Page 1 of The Sin-Binder’s Fate (The Seven Sins Academy #1)

I step out of the carriage, boots sinking into damp earth. The sky groans above me, clouds heaving in slow, suffocating layers, but the storm refuses to break. The carriage vanishes the moment my feet hit the ground. No sound, no flicker of movement, one blink, and it's gone.

I'm alone.

The gates of Daemon Academy yawn open, wrought iron twisted into something that resembles clawed fingers rather than craftsmanship.

They arch impossibly high, spires stretching toward the heavens as if in defiance, sharp enough to gut anything that dares to pass.

Beyond them, the academy stands in brutal contrast against the storm-laden sky, obsidian and gray stone, all jagged edges and impossible heights, like something carved from nightmares.

The main building looms ahead, an immense cathedral of blackened stone.

The entrance is framed by an archway too heavy, too grand, etched with strange sigils that glisten in the dark, as if something alive slithers beneath the surface.

Towering stained-glass windows stretch along the structure, depicting scenes I can’t quite understand, bodies tangled in torment, crowned figures kneeling before faceless beings, a woman with a broken halo standing at the center of it all.

The glass catches the distant flickers of lightning, casting fractured colors across the courtyard in eerie, shifting patterns.

The courtyard itself is paved with ancient, uneven stones, cracks splitting through them like veins.

Faint wisps of mist curl between them, and the statues lining the path, figures draped in heavy cloaks, their faces obscured, seem to watch as I move forward.

The lanterns affixed to the outer walls burn with an unnatural light, blue flames flickering without warmth, casting warped shadows that stretch too far.

There’s no sound. No voices. No footsteps. Just the low hum of something unseen, something waiting.

At the top of the stairs, the massive doors stand ajar. Not a single soul in sight. Not a single welcome.

Something tells me this place doesn’t bother with pleasantries.

I take a step inside, the doors slam shut behind me, and the world inside shifts.

Sound rushes in, sudden and overwhelming, as if I’ve stepped through a veil into another reality.

The once-empty hall is now teeming with bodies, students draped in obsidian uniforms that shimmer with sigils embroidered in silver and crimson thread.

They move like shadows, fluid and deliberate, their presence unnatural in a way I can’t quite place.

The entrance hall is cathedral-like, vast, and towering.

The ceiling stretches impossibly high, ribbed vaults carved with unreadable inscriptions that seem to rearrange themselves the longer I stare.

Chandeliers hang low, their metal frames twisted into shapes that resemble ribs, spines, things that should be buried, not displayed.

Instead of wax candles, black flames flicker in their holders, casting elongated shapes that bend and stretch where they shouldn’t.

And the students are not normal.

A girl with silver-streaked hair stands near a pillar, her gaze flickering toward me with an unsettling sharpness.

Her pupils expand, swallowing the color of her irises entirely before narrowing into slits.

Beside her, a boy leans lazily against the stone, his fingers tracing over the spine of a book that whispers as he turns the page, the words shifting, rewriting themselves.

His uniform is half-unbuttoned, exposing a collarbone etched with something that glows faintly, pulsing beneath his skin.

Further in, twin figures move through the crowd, their limbs too fluid, their smiles too wide. They pass through groups of students without being noticed, their forms flickering for half a second, as if they aren’t entirely here.

Then there’s the one who isn’t moving at all.

A boy stands near the grand staircase, tall and unnervingly still.

His uniform is pristine, his dark hair swept back, revealing sharp cheekbones and a mouth that doesn’t smile.

His eyes meet mine, and something in my chest knots.

His expression doesn’t change, but the weight of his stare sinks into my skin like hooks.

Power radiates from them all, thrumming beneath their movements, hidden in the way they breathe.

Some are more monstrous than others, fangs flash in conversation, claws glint beneath gloves, and shadows coil unnaturally beneath their feet.

There’s a girl whose fingernails drip ink, and when she turns, her lips are black, like she’s swallowed something she shouldn’t have.

Another passes by me, and for the briefest moment, the space around him distorts, bending like heat rising from pavement, reality itself warping in his wake.

They are not human .

And now they’re looking at me.

