Page 18 of The Sin-Binder’s Fate (The Seven Sins Academy #1)

The mirror is not kind. Dark circles smudge beneath my eyes, proof of the night spent tossing and turning, tangled in sheets that felt too heavy and a mind that wouldn’t shut up.

My reflection stares back, exhausted, unimpressed.

I drag a hand through my hair, but it doesn’t help.

The weight of today sits on my shoulders, pressing down, making it harder to move, to think, to breathe.

The trial.

I’m supposed to be well-rested, sharp, and prepared to face whatever hell the Sins throw at me.

Instead, I’m standing here, barely awake, trying to convince myself that any of this matters.

That I should care. But right now? Right now, I don’t.

I’m too tired for fear, too drained to dread what’s coming.

I let out a slow, resigned sigh and turn away from the mirror, leaving my reflection to deal with itself.

The halls are still, the academy wrapped in the quiet that only exists before dawn. No students rushing to class, no distant echoes of laughter or whispered threats. Just me, walking toward whatever fresh nightmare they’ve planned.

And then I see him .

The headmaster stands at the foot of the academy steps, waiting. Regal in his stillness, untouched by the cold, by the early hour, by anything that makes someone human.

I stop at the top of the stairs, crossing my arms. “Bit early for a death march, don’t you think?”

His lips twitch, something like amusement flickering across his face before vanishing. “Luna.” A pause, deliberate. Calculating. “Are you ready?”

I glance up at the sky, still dark, the stars fading against the approaching dawn. I exhale slowly.

“No,” I say. “But let’s do it anyway.”

The academy grounds stretch before us, vast and empty in the creeping dawn.

The air is damp with the last remnants of night, the sky bleeding from ink to bruised purple, and my breath comes in slow, even drags.

Blackwell moves without hesitation, leading me beyond the familiar paths, past the looming marble structures that have come to feel like a gilded cage.

I follow in silence, my boots pressing into damp earth, until the terrain shifts beneath me. The manicured lawns give way to something older, untouched. Gnarled roots push through cracks in the ground, the scent of charred stone thick in the air, a ghost of something lost.

Then I see it.

A building stands in the distance, half-swallowed by the creeping embrace of ivy and time.

Blackened stone rises against the horizon, its edges jagged, broken, as if it clawed itself back from the dead.

Scorch marks streak its walls, dark veins of forgotten fire, whispering of a past that never truly faded.

The windows, what remains of them, gape like empty sockets, glass long since shattered, leaving only jagged teeth of what once was .

A shiver curls at the base of my spine, not from the cold but from the weight of the place, from the knowledge that something happened here. Something monstrous.

“This,” Blackwell says, coming to a stop, “was the original Daemon Academy.”

I glance at him, but his expression remains unreadable, his gaze fixed on the ruin before us as if he, too, is listening for the voices of the past.

“What happened to it?” I ask, though I already know the answer. The air tastes of ash.

Blackwell clasps his hands behind his back, the slow tilt of his chin the only indication of his thoughts. “It burned.” A pause. Then, “No one survived.”

I swallow, my gaze tracing the deep wounds carved into the structure. “When?”

“Centuries ago. Before the academy you know existed.” He finally looks at me, eyes dark as an eclipse. “This was where the last Sin-Binder fell.”

My stomach clenches.

The last Sin-Binder. The one before me. The one who failed.

The knowledge settles like lead in my gut, heavy and damning. The ground beneath me isn’t just dirt and debris; it’s a graveyard, the bones of something that should have stayed buried.

“And this is where my trial will be?” My voice is steadier than I feel.

“Yes.” Blackwell steps forward, and I follow, my pulse loud in my ears as we approach the ruins. The threshold looms before me, an open maw, waiting.

As I cross it, the world feels different. The air thickens, not with silence, but with something unseen, something that remembers. The stone beneath my feet hums, the faintest vibration, a remnant of old magic, old pain .

This place doesn’t just hold history. It wants something. And I think, no, I know, it’s been waiting for me.

The ruins stretch wide before me, a husk of what once was, charred bones left to rot under centuries of neglect. The academy I’ve come to know, the polished marble, the towering spires, feels like a lie compared to this place. This is the truth of Daemon Academy, the part of it they buried.

