Page 27 of Beasts of Shadows #1

Dr. Kite paces the front of the lecture chamber like she’s already disappointed in all of us.

The windows are fogged, the candles around the perimeter flickering despite the absence of wind. The faint scent of iron and burnt citrus lingers in the air—some charm she burned earlier, probably to keep half the students awake.

She’s in her usual jeans and blouse, her antlers catching the low light like burnished bone.

“You all think survival at Van Ritten is about skill,” she says, gaze sweeping the rows. “It isn’t. It’s about reputation. Who fears you. Who follows you. Who would bleed for you.”

Across the room, students shift uncomfortably. Kilronan stretches his massive arms. Ta?sse preens her hair with a little clawed comb. Nikolai leans back like the room’s for his entertainment and we’re just filler.

“And what better way to build a name,” Dr. Kite continues, “than to stake something?”

She drops a small stack of duel slips on her desk. The parchment rustles like dried leaves.

“Let’s clarify the rules about duels, before another one of you makes a dumb mistake on the full moon.”

I peer at the empty seat to my left. Anas once sat there. But he picked a fight with a Rakshasa Ravager on the Bonfire Moon, and got added to the swiftly growing roster of deceased students.

“Duels are private, sanctioned engagements. Quiet. Clean. No theatrics. Not everything here is for public glory. Sometimes the gods reward discretion more than spectacle.”

She pauses, her voice going cool.

“Because they’re always watching. Always listening. Waiting to see who survives. And who impresses.”

There’s a long silence after that.

Dr. Kite lets it stretch.

Then she says, “Van Ritten doesn’t care if you’re likable. It doesn’t care if you’re kind. It doesn’t even care if you’re smart.”

Her green-glow eyes land on a boy in the front row—someone with a god-complex and a crooked cravat. He immediately looks down at his notes.

“It cares if you make it.”

Another beat.

“If someone challenged you at the next full moon, could you win? Or would you be another smear they mop off the floor before morning lectures?”

Nobody answers.

“Dueling isn’t about bravado. It’s not a status stunt.

It’s a test. One-on-one. Sealed grounds.

No audience. Just you, your opponent, and whatever strength you’ve managed to claw out of this place.

Too many students tried to duel this last Bonfire Moon.

And where does that leave the sophomore class?

Hmm? Three dead, and four in the infirmary. ”

My scalp tingles, and I glance over to see that Nikolai is watching me.

A pause.

“And if you win… maybe someone up there decides you’re worth the trouble.”

Her gaze flicks upward, toward the ceiling.

The gods. The patrons. The powers that be.

She drops the slips back on the desk, the sound final.

“But you need to be smart about who you challenge. How you challenge. Don’t overreach.”

Her attention flickers to me.

“Dismissed.”

The room exhales in a ripple of movement—desks creaking, parchment rustling, chairs scraping against stone as students file out in pairs and groups, whispering half-jokes to shake off the tension.

I stand slower.

I don’t make it to the door.

“Harper.”

Nikolai’s voice slices through the low hum of conversation. He’s still seated, legs sprawled, eyes on me like I’m already late to something only he knows the time for.

I turn. “What?”

His lips tilt, slow and sharp.

“You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

I blink.

Then it lands.

The duel.

“No,” I say.

He rises—not rushed, just efficient. One smooth movement. He crosses to me without hesitation, his seafoam eyes tracking me like I’m a threat worth cataloging.

“No one else knows,” he murmurs. “That’s how it stays.”

“I wasn’t planning on making a flyer.”

He steps closer, just enough that I have to tilt my chin to meet his gaze. Close enough to smell salt and something faintly metallic, like blood under the skin.

“Two weeks,” he says. “You’ve got until the November Bonfire Moon. After that…”

His voice trails off, but the implication hangs between us like a drawn blade.

After that, it’s him or me.

I nod. “Fine.”

A glint of something unreadable flickers in his expression—something like approval, but sharper.

Then he leans in just a fraction, voice low.

“I hope you come ready to bleed.”

#

I’m halfway back from Dr. Kite’s seminar when Picca intercepts me.

She doesn’t call out.

She just steps out from behind one of the tall courtyard arches like she’s always been there—leaning against the stone, maroon pantsuit pressed and perfect, lips stained the color of dried berries.

There’s an apple in one hand. She bites into it slowly, watching me with the flat-eyed patience of a predator waiting for something to bleed.

“You’re a special kind of idiot,” she says, mouth full. “You know that?”

I sigh, not stopping. “Nice to see you, too.”

“You challenged Matholwch.”

“It was time someone did.”

“You’re not ready.”

