Page 38 of Beasts of Shadows #1

The sky’s wrong.

I know it before I open my eyes. Before the first breath rasps against my throat like smoke, and the early light stains the ceiling the color of rust. My skin prickles with it—power thrumming low and mean, waking beneath my bones like it’s hungry.

Bonfire Moon.

The air knows.

Stella’s bunk is already empty. So is Avril’s. She barely spoke last night, but she was shaking, whispering prayers into her pillow. Probably ran off to the temple the second the sun cracked.

I don’t blame her.

My sheets are damp with sweat, though frost webs the edges of the open window. That’s Van Ritten for you. Summer ends when the gods say so. And Calea loves the cold.

I drag myself upright, muscles aching from yesterday’s hike and whatever hell the academy has planned for tonight. Something’s coming.

I lace my boots slow, tight, mechanical.

I try not to think about the broken seals. Nor the fact that I’m expected to duel a god—demigod? I still haven’t figured it out—tonight.

Nor the fact that the man who I’m fighting tonight kissed me less than four nights ago.

And though I try to forget it, it crawls back in, uninvited, like it always does.

Nikolai’s mouth crashing into mine. Hot. Bitter. Hungry.

My hands gripping his coat—not to shove, but to pull.

My body betraying me before my brain could catch up.

And then—Ravi.

The next breath. The next mistake.

His hands, his mouth, the sweat and steam and half-remembered things he whispered against my skin. My knees wrapped around his waist like I could force myself back into who I used to be.

I almost let him have me. Just to prove I still had a choice.

But I didn’t. Not really.

Because it was never about him.

It was about erasing something that won’t stay erased.

It’s been four nights.

And I’m still burning.

Still hollow.

Still stuck between the boy who kissed me like he was drowning and the boy who loved me before we turned into something else.

I double-knot my laces and push the thoughts away.

Not down. Just… away.

When I step outside, the morning sky is the color of clotted wine. The wind smells scorched, like blood on hot stone. All around the quad, upperclassmen move like they’re heading to war. Some are laughing like they’ve already won.

I round the corner toward the academic building—and stop.

He’s there.

Nikolai leans against a post, arms folded, posture relaxed in that arrogant way of his. His maroon coat hangs open, the silk collar turned carelessly up.

Of course he looks perfect. Like he doesn’t lose sleep. Like he doesn’t kiss girls just to prove a point.

Ah, but that gold star and Ouroboros over his breast gleams—clear proof he’s top of the class, and majoring in Rhetoric and Divine Diplomacy.

I glance at my starless jacket. At the single divine eye stitched in white.

We’re not in the same league.

What the fuck was I thinking?

His eyes meet mine across the yard.

He smiles.

Not the cocky, smirking one he wears when he’s playing predator. No—this smile is softer. Quieter. Somehow crueler.

Like he remembers exactly what I taste like.

“Big night,” he says, voice pitched just for me.

I keep walking, steady. “Don’t tell me you’re nervous.”

He peels away from the post, falling into step beside me like we planned it. His voice dips, smooth as sin.

“Not nervous. Eager.”

My hand brushes the hilt of my blade. I don’t know if it’s a threat or a reassurance. Maybe both.

I should say something scathing. Clever. Something that proves I’m fine.

But my skin’s already prickling from the nearness of him.

“Meet at the old athletics arch at 10. You know where it is?”

“I know.”

“Don’t forget,” he adds, just before veering off toward the mess hall. “I promised not to go easy.”

And then he’s gone, swallowed by the fog.

And I’m left staring after him—wondering if I just walked into a trap I set myself.

Wondering if I’ll ever stop paying for that kiss.

#

Even the cafeteria feels like it’s holding its breath.

Maybe it’s the fog, or maybe it’s the looming sense that something is waiting in the dark. People speak in hushed tones, weapons strapped over shoulders, charms braided into their hair. Even the breakfast smells different—saltier, meatier. Like the kitchen’s bracing for carnage.

I find an empty bench near the far windows, tray untouched. The sky outside is still bleeding rust.

I’m halfway through peeling the shell off a boiled egg when Reema slides onto the bench beside me, silent as a ghost.

I tense. Not because I don’t want her here—but because I do. And I don’t know what to do with that.

