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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

ISOLDE

“One assumes curfew is over?” I mutter as I look out of the window and see students heading to class.

Since the guys got back from playing hero, we’ve been sleeping, feeding, and fucking on repeat for the last few hours. Night has fallen, and classes are about to start. I don’t really want to miss any more.

“We’ve already broken it, so we might as well just carry on. If Blackridge wanted us grounded, he’d have said, and I doubt he wants us to miss lectures,” CJ points out.

I nod and gather my book bag to head out.

“Will you be okay?” Cassiel asks, his silver-blue eyes, a bit like mine now, focused intently on me.

“I can’t promise that trouble won’t find me, but I won’t go looking for it . That’s the best I can do.”

“Fair enough,” CJ murmurs, giving me a kiss on the top of my head.

“I’ll go and reinforce the wards,” William says, heading out with me.

“Shouldn’t you talk to Blackridge about attending lectures again?” I ask him as we walk towards the courtyard.

“Probably, but I want to slack off a bit longer. There are things that need my attention.”

I nod and let him go after he kisses my knuckles.

The blood whispers respond as soon as I’m alone, a chorus of voices that rise from the back of my mind.

More. Take more. Consume.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but the voices persist, louder than before. Not just disconnected words now, but coherent thoughts, urgent demands.

The power grows. The crown awaits.

“Shut up,” I growl, turning towards my first class. The students I pass give me a wide berth, eyes averted. The werewolf incident has solidified my reputation as a dangerous individual. If they only knew.

I slip into Advanced Blood Magic just before the bell, taking my usual seat near the back. The classroom is arranged in tiered rows. Perfect for observation.

Of me, apparently.

Blackridge is taking this class, and it makes me more nervous than I should be. His eyes track my every movement as I settle into my seat, removing my notebook and pen. When our gazes meet, he doesn’t look away but simply makes a note in the leather-bound journal on his desk.

The hunger spikes suddenly, a sharp pain that makes me dig my nails into my palms. The blood whispers surge in response.

He knows. They all know. They watch. They wait.

I force the voices down, focusing on Blackridge as he starts the lecture. Today’s topic: the manipulation of blood viscosity to create barriers and shields.

“Blood, when properly controlled, can be hardened to a consistency rivalling steel,” Blackridge explains, demonstrating with a small vial of dark liquid.

He extends his hand, and the blood rises from the vial, forming a disc in midair.

With a flick of his fingers, the disc hardens, becoming a solid red shield.

“The application requires precise control and significant power,” he continues. “Most Blood Magic practitioners spend years mastering this technique.”

My skin prickles as his gaze falls on me again. “Miss Morvoren, perhaps you’d like to attempt it?”

The class turns to stare at me. Twenty pairs of eyes, filled with curiosity and wariness.

“I’ve never tried it before,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

“Precisely why this is a learning opportunity,” Blackridge counters, gesturing me forward. “Come, demonstrate your current ability level so we can establish a baseline.”

A baseline. For what? For tracking my progress like a lab rat?

I rise reluctantly, moving to the front of the class. Blackridge presents me with a vial of blood.

“Human,” he explains. “Begin by connecting with it, then attempt to form a simple disc shape before hardening it.”

I take the vial, uncorking it. The scent hits me immediately, rich and tantalising. The hunger roars to life, and the voices crescendo.

Take it. Drink it. Make it yours.

I push back against the urge, focusing instead on William’s lessons. Connect without touching. Extend my consciousness into the blood. Feel it as an extension of myself.

The blood rises from the vial without me consciously commanding it, responding to my hunger rather than my will. It hovers before me, a perfect sphere rather than the disc Blackridge requested.

“Interesting choice of shape,” Blackridge murmurs, making another note. “Now, attempt to harden it.”

I concentrate, imagining the blood molecules compressing, bonding together. The sphere trembles, then it solidifies from the outside in. The surface takes on a glossy sheen, like polished garnet.

“Very good,” Blackridge says, but I barely hear him.

The connection to the blood has opened something inside me, a channel to more power than I’ve felt before. The blood sphere hardens completely, then changes shape, transforming into a complex geometric form with sharp edges and precise angles.

The class murmurs in surprise.

“Impressive,” Blackridge murmurs, but his voice sounds distant.

