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A heavy silence followed, as though something sacred had been spoken into existence. A flickering candle cast shifting shadows across the cards, and for a fleeting moment, I swore they moved—just the barest tremor of ink and parchment.

Professor King exhaled slowly, folding his hands before him. “Now,” he said, looking around the table, “each of you will select a deck and begin your own reading. We will begin easy, with only pulling one card. Let the cards speak. Listen.”

As the students reached hesitantly for their chosen decks, I hesitated. The words still hung in the air, sinking deep into my thoughts. The Fool. The Magician. The High Priestess. A journey, a force of will, and the secrets in between.

And somewhere, beneath the hum of candlelight and the rustling of shuffled cards, I could feel it—the faintest pull of something unseen, something waiting just beyond the veil of understanding.

I swallowed hard as I reached for the deck, my fingers brushing against the cool, worn edges of the cards. A faint hum filled the air—whether from the charged silence of the room or something unseen stirring beneath the surface, I wasn’t sure.

One deep breath. Then another. I pulled a card from the deck with trembling fingers and turned it over, every sense tuned to its revelation.

The Nine of Wands.

The illustration struck me like a whispered warning.

A lone figure stood beneath a storm-darkened sky, battered but unbroken, leaning against a staff while eight more wands loomed behind him like silent sentinels.

I could almost feel the figure’s exhaustion in my bones, the deep weariness etched into every inked line and shadow.

His face was unreadable, but his struggle was familiar; the aura of impending conflict prickled at my skin like an unspoken threat.

Even as I stared, drawn into its somber depths, it felt like the atmosphere itself dimmed with portent—the ghostly roll of distant thunder echoing from the parchment, a static charge building in the spectral air.

A strange pressure settled in my chest. The moment stretched long and taut as the image deepened, my breath catching as though caught in a snare.

Just for a fraction of a second, the ink seemed to shift—the figure’s eyes lifted to meet mine, dark and knowing, as if the card itself was aware of me.

As if it held more secrets than even its intricate lines could contain.

Then the sensation vanished.

I blinked, my pulse loud in my ears. My fingers tightened around the card’s edge as I forced myself to look away, exhaling a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

Across the table, Professor King moved with measured grace, offering quiet guidance to each student. His fingers drifted over their cards, his voice smooth as silk, unraveling their meanings with an effortless certainty that only deepened the mystery.

Vivienne, seated a few places away, made a small sound of dismay. “Four of Pentacles?” she huffed, her voice sharper than usual. “Surely, that’s a mistake.”

I turned my head just in time to see her scowling down at the card, her manicured fingers poised above it like she might shove it away. Her usual confidence seemed to waver, and her cheeks flushed a deep red, a stark contrast against the serene determination she usually displayed.

Professor King paused beside her, his expression unreadable but patient, the faintest glint of amusement in his kaleidoscope eyes.

“Tell me, Miss Devereux, what do you see?”

Vivienne crossed her arms, her frustration palpable. “A man hoarding coins like a miser,” she said, disdain dripping from each syllable. “That’s not me.”

Professor King’s amusement deepened into something more thoughtful.

“Ah, but the cards do not accuse. They reveal.

" He tapped a finger gently against the card’s surface, allowing silence to hang between them.

“This is not about greed, but control. Possessiveness. A desire to hold tightly to what is yours, perhaps out of fear that letting go means losing something vital.”

Vivienne’s mouth tightened, but she said nothing.

A beat passed, tension coiling in the space between them before she dropped her gaze to the table.

Her hair fell forward, shielding her eyes, but I could see the flicker of new calculations behind them—a momentary lapse of certainty that she quickly masked.

Professor King inclined his head slightly, then turned away, making his way toward me.

I forced my shoulders to relax, but the weight of the Nine of Wands still pressed against me, as if the ink itself had whispered a warning in my ear.

“Miss Vale,” he murmured, stopping at my side. His gaze fell to my card, his brow lifting ever so slightly. “Ah.”

I swallowed, feeling suddenly exposed. “It’s… not a great omen, is it?”

Professor King didn’t answer right away. He lowered himself gracefully onto the cushion beside me, steepling his fingers as he regarded the card with something like curiosity, a soft hum of something unreadable lingering in the air.

