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Isaac grimaces. “True. But promise you’ll go straight to the infirmary if you feel worse.”

“Promise,” I lie easily.

Isaac hesitates, then nods before he gives me one last concerned look before heading off down the corridor.

I watch him go, a familiar ache in my chest. We were inseparable as children, before he was sent here.

Now secrets build walls between us higher than any physical barrier ever could.

I trudge to my next class, counting the minutes until I get away from everyone’s probing gazes.

***

My final class of the night is Ancient Arcane Languages with Professor Moreau, a subject I would normally enjoy.

Tonight, however, I can barely focus on the Enochian symbols we’re supposed to be translating.

The blood whispers have become a constant stream of noise in my head, punctuated by sharp spikes of hunger that make me dig my nails into my palms until they bleed.

Moreau notices my distraction, of course. Unlike Blackridge and Winters, she doesn’t make notes or stare openly. Instead, she places a translation exercise on my desk that’s different from the ones my classmates receive.

“Something more suited to your advanced understanding,” she murmurs as she passes.

I look down at the parchment and freeze. The text isn’t standard Enochian. It’s the script I saw in the Sanctuary, the ancient celestial language Cassiel translated for us. The passage is about blood rituals and power transference.

This isn’t a coincidence. She knows about the Sanctuary. They all do.

The realisation sends a cold wave of fear through me. How deep does this go? How long have they been watching, waiting for me to discover what I am?

I force myself to translate the passage, though my hands shake so badly I can barely hold my pen. The content confirms my worst fears: it describes the early stages of the Blood Crown transformation, the hunger, the power surges, the silver light beneath the skin.

When the bell finally rings, I nearly sob with relief. I gather my things quickly, avoiding Moreau’s gaze as I hurry from the classroom.

The corridors are crowded with students, their voices and heartbeats a cacophony that engulfs me. Each pulse calls to the hunger inside me, promising relief if only I would reach out and take what I need.

I push through the throng, head down, focusing on getting back to my room before I lose control completely.

Finally reaching my hallway, I fumble with my key, hands shaking so badly I can barely fit it into the lock. Once inside, I slam the door shut and slide down against it, drawing my knees to my chest.

The hunger is unbearable now, a physical pain that radiates from my core outward. The silver light beneath my skin flickers erratically, like a flame about to be extinguished. My vision blurs, darkening at the edges.

Feed. Use. Take. Consume.

The voices are deafening, impossible to ignore.

I crawl to the bathroom, dragging myself up to look in the mirror.

My reflection is terrifying. Silver light courses beneath my skin in erratic patterns, my eyes glow with unnatural brightness, and my fangs have extended fully, responding to the desperate hunger.

“Not blood,” I whisper to my reflection. “Not just blood. Power. Magic.”

I need to use my abilities to channel the building pressure before it eats me alive.

A wave of nausea hits me. I barely make it to the toilet before vomiting, a vile mix of blood and bile. The hunger intensifies, a beast clawing at my insides.

I need something. Someone.

The hunger tears through me in waves, each one stronger than the last. The silver light beneath my skin is painful now, like electricity seeking an outlet.

The blood whispers rise to a crescendo.

Use it. Release it. Become what you were meant to be.

With the last of my strength, I drag myself back to the bedroom, collapsing onto the floor beside the bed before I make it the whole way. The hunger consumes every thought, reason, fear. Only the need remains, a bottomless void demanding to be filled.

I don’t know how long I lie there, lost in the agony of withdrawal, sweating and freezing, shaking and convulsing. Minutes or hours, time loses meaning.

When the door finally bursts open, I’m barely conscious. Through blurred vision, I see William kneel beside me, his face tight with concern.

“Isolde,” he says, his voice sounding far away. “What happened?”

“Hungry,” I whisper. “Blood. Power. Craving.”

“Hold onto me,” he instructs. “What I’m about to do will hurt, but it will help.”

Before I can question him, he presses his palm to my forehead. Pain explodes behind my eyes, white-hot and all-consuming. I try to scream, but no sound comes out. The silver light beneath my skin flares blindingly bright, then flows towards William’s hand, drawn out of me like poison from a wound.

The agony is beyond anything I’ve experienced; every cell in my body is rebelling against the extraction. Yet beneath the pain, there’s relief as the building pressure finally finds release.

William’s face contorts with effort, his veins darkening as he absorbs the excess power. The runes along his spine light up the dark room, processing and channelling the energy he’s taking from me.

After what feels like an eternity, he pulls his hand away. The pain recedes immediately, leaving me limp and gasping in his arms. The hunger remains, but it is dulled and manageable again.

“Are you okay?” I croak.

He snorts. “I’m fine. Are you?”

“But you took my power.”

“And now I feel like I could take on Blackridge.”

We lock gazes.

“Don’t,” I say, squeezing his hand. “I know you want to, but he has more power than this entire academy put together.”

I lean against him, suddenly exhausted. The withdrawal symptoms have faded after the power syphoning, but a bone-deep weariness has replaced them.

I look up at him, studying the sharp planes of his face, the intensity in his eyes. “Do you ever think you are the king and I’m the tag-along?” I ask quietly. It would make so much more sense. He is more powerful, more equipped to deal with this shit.

His smile is magnificent and utterly terrifying. “Sometimes. Do you want me to be?”

“Yes.”

“Liar,” he chides gently. “This is a gift, Isolde. A dangerous one, perhaps, but a gift nonetheless.”

“Some gift,” I mutter, but the fight is draining out of me. He’s right, in a way. The hunger, the power surges, the blood whispers, they’re all part of what I am now. Fighting it is like fighting myself.