The blood construct spins faster, its edges becoming blades, points becoming needles. It’s beautiful and deadly, responding to something dark inside me that wants to cut, to hurt, to destroy.

“Miss Morvoren!” Blackridge’s voice breaks through my trance. “Control it!”

I blink, realising the blood construct has become a spiked ball of razor-sharp edges, hovering inches from Blackridge’s face. The entire class has backed away, some standing pressed against the far wall.

With effort, I pull the construct back, forcing it to collapse into a simple sphere again. My hands shake with the effort of controlling the power surging through me.

Blackridge’s expression is unreadable as he takes the sphere from my control, returning it to the vial. “Return to your seat, Miss Morvoren.”

I obey, aware of every eye in the room following me. As I sit, I notice Blackridge writing furiously in his journal, pausing occasionally to glance at me.

The voices in my head are relentless now, a constant barrage of whispers that make it impossible to concentrate. I catch fragments about blood and power, the crown and ancient rituals. None of it makes complete sense, but the urgency behind the whispers is unmistakable.

When the bell finally rings, I gather my things quickly, eager to escape. Blackridge’s voice stops me at the door.

“Miss Morvoren, a moment, please.”

I turn reluctantly. “Yes, Professor?”

He waits until the other students have filed out before speaking. “That was an impressive display of raw talent, if somewhat concerning in its lack of control.”

“It won’t happen again,” I promise hollowly.

“On the contrary,” he says, “I expect it will. Your abilities are developing rapidly, perhaps too rapidly for conventional instruction. We may need to complete an evaluation before allowing you around other students.”

“What?” I snap, a fierce frown descending. “Are you joking?”

“I never joke, Miss Morvoren. You are potentially a danger to the entire student body.”

We stare at each other. I have no words. He apparently has said all he has to say. A chill runs down my spine. The hunger gnaws at me, worse than before. Using magic in class has only intensified it. My hands tremble slightly, and I clench them into fists to hide the weakness.

“You will be late for your next class, Miss Morvoren.”

I blink but take that at face value. He said we may need to complete an evaluation, so until he drags me kicking and screaming, I’ll carry on as normal. Without a word, I back out of the lecture hall and hurry to my next class, Magical Theory with Professor Winters.

She’s a severe woman with ice-white hair and eyes like chips of blue glass. From the moment I enter her classroom, her gaze is fixed on me, calculating and cold.

“Today,” she announces, “we will discuss the theoretical limits of power transference between magical entities. When one magical being draws power from another, there are established limits to prevent fatal depletion,” Winters continues, pacing before the blackboard.

“However, certain rare individuals can circumvent these natural barriers, drawing more power than should be theoretically possible.” Her gaze lands on me.

“These individuals are often marked by specific signs, such as an increased appetite for power and accelerated development of abilities.”

I sink lower in my seat, trying to become invisible.

Winters approaches my desk, leaning down slightly. “Miss Morvoren, you’re looking rather pale. Are you feeling unwell?”

“I’m fine,” I lie.

“Hmm.” She pulls a small notebook from her pocket and makes a quick note before continuing her lecture.

Another one documenting me. Cataloguing my symptoms like I have a fascinating new disease.

The hunger intensifies throughout the class, a gnawing emptiness that makes it difficult to focus. By the time the bell rings, my hands are shaking visibly, and a cold sweat has broken out across my forehead.

The hallway spins slightly as I exit the classroom. I lean against the wall, trying to steady myself. The withdrawal is worse than I expected, a physical pain now as well as a psychological craving. My body demands the rush of power, the flood of energy that comes with using my abilities.

“Issy? You okay?”

I look up to find Isaac approaching me, concern etched across his familiar features. My twin, so normal compared to what I’ve become.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically. “Just tired.”

He frowns, not buying it. “You look like shit, honestly.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” I mutter, pushing off the wall with effort. “I’m just tired, I think.”

“Let me walk you back to your room then,” he offers, reaching for my arm.

I step back instinctively. The hunger is too strong, the silver light beneath my skin too visible. If he touches me now, he’ll know something is deeply wrong.

“No need,” I say, forcing a smile. “I’ve got one more class, then I’m free. I’ll rest afterwards.”

“You sure?” His eyes search mine, the brotherly concern almost breaking my composure.

“Positive,” I reply. “Besides, don’t you have a class now as well?”