A banshee alarm clock's wail sliced through Mo's consciousness, its otherworldly shriek turning her peaceful sleep into shredded silk. She yanked her pillow over her head with a groan that came from the depths of her soul.

  "Make it stop," she groaned into her pillow. "Even the eternal void sounds better than morning classes at villain school."

  Mo stumbled into the shared hall, where a writhing mass of midnight shadows twisted and coalesced into Nyx's form. Their smoke-like hair danced upward in tendrils, defying not just gravity but any semblance of what Mo had considered ordinary in the past few years.

  The dorm they'd somehow managed to secure despite the registrar's protests was a bizarre blend of luxury and menace. Two bedroom doors flanked the shared living space—Mo's carved with twisting vines that occasionally bloomed toxic-looking flowers, Nyx's decorated with shifting runes that rearranged themselves into different demonic prophecies each day. Between them stretched an unexpectedly comfortable common area: plush velvet couches positioned before a fireplace where flames burned in unnatural colors, bookshelves lined with grimoires that whispered their contents when you passed too closely, and a study table that helpfully adjusted its height depending on who sat at it.

  The ceiling was the most unsettling feature—a perfect replica of the night sky that shifted with actual constellations, occasionally revealing glimpses of realms beyond their own when certain stars aligned. Mo had already caught herself staring at it more than once, mesmerized despite herself by celestial patterns that seemed to form and dissolve like fragmented memories.

  "You say that," Nyx replied, their voice resonating with multiple harmonics, "but dying is just so pedestrian. Besides, traditional death doesn't really apply to most students here anyway. Does it apply to you?" Mo looked at Nyx intently." Yeah, I thought so."

  Mo squinted at the gothic architecture of their dorm suite, still disoriented by the permanent twilight that seemed to envelop Umbra Academy regardless of the actual time of day.

  "What in the seven hells was that?" she asked. "I was prepared for stupid villainous monologues when I portaled here. But not for that!"

  "Ah… The buzzer?" asked Nyx. "Just a souvenir from my cousins. It made its job, didn't it? We are ready for our first class. Well… almost… I need some coffee! "

  That simple comment hit Mo like a bucket of icy water, freezing her from the inside out. Homesickness crashed over her—the phantom scent of freshly ground coffee and crisp new pages, the memory of customers who smiled without plotting your demise. Her sanctuary, stolen away. Just days ago, that had been her reality. Now, that sanctuary felt like a dream slipping through her fingers with every passing hour in this nightmare school.

  "I spent two years waking up to sunlight streaming through my apartment window," she said, staring longingly at the stained-glass windows that depicted various methods of torture. "Now I'm back to..." she gestured vaguely at the room, "...this."

  Moving back to their bedroom, Nyx shifted again, their form compressing slightly as they rummaged through a wardrobe filled with clothing that seemed to move on its own. "You could have stayed in your little human bookshop forever if that's what you wanted."

  Mo's fingers twisted into her tangled ginger hair—her nervous tell betraying her. "You know it wasn't that simple. Not with my parents missing."

  "Nothing ever is simple for the great Nightshade lineage, is it?" Nyx's tone was deliberately provocative as if inviting Mo to spill the beans, but their eyes—currently resembling burning coals—avoided Mo's gaze.

  "Let's not," Mo said quietly, pulling herself out of bed and grabbing the least villainous outfit she could find—black jeans and a faded t-shirt from a human band that would horrify most of the faculty just because the band had the word 'Demon 'in its name. Such a cultural appropriation.

  "Same agreement as yesterday," Mo cut in, raising her hand. "Your family trauma stays your business, my dark inheritance stays mine. Deal?"

  Nyx's form rippled slightly—a tell Mo had already learned signaled discomfort. "Fine by me. The past is boring anyway. So predictable." They pulled on an outfit that seemed to be made primarily of buckles and smoke. "Today is for making new, more interesting mistakes."

  Mo snorted, pulling her hair into a messy bun. "I think enrolling here was mistake enough for one lifetime." She grabbed her schedule from the nightstand and groaned. "First class is 'Villainous Monologuing 101.' Please tell me that's a joke."

  "With Professor Mortis? Absolutely not." Nyx's mouth split into a grin that was literally too wide for their face. "He's been perfecting his own monologues since before the first human empire fell."

