Page 56 of Beasts of Shadows #1

Making it through a normal week of classes is torture, given everything I know now.

Calea killed my mother.

The two men I’m closest to knew, and didn’t tell me.

I’m changing. Becoming a spring goddess, if Ravi’s to be believed. The first true spring goddess since Calea killed Freyja.

My birthday is March twentieth. The first day of spring.

Deities. Of course it is.

Fucking Fate.

I consider locking my heart away, like Hjartlaus, the Giant with no heart. No heart means no more distractions. No grief. No jealousy. No longing for a past that no longer fits.

Just power.

But then I remember how the story ends.

Hjartlaus was invincible—yes. But he was alone. His body stood. His kingdom endured. But he never felt warmth again. Never touched beauty. Never bloomed.

Spring must bloom. If I’m to take on Calea, I need to have every part of myself. Even the parts that ache. Even the ones that betray me.

Because you don’t fight winter with ice. You fight it with thaw. With roots that split stone. With green things that refuse to die.

Let Calea rot behind her veil of snow and silence. Let the old gods play their tired games.

I’ll bleed if I must. I’ll break if I have to.

But I will not wither.

Not for them.

Not for anyone.

Let spring come. Let me rise.

And let Calea learn what happens when the thaw bites back.

#

Calea will come for me in the next two months.

I don’t need a chalkboard full of equations or some cryptic omen delivered in blood to know that much.

But I need more than a timeline. I need a window. A date. A direction to strike first.

And unfortunately, that means I need her.

I slip down the spiraling corridor past the locked door of Hall B and into the low-lit back chamber reserved for sanctioned visionwork.

Picca is already waiting, because of course she is.

Her crow’s eyes track me with the cool amusement of someone who always sees three steps ahead.

“I was wondering how long it would take,” she says without looking up. “Come to lecture me? Or work?”

“Both,” I mutter, stepping fully into the room.

Her gaze flicks up. “That’s new. Usually you sulk in the doorway and try to look unimpressed.”

“Usually I’m not the one calling the shots.”

That gets a ghost of a smile—sharp, knowing. “So, you’ve finally stopped waiting for permission?”

“I don’t need your permission,” I say evenly. “And I don’t need you.”

I take a step closer, into the circle’s edge.

“I want your help. Because you’re the only one I can trust with this. There’s a difference.”

“Ouch.”

“You hurt Reema. You seduced Geneir.”

She doesn’t flinch—just leans back into her chair like it’s a throne she never had to earn, lips curving slightly.

“Is that what we’re calling it? Seduction?”

Her gaze flicks toward the shadows behind me. “Strange. I heard Reema spent the night with someone else. Is it true?”

She taps a finger against her chin.

“Didn’t she want to get some time alone with him? Ask a few illuminating questions?”

I don’t answer. I won’t give her the satisfaction.

Picca smiles wider, all teeth. “Careful, Nari. Truth rots faster than lies around here.”

And just like that, it clicks.

“You wanted Reema and Cody together.”

“I’m a closet romantic. Don’t tell.” She shakes out her long hair like we’re chatting over tea, not standing on the edge of prophecy and betrayal.

“And no. I don’t want them together. I need them to figure their shit out.

I’ve been at this prophet thing longer than you.

And you’re powerful, but you still can’t see the big picture. ”

“Then help me. I need to know when I can target Calea.”

She steps aside, gesturing toward the center of the circle. “Sit.”

I move slowly, warily. I’ve done visionwork before—but not like this. Not with all the stakes laid bare.

Picca kneels across from me, her movements fluid, practiced. “You’re not going to like what you find.”

“I never do.”

She reaches into a small cedar box and pulls out a dried poppy, a sliver of obsidian, and something that looks suspiciously like a bone chip.

“What’s that?”

“A tether,” she says. “To keep your mind from getting lost in the snow.”

“Comforting.”

“You asked for front seat,” Picca murmurs. “That means no blindfolds. No handholding. Just raw vision.”

I steel myself.

She sets the bone chip in my palm.

“Close your eyes.”

I do.

The air tightens.

Something deep and dark and cold slides against the edges of my consciousness, and I know—this is her. Calea. Closer than before.

Snow fills my lungs. Frost bites at my fingertips. There’s a shadow stretching across the land, blooming not with life, but rot. Hunger.

And then… A date carved in frost. A crown made of ice thorns. A girl—me—standing in a field of wilted crocuses.

I gasp, yanking out of the vision like I’ve been shocked. My throat burns.

Picca’s watching me, unreadable.

“I saw her,” I whisper. “She’s coming.”

“When?”

I stare down at the burned mark left in my palm where the bone chip cracked.

“January thirty-first. We have less than two weeks.”

Picca smiles—slow, lethal. “Then you’d better decide what kind of queen you plan to be when the frost breaks.”

#

I should’ve known it was a trap.

Percy’s lesson was billed as “live strategy training.” A no-weapons, no-magic, hand-to-hand trial with “limited oversight.” Which is Van Ritten speak for: beat each other senseless and see who’s still breathing when the hour’s up.

The second-years surround us like vultures.

Reema’s already been pinned. Geneir’s bleeding from the mouth. Cat’s missing—hopefully not unconscious somewhere in the thicket.

I duck a punch from a horned kid with gold-plated knuckles. My own fist connects with his ribs hard enough to draw a grunt, but I don’t have time to finish him before something slams into my back.

I go down hard.

A boot digs into my ribs before I can roll. Then another.

Someone’s laughing. “What’s the Seer going to do now? Have a little vision about it?”

I don’t know his name—just the sneer in his voice. He’s one of Nikolai’s usual orbiters. The kind of kid who hides behind privilege and power, but fights like he’s never bled for either.

I spit blood and try to rise.

The second kick lands worse than the first. My vision sparks at the edges. My ribs—something’s wrong. Not broken, but not whole.

He crouches beside me, grabbing the collar of my shirt. “Maybe we strip her next,” he says to someone behind him. “See if she’s hiding any of that famous divinity under all the mortal.”

I bite his wrist.

Hard.

He screams and reels back, clutching the bleeding mark.

I scramble to my feet—or try to. My left side sears with pain, every breath a battle.

“You’re dead,” he snarls.

I square up, bracing for another round I know I can’t win.

Then a blur of black intercepts him. I don’t even see the punch. Just the crack of it, the way his body crumples like paper.

Nikolai.

His chest rises with controlled fury, eyes burning with sea-glass cold.

“You touch her again,” he says, voice like a blade unsheathed, “and I’ll tear your soul from your skin.”

The boy doesn’t get back up.

Nikolai turns to me. I’m still clutching my side, shaking, blood on my lip and shirt.

“Let me see it,” he says, stepping forward.

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.” His hand twitches, like he wants to touch me but doesn’t trust himself to do it gently.

I straighten, but the movement drives white-hot agony through my ribs. I wobble.

He catches me before I can fall.

“Easy,” he mutters. “Just breathe.”

I hate how natural it feels, being in his arms. Like my body already knows him. Like the heat between us hasn’t been simmering since the moment we met.

“Don’t carry me,” I say. “I swear—.”

“I won’t.” He steadies me with one arm, the other pressed against my injured side in just the right spot to keep pressure without making it worse. He’s done this before.

Behind us, Percy yells for the fight to end. Some of the second-years grumble. Someone drags the unconscious boy toward the sidelines.

“You shouldn’t have interfered,” I rasp as we limp off the field.

“You shouldn’t have hesitated,” he shoots back. Then quieter, “But I’m glad you did.”

I don’t answer. I just let him help me inside.