guard your will.
—Nyx
I sealed it with black wax and pressed the family signet into the surface. Sharp and final. The priestess would deliver it before dawn.
No reply would come. My mother doesn’t write. She waits for proof.
Later, I stood on the balcony alone, overlooking Lalehan.
The city glittered with yellow lights and soft towers. It pulsed with too much warmth, too little shape. I could see the river winding through it like a drunk thread.
Beyond it—past the inner wall—the Academy loomed. Its spires rose like fangs against the dark, half-shrouded in mist. Waiting.
Not inviting. Just there.
I closed my eyes and breathed in the cold.
I didn’t come here to impress.
I came to confirm what I already know.
Tomorrow, they will test me.
And the day after that?
They will remember me.