  This is real, Mo thought, the weight of her family name pressing down on her shoulders. This is my legacy. Not cozy reading nooks and the smell of old books, but... this.

  "You coming?" Nyx stood by the door, their form now fully solidified and ready for the day.

  ***

  Mo followed Nyx into the corridor, trying to memorize their route—a futile effort at Umbra Academy. Yesterday, the hallway had stretched for nearly a quarter mile before branching; today, it split into three paths after just twenty paces. Portraits that had hung on the left wall now adorned the right, watching with painted eyes that tracked their movements.

  "Does the school... rearrange itself?" Mo asked, hurrying to keep up with Nyx, who navigated the shifting layout with practiced ease.

  "Only when it's bored," Nyx replied, casually sidestepping a patch of floor that briefly turned transparent, revealing an abyss of swirling mist below. "Or when it wants to make a point. The Necromancy Department was late to a faculty meeting last month, so their entire wing relocated to the dungeons for a week." They gestured toward a staircase that definitely hadn't been there moments before. "This way. The staircases may move, but they're generally more reliable than the hallways. They have a sense of direction, at least."

  "You're suspiciously chipper about all this," Mo said, eyeing them sideways.

  Nyx's smile stretched to their ears. "Because it's absolutely ridiculous. Have you read the syllabus?" They pulled out a scroll that unfurled dramatically to the floor. "Week three: 'The Art of the Villainous Pause.' Week five: 'When to Reveal Your Master Plan (and When Not To).'"

  "And you're... happy about this?"

  "Happy? I'm ecstatic." Nyx shifted form slightly, adding dramatic shoulder spikes that nearly impaled a passing student. "Sorry!" they called, not sounding sorry at all. "Do you know how many stuffy Titanborns I can mock with a properly executed villain monologue? This is professional-grade ammunition against every elder who ever told me to 'just pick a form and stick with it.' Not to mention…" Nyx wiggled their insane eyebrows and loudly whispered into Mo's ear. "Our plan!"

  Mo frowned. "So you're... weaponizing the curriculum? And what plan? We don't have any plan! At least yet. The only thing I plan is to survive this school year and try to figure the way out without having the Council decline my inheritance."

  She covered her face with her hands and nervously laughed. "I don't even know why I bother. I never wanted this fate!" Her voice cracked, a mixture of frustration and resignation echoing from the walls of the narrow corridor.

  "Precisely!" Nyx's eyes flashed with multiple colors. "But I thought you didn't want to talk about it. Never mind! Even if you do, I won't! And if they forced me into this ridiculous school, I might as well become exceptionally good at being bad. Or mad. On my terms."

  As they neared the Monologuing classroom, the student traffic thickened. A trio of wraith-students drifted through the solid stone wall, their translucent forms trailing wisps of ectoplasm. Nearby, a group of junior necromancers huddled over a chattering skull, frantically comparing notes while their animated bone familiars scurried around their ankles like macabre pets.

  Mo stepped quickly aside as a dryad hurried past, trailing autumn leaves despite the absence of seasons within Umbra's walls. Two vampire upperclassmen glided by with imperious expressions, their skin so pale it seemed to glow against their immaculate uniforms.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  "Get a look at the blood-bags," Nyx whispered, nodding toward a cluster of demon nobility hovering—literally floating six inches above the floor—near the classroom entrance. "Too precious to let their feet touch stone walked on by commoners."

  One of them, a horned figure wearing more jewelry than seemed practical for an educational setting, caught Nyx's glance and sneered. "Obscuris. Still... fluctuating, I see. How disappointing for your family."

  Nyx's form rippled dangerously, fingers momentarily lengthening into claws before they forced a too-wide smile. "Bloodworth. Still pretending your great-grandfather didn't marry a swamp hag? The webbing between your fingers is showing."

  The demon's hand immediately clenched into a fist, hiding his fingers as his companions exchanged glances.

  The classroom door loomed ahead—a massive slab of ancient wood carved with scenes of historic villain speeches. As they approached, the carved figures began moving, silently mouthing famous villain quotes.

  "That is... deeply unsettling," Mo muttered.

  "That's Professor Mortis for you. I had the honor of attending his lecture at Crowhurst High.It. Was. Pure madness! He's been perfecting the art of unsettling for approximately four thousand years." Nyx straightened their spine, adding at least three inches to their height. "Time to shine, roomie."