I glance at her. “Then help me get ready.”

She tosses the apple core over her shoulder and falls into step beside me. “You want my advice?”

“I thought that’s what I was already getting.”

She ignores the sarcasm.

“If you want to survive this place—if you want to stand a chance against someone like him—you need to stop trying to win by their rules.”

I frown. “Whose rules should I be playing by, then?”

“Yours,” she snaps. “You’re a seer. Stop pretending that doesn’t give you an edge.”

I cross my arms. “Visions aren’t reliable. They come when they want.”

“Then make them want to.”

I shoot her a look.

She sighs, like she’s already tired of this conversation.

“You’re still thinking like a mortal. Like there’s fairness. Like if you just try hard enough, you’ll earn respect. That’s not how Van Ritten works.”

“So what—cheat?”

She stops walking, forcing me to stop too.

“No,” she says. “Use your teeth. That’s what a vision is—it’s a weapon. And you’ve been using it like a prayer.”

I shift uncomfortably. “And what exactly am I supposed to see that would help against someone like Nikolai?”

She steps in closer, voice low. “You’re telling me you haven’t already seen something? Some edge? Some pattern? The way he moves? The moments he hesitates?”

I don’t answer.

Her gaze sharpens.

“You have. You’re just afraid to trust it.”

I hate that she’s right.

Picca’s expression softens—but not much.

“I’ve seen you fight to stay alive. I’ve seen what you’ll do for people you love. Don’t waste that spine trying to impress a boy in a blazer.”

I snort. “That’s not what this is.”

“Maybe not yet,” she says. “But we both know you’re already circling him.”

She holds up a small charm—glass-bound thread, glowing faintly.

“Take this. It’ll stabilize your visions for about two minutes. You get one shot. Use it right, and you’ll see the cracks.”

I hesitate.

“Picca—this feels like cheating.”

“No,” she says. “It’s survival. And if you can’t stomach that, maybe don’t pick fights with twats. And if you can’t win against him, well, you don’t deserve to go against Cales.”

She presses the charm into my palm and turns to go.

“Two weeks, Harper,” she calls over her shoulder. “You’re either going to rise—or burn.”

And then she’s gone.

The charm is warm in my hand.

And for the first time, I wonder which one of those fates I actually want.

#

By the following week, I’ve started playing the game.

Picca’s charm stays looped around my wrist, hidden under the cuff of my Van Ritten blazer. It’s a thin thread of glass and bloodwire, warm to the touch and always pulsing faintly—like it knows how close I am to needing it.

I’ve stopped asking questions during lectures. Stopped showing up late. Stopped flinching when gods pass by.

I listen.

I observe.

And for the first time since arriving on this cursed island, I start to move up the freshmen ranks.

It’s not flashy. I don’t win duels. I don’t start fights.

But I predict them. I know who’s failing before the professors do.

I know which students will slip up during practicals, which ones will get careless after dark, which hallway to duck into to avoid the scorn of a demigod with an inferiority complex.

I’m not better than the others.

But I see more.

It starts small—small shifts in my favor. Professors calling on me more. My name moved two lines up the wall in the freshmen commons, etched in that shimmery ink the school uses to track us like livestock.

I don’t celebrate.

I just keep moving.

That’s how it works here.

Survive. Climb. Repeat.

I’m in the library one night, curled into the same high-backed velvet chair I’ve been hiding in all week, when a vision hits.

Not a full-blown seizure. Not even a warning flicker.

Just a stillness.

Like the whole world holds its breath.

The candle beside me flickers, guttering low.

I grip the charm.

And I fall.

I’m somewhere cold.

Outcast.

A hallway—long and narrow, lined in silver tile. Not Van Ritten. Not any school I’ve seen. It smells like salt and antiseptic. Too clean.

At the far end, a boy sits on the floor. Small. No older than six or seven. Black-blue ringlets fall across his eyes, and his tunic—midnight silk stitched in patterns I don’t recognize—pools around him like it’s too heavy to wear.

His legs are drawn up. His arms around his knees.

He’s not crying.

But he’s close.

Then…footsteps.

Not harsh. Not threatening.

Soft.

A woman appears at the end of the corridor. Her gown glimmers with sea-glass thread, and her long matching hair falls over one shoulder in a single, perfect braid. Her presence calms the air, like the hush that comes just before the tide rolls in.

I’ve seen her before. I know her, though I don’t have the presence of mind to know from where.

She kneels beside him, gathering him into her arms without asking.

And the boy—it must be Nikolai—leans into her touch like it’s the only thing keeping him whole.

“I messed it up,” he whispers.

She strokes his hair. “Yes. You did.”