“Hey,” she says, voice careful.

I glance at her. Her hair is in its usual ponytail, her academic uniform sharper than usual, her expression unreadable. She smells like cedar and steel polish.

“Hey.”

A beat passes. Two.

“You can still stay with me tonight, if you want to. Cody and Geneir…”

My chest tightens. Gods, I want to say yes. I want to crawl into that familiar cocoon of safety and sarcasm and warm blankets and half-whispered jokes. I want to go back.

But I can’t.

Not tonight.

Not with a duel looming like a blade above my neck. Not when I don’t know what Nikolai is going to do. Or what I might do to him.

I force a smile, careful. “Thanks. I appreciate it. I just… need the quiet right now. I’m going to take sleeping pills and knock out.”

Reema’s brows furrow.

“You’re not…” She watches me a second longer. Sharp, suspicious. “I mean, I know you haven’t quite cut through the bottom ten. You’re not planning anything…foolish, are you?”

You’d think she’d the one with foresight, and not me.

“Don’t be silly,” I lie. “It’s only November. I still have a chance of pushing through the ranks before the solstice deadline.”

“Fine,” she says, grabbing a slice of toast off my tray. Though she still looks like she doesn’t trust me.

She bumps her shoulder into mine, then stands. “See you tomorrow morning?”

I nod. “Yeah. Definitely.”

But I’m lying. Again.

Because if things go badly tonight, I might not be coming back at all.

#

I wait until the lights dim and the dorm settles into its usual restless quiet. Stella’s already asleep. Avril’s faking it, probably—she’s the type to pray through the night and pretend she’s brave by morning.

I don’t say anything. Just zip up my jacket, step into my boots, and go.

The halls are colder than they should be. Everything at Van Ritten feels sharper on Bonfire Moon—like the school’s been filed down to edge and shadow. I take the back stairs, avoid the main exits, and cut around the quad toward the old athletics path, where the fog tends to pool.

I’m halfway to the perimeter when I spot her—leaning against the stone gatepost, arms crossed, helmet tucked under one arm.

Bri.

Of course she’d pull patrol tonight. She’s the kind of girl who runs toward the screaming.

She sees me before I can vanish.

“Well,” she says, tone dry, “didn’t take you for the moonlight-stroll type. And on the full moon, of all nights.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” I offer.

“You and the rest of campus.” Her eyes flick over me—jacket, laced boots, hands jammed in my pockets. No gear. No weapon. No warding charm.

“Bit underdressed for Bonfire Moon,” she adds.

“I’m not planning to stay out long.”

She gives a low hum. Not skeptical. Just… observant.

“What’s out there that can’t wait until morning?”

“Quiet,” I say. “Dorm’s full of teeth-grinders.”

She doesn’t laugh.

Instead, she pulls something from her jacket pocket—a thin warding loop made of bone and copper wire—and tosses it to me.

“Wear that if things feel weird,” she says. “Won’t stop a god, but it might scramble a lesser monster long enough to run.”

I catch it. “Thanks.”

She squints at me. “You sure you’re not meeting someone?”

The question hits too close.

I play it off with a shrug. “I’m not that much of an idiot.”

She finally cracks a smirk. “Fair point.”

But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t go back to pacing her route.

Her voice drops, just a little: “You don’t have to prove anything tonight, Harper. You’ve already outlived half the people who thought you wouldn’t make it through Reception.”

I look down at the charm in my palm. “I’m not proving anything.”

Another half-truth.

She nods once and steps back into her patrol line. “Just don’t die. I’m not giving your eulogy.”

I flash a grin I don’t feel. “No offense, but I’d haunt the hell out of you.”

“Get in line,” she mutters, already moving.

And I slip into the dark, ward tucked into my jacket, the ground cold beneath my boots, and a promise—I won’t die tonight—burning in my chest like it’s all I have left to offer.

#

Nikolai’s right where he said he’d be.

By the old athletic arch, where the training woods give way to open rock and frost-laced grass. Just beyond the boundary of campus, far enough that no patrols would stumble onto it by accident. Far enough for things to go very, very wrong.

He doesn’t turn when I approach. Just stands there, hands tucked behind his back, feet planted in that relaxed duelist’s stance he probably perfected before he could spell his own name.