  The door swung open on its own, revealing a cavernous amphitheater. In the center stood a withered figure draped in midnight robes, gesturing with skeletal hands as students settled into their seats.

  ***

  Professor Mortis hovered with menacing precision inches above the floor as if even gravity knew better than to lay claim to him without permission. His midnight robes billowed outward in impossible directions, defying physics in a way that made Mo's eyes hurt. Beneath his hood, a skeletal face leered at the class, twin orbs of blue flame flickering where eyes should be, somehow conveying both ancient wisdom and contemptuous amusement at their mortal limitations.

  "Monologuing," he announced, the word reverberating throughout the chamber, "is not merely an indulgence, but the very cornerstone of a villainous identity, the defining essence of those who embrace the shadows. It is in these carefully crafted soliloquies, these dramatic declarations, that the true art of villainy is revealed, elevating you above the ordinary and into the realm of the unforgettable. Without the eloquent articulation of your grand intentions, the meticulous airing of your grievances, and the vivid proclamation of your inevitable triumph, what truly distinguishes you from a mere common thug?"

  Mo slid down further in her seat, pulling her hoodie tighter around her face. "Basic decency?" she muttered.

  "Your victims deserve to understand the intricate reasons behind being subjected to your unparalleled brilliance," the professor continued, conjuring ghostly images of famous villains mid-monologue. "They should be able to grasp the complex web of circumstances that have led to their current predicament. Your enemies, on the other hand, must fully comprehend the vast scope and depth of their impending defeat, recognizing every strategic maneuver and tactical advantage you hold. And most importantly," his flaming gaze swept the room, "the annals of history demand your eloquent words to ignite a spark of inspiration in the minds of the next generation, guiding them with the lessons and wisdom distilled from your experiences."

  Nyx was frantically scribbling notes, their obsidian skin pulsating with excited patterns. "This is magnificent," they whispered. "Did you hear that bit about 'inevitable triumph'? Pure poetry."

  "Pure delusion," Mo replied but kept her voice low. Something about Professor Mortis suggested interruptions wouldn't end well.

  The professor raised a bony finger, and twelve ornate floor-length mirrors materialized around the classroom.

  "Today, each of you will embark on the challenge of crafting a compelling monologue that articulates why you are worthy of ruling, destroying, or otherwise dominating your chosen realm," his lipless mouth somehow formed a smile. "You will stand before these enchanted mirrors, their surfaces shimmering with an ethereal glow, as they listen intently to your performance. With eyes that seem to peer into your very soul, these mirrors will offer critiques as sharp and unrelenting as a winter's chill. For centuries, they have been imbibing the essence of theater critics, their glassy depths teeming with the accumulated wisdom and harshness of countless reviews. Prepare yourself, for their judgment will be as impartial as it is merciless."

  Mo's stomach dropped. "Public speaking and public humiliation. My two favorite things."

  "Pairs will be assigned," Professor Mortis continued. "One to perform, one to witness. Your grade depends on improvement, not initial talent."

  Names began appearing in fiery script beside each mirror. Mo scanned for hers, praying to be paired with Nyx. At least they'd make it entertaining. Instead, she found her name glowing next to "Lucian Frostbrook."

  "Who the hell is Lucian Frostbrook?" she whispered.

  "Heir to the Frostbrook dynasty," Nyx replied, already gathering their things. "Ice demons. Absolutely ruthless. Rumor has it they once froze an entire kingdom just because the prince didn't compliment the queen's new crown."

  "Great," Mo sighed, trudging toward her assigned mirror. "Just great."

  "Oh, and heads up," Nyx called after her. "You got Lady Waxworth. She once made the Duchess of Eternal Midnight cry for three days straight after critiquing her villain laugh. Psychology Department had to intervene."

  Mo turned back in alarm, but Nyx had already sauntered toward their own mirror, whistling cheerfully.

  As she approached, the mirror's surface rippled like disturbed water. Her reflection distorted—stretching, compressing, and finally shattering completely—before reforming into a severe-looking woman with steel-gray hair pulled into a punishing bun, lips pursed so tightly they'd turned white, and a monocle that somehow managed to look judgmental on its own.

  "Well?" the mirror sniffed, her voice dripping with centuries of theatrical disdain. "I haven't got eternity." Her eyes flicked toward Professor Mortis. "Only he does." The monocle glinted maliciously. "And neither of us is getting any younger waiting for you to