My boots scrape against the cracked stone as Blackwell leads me deeper inside. The interior is worse. Gutted walls, collapsed ceilings, corridors that lead nowhere. Nature has tried to reclaim it, but something lingers here, something that refuses to be erased.

We stop in what must have been a grand hall, now skeletal remains of stone and ash. A massive iron hourglass stands in the center, an artifact too pristine for this ruin, its frame dark and gilded, runes carved into its surface. Sand rests heavy in the top chamber, waiting.

Blackwell turns to me, folding his hands behind his back. "You’ll have thirty minutes before the Sins are released."

I go still. "Released?"

His lips curl faintly. "Did you think they’d come willingly?"

A lump forms in my throat, but I swallow it down. "And I have to… what? Hold my own against them?"

"You have to survive them." Blackwell gestures toward the hourglass. "Until the sand runs out."

I study the artifact, calculating. "How much time?"

"Twenty-four hours."

The number lands like a fist to my ribs. "You're kidding."

His expression remains impassive. "I assure you, I’m not."

I exhale through my nose. This isn’t a test, it’s a death sentence. Surviving one Sin would be impossible. Surviving all of them? For an entire day ?

"Good luck," Blackwell says simply. Then, before I can argue, before I can ask how the hell I’m supposed to do this, he steps back and motions toward the entrance.

It’s time.

I stare into the blackened ruin beyond, past the hollow corridors and burned-out archways. The shadows inside seem to stretch, hungry and waiting.

I step forward.

The moment my foot crosses the threshold, the hourglass turns. The only sound is the soft shhh of sand sliding through the hourglass behind me, a cruel reminder of time slipping through my fingers. I press forward, past crumbling archways and staircases that lead to nowhere.

The stone beneath my boots is uneven, pitted from age and whatever inferno consumed this place centuries ago.

The walls are blackened, scorched deep, but I can still make out remnants of intricate carvings.

Symbols I don’t recognize twist through the soot, old magic, left behind like fingerprints.

When I run my fingers over them, they’re warm, almost pulsing, as if the ruin itself still breathes.

I keep moving.

A shattered chandelier lies in my path, its glass shards dull with dust, its iron frame warped from heat.

Beyond it, rows of collapsed wooden pews stretch toward what used to be a grand hall.

This must have been a gathering space once, maybe a chapel, or something worse.

The ceiling above yawns open to the night sky, fractured beams jutting out like ribs.

The scent of char lingers despite the age of the fire, mingling with the damp rot of decay. There's something else, too, beneath the ruin, something faintly metallic. Blood, soaked deep into the stone. It’s old, old enough that it shouldn't still be here, and yet it is .

A sharp chill runs through me. How many people have died here?

I shake the thought off and keep searching.

The corridors stretch endlessly, twisting and looping back on themselves. The architecture makes no sense, doors leading to nowhere, staircases that dip into darkness. This place is designed to confuse, to entrap.

I need somewhere to hide.

My fingers skim the jagged edges of a broken doorway as I step inside a smaller room.

Rubble litters the floor, and what might have once been a desk is overturned in the corner.

Old books are scattered, their pages brittle and browned.

I crouch, flipping one open. The ink is faded, almost unreadable, but I catch glimpses, ritual markings, diagrams of bodies intertwined with magic, symbols similar to the ones I saw outside.

Before I can process what it means, a sound echoes through the ruin.

A distant scrape of boots against stone.

The Sins are coming.

I slam the book shut and press myself against the cold wall, heart hammering against my ribs. I need a better hiding place. Something deeper, something safer. But I already know, there’s no such thing in here.

This place isn’t built for survival. It’s built for the hunt.

I move fast, slipping between broken doorways, weaving through the ruins like I know where I’m going.

I don’t. Every corridor twists, every archway looms like the mouth of something waiting to swallow me whole.

Stone crumbles under my boots, the weight of history pressing in from all sides.

I glance back once, expecting to see a shadow moving in the wreckage behind me, but there’s nothing. Not yet.

Then I see him .

Leaning against what used to be a pillar, just at the edge of what little moonlight seeps through the broken ceiling. He’s relaxed, too relaxed, like he has all the time in the world. Like he already knows how this ends.

Ambrose Dalmar.

He’s the only one I haven’t spoken to yet. Haven’t faced. The others taunted, tested, and threatened, but this? This is different.