“The Nine of Wands does not bring comfort, no,” he admitted. “But neither does it bring doom.” He looked up, meeting my gaze with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. “This is the card of the survivor. Of someone who has fought battle after battle and still stands, weary but unyielding.”

I glanced at the image again, my pulse unsteady. “But at what cost?” I murmured. The question slipped out unbidden, raw and revealing, echoing my deepest fears.

A small smile flickered at the edges of Professor King’s lips, touched with something like understanding. “That,” he said, voice quiet but certain, “is for you to decide.”

The words settled over me like a shadow. Above, the candlelight seemed to flicker in response, casting its own silent agreement in the shifting shadows.

An uneasy awareness tightened around my thoughts, the sense of something just beyond my comprehension pulling at me like a whisper on the edge of hearing. I drew in a shaky breath, trying to ignore the way it felt as though every eye in the room was fixed on me.

Especially his.

I could sense Samael’s gaze like a tangible weight, dark and penetrating from across the circle, but I couldn’t bring myself to turn and meet it.

The charged silence of the room seemed to echo the charged silence between us, a chasm that had grown wider and more daunting with every passing day.

I pretended to focus on the card before me, but his presence burned at the edge of my awareness, impossible to forget.

The Saturnine Woods loomed ahead, a wall of darkness and ancient secrets stretching beyond sight. Even from the academy grounds, the air grew colder, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something older—something that lurked between the twisted roots and shifting shadows.

I swallowed against the knot in my throat. The letter still burned in my pocket, a weight both physical and unseen. The messenger raven had been precise, the note containing only a few simple words:

Come to the edge of the woods. Midnight. Come alone.

It was foolish to answer such a summons.

Reckless, even. Yet some deeper instinct had pulled me from the safety of my dormitory, guiding my steps across the moonlit grounds, past the ivy-covered stone walls, past the last of the lantern-lit pathways that marked the boundary between safety and the unknown.

Now, as I stood before the looming iron gate that led to the forest’s edge, the weight of my decision settled in my bones.

The Saturnine Woods had never welcomed intruders.

The towering trees bent toward one another, their gnarled branches intertwining like skeletal fingers whispering secrets between the leaves.

The mist clung to the forest floor in thick ribbons, twisting and shifting as though it were alive.

A low wind slithered through the foliage, carrying hushed murmurs that sent a chill crawling up my spine.

For a long moment, I hesitated, my pulse thudding in my ears.

The woods were old—older than Drakestone Academy, older than any recorded history of Mystral. And they did not suffer trespassers lightly.

I shivered and clutched my robe tighter around my shoulders, the fabric suddenly feeling thinner, useless against the creeping chill.

The academy was behind me, its golden lights flickering in the distance, but they felt impossibly far.

Here, at the threshold of the forest, the air was thick with something unseen, something waiting.

What if this was a trap?

What if the sender of the letter was watching me even now, hidden in the gloom beyond the trees?

A branch snapped in the undergrowth, and I froze.

Then, the slow, deliberate groan of rusted iron met my ears.

The gate.

It creaked open, inch by agonizing inch, and beyond it, the mist parted just enough to reveal a figure approaching, their footsteps light against the uneven path.

I inhaled sharply, fingernails trembling at my sides, poised to run—or fight.

The footfalls drew closer.

And then, in the hush of the night, a voice—low, calm, and unmistakably familiar—broke the silence.

“ Hello, little raven. ”

I exhaled slowly, willing my heart to settle into something resembling rhythm. Mist curled low through the trees, wrapping around Samael’s silhouette like smoke. He stepped from the shadows with that unnerving grace—his cloak blending seamlessly with the darkness.

I didn’t move. I refused to.

“You’re the one who sent the raven,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. Too sharp, maybe. It gave him power just to say it aloud.

Samael tilted his head, infuriatingly slow. That wolfish glint sparked behind his dark eyes, and the curve of his mouth—just barely there—hinted at some private joke I wasn’t part of.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t be curious,” he murmured, voice soft as silk, “about how far you’re willing to go for your answers?”