The hall quietly shifts as more students turn. Their conversations don’t stop, but I can feel their attention brushing over me like unseen hands, measuring, dissecting, waiting.

I was never meant to belong here.

But something tells me it doesn’t matter.

I already do.

Then, something slams into me. Hard muscle, the force of it knocking me back a step.

My breath catches as I collide with something cold, stone, or flesh.

No, not flesh. Not human. The moment I make contact, my thoughts blur, my spine locking up as a sharp pressure grips my mind.

Move. Step back. Drop your gaze. The commands aren’t spoken, but I feel them sink into my bones like instinct, like law.

I don’t.

Instead, my fingers twitch at my sides, my breath shoving past my lips. “Shit, I, sorry. I wasn’t…”

A hand clamps around my wrist. Heat licks up my arm where he touches me, not warmth but something colder, the absence of warmth. His grip is deceptively light, yet it’s as if my entire body is being forced into stillness.

“You weren’t looking,” a voice murmurs. Low. Lethal.

The moment I glance up, I realize my mistake.

He towers over me, the line of his body cut in dark, disciplined edges, black uniform pristine, obsidian buttons gleaming, his entire frame wrapped in a controlled stillness that makes everyone else in the room seem slack-jawed in comparison.

His presence is a command, a verdict, a weight.

Like the sky before a storm, an inevitability.

And his eyes .

A pale, glacial blue, as if carved from something sharp enough to wound. The longer I stare, the heavier they feel, pressing down on my chest, squeezing around my ribs. You will submit. You will yield. You will drop your gaze.

I don’t.

I can’t.

Because the moment I try to look away, I realize I can’t move.

What the hell?

I try to wrench my wrist free, but the command in his touch is unshakable. It’s not a strength. It’s something deeper. My thoughts stumble, sluggish, my pulse slowing as if my body is no longer mine to control. Control.

And I realize, he’s doing this. The moment the thought forms, his expression shifts, just the barest flicker of something bored, something unimpressed. He releases me.

It feels like my lungs are mine again.

“You’re in the way,” he says simply. Dismissive. Like I’m nothing but an inconvenience, a smudge on the polished surface of his world.

A flush of anger replaces the lingering static in my limbs. “I… you ran into me.”

His lips curl slightly. Not a smile. Not even amusement. Just acknowledgment. Like he heard me, processed it, and found it irrelevant.

Then, he steps past me, and the moment he does, my knees nearly give out.

The weight of him lifts.

My thoughts snap back into place, my pulse hammering like I just surfaced from deep water. What the hell was that? I turn to glare at him, but he’s already walking away, the crowd parting without him having to ask, without him even acknowledging their existence. Whoever he is, I already hate him.

Laughter rises the moment he disappears. It slithers through the hall, low and sharp, weaving between half-hidden whispers.

“Pathetic.”

“She looks lost.”

“Did she seriously try to talk back to him?”

Their voices coil around me, acidic and amused.

I don’t know who they’re talking about at first, but then I feel it, the weight of their words sinking into my skin, sticking, festering.

I swallow hard, willing my hands to stay still at my sides.

I won’t let them see how my fingers tremble, how my breath is catching in my throat.

My gaze flicks around the room, searching for something to ground me, anything to remind me that I’m still standing. But everything feels off-balance, like the floor has tilted beneath me, like my very existence here is a mistake written in ink too bold to erase.

I wasn’t supposed to come here. I didn’t even want to.

A scoff, close to my right. “She looks like she’s about to cry.”

I am. Not visibly. Not obviously. But there’s a cold knot in my chest, pulling tighter, harder, until I feel small. Distantly, I know this feeling is wrong; this isn’t me. But logic doesn’t stand a chance against whatever he did to me.

I grit my teeth, focusing on my breathing. In. Out.

It doesn’t help .

I shouldn’t have looked him in the eyes. Shouldn’t have spoken.

“Surprised she’s still standing,” someone mutters.

“She won’t last a week.”

“She won’t last a day.”

I want to say something. I want to glare, or snap, or laugh like I don’t care. Like they’re wrong. But they aren’t. Because I can still feel the ghost of his grip on my wrist, the way my body locked up under his presence, the way my mind turned useless, blank, nothing.