He looks like the picture in a handbook. Untouchable. Unbothered.

I stop a few paces back, the gravel crunching softly under my boots.

“You’re early,” I say.

He glances over his shoulder. “You’re late.”

It’s not true. We’re both right on time.

He turns fully then, and the way he studies me makes my stomach tighten. Four nights ago, that mouth was on mine. Drunk. Brazen. Uninvited. And somehow—worse than all of that—it worked.

My skin still remembers it.

I’ve strapped my blade tight, tied back my hair, and taped my hands the way I always did before I quit fencing. My breath clouds in the cold, nerves fluttering low in my ribs.

“You’re not even armed,” I mutter.

Nikolai lifts a gloved hand—and in a flash, a slim dueling saber flicks out from behind his back, already angled to catch the moonlight.

“I like to make an entrance.”

I roll my shoulders, trying to ease the tension building there. “This isn’t a fight to the death.”

“Not unless you want it to be.” His smile curves—lazy, lethal.

“But no. It’s just a duel. A promise. A line drawn in blood and pride.

A test to see which of us will break first. You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?

The moment where skill, luck, and nerve all come to a razor point. Where you finally understand that—.”

I sigh, raising my sword. “You going to stand there monologuing all night, or are we doing this?”

He tilts his head, eyes flashing. “Impatient. I like it.”

“I can tell. No clever remark about last time?” I toss in before I can stop myself. “When you decided my mouth was yours to—.”

“Must’ve been the wine,” he interrupts, too quickly.

“Right.”

But it feels like it’s a lie. And if it is, we both know it. The truth hangs there, ghost between us.

Then he moves.

Fast. Too fast.

Steel meets steel with a crack that rings through the cold. We circle each other, frost crunching underfoot. Fog curls low and thick, hiding our boots, softening the edges of the world. Above us, the Bonfire Moon burns red and full.

He presses the advantage quickly. I block the first strike, barely. Sparks leap where our blades connect. My shoulder screams from the force.

We fall into rhythm—parry, pivot, strike. He doesn’t give me time to breathe. Every blow is sharper than the last.

My ribs ache. My stance falters. His blade slices past my arm, shallow but hot. I hiss through my teeth.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t gloat. He’s past that. Now he’s hunting.

“You’re no god,” he murmurs after another brutal pass. “You’re barely even interesting.”

I laugh. It’s short, bitter. “And you talk too much.”

I slam my shoulder into his chest. He stumbles. I follow with a kick to his ribs—messy, desperate.

It lands. He grunts. Staggers.

I could stop there. Let that be the blow that wins.

But it’s not enough.

Not for what I need.

I draw the dagger from my hip. Orun’s blade. Hidden and sharp.

He sees it too late. I strike…

Then freeze.

My arm is raised, blade poised. A breath from his throat. His eyes lock onto mine.

No fear. No anger.

Just something… unreadable.

His chest rises and falls with steady breath. His saber hangs at his side, useless. If I strike now—if I finish this—I win.

And yet…

There’s a part of me that hesitates.

Because I don’t know if this is still a duel.

Or something else entirely.

Because despite everything—the bruises, the arrogance, the blood between us—there’s a look in his eyes that halts me. Something ancient. Familiar. Like he knows me. Like he’s been waiting for this moment far longer than I have.

And worse—part of me wants to know what that look means.

I tighten my grip on the dagger. My hand shakes.

“Say it,” I whisper. “Say you lost to a mortal.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer.

I press the blade to his throat. Just enough for him to feel it. Just enough to end it.

But he doesn’t strike. Doesn’t flinch.

Instead, slowly—deliberately—he steps back.

And crosses the chalk line.

Victory.

I drop my arm. Exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for hours.

He stands there, blood running in a fine teal thread down his cheek, eyes fixed on me like I’ve done something unforgivable. Or maybe inevitable.

“You cheated,” he says at last.

“You never said I couldn’t use another weapon.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t sneer. Just watches me, breathing hard.

I sheath the dagger with fingers that still won’t stop shaking. Turn to go.

The clearing is silent. No wind. No crowd. Just the red moon watching, and my pulse hammering in my ears.

And then…

His voice. Low. Steady. Unmistakable.

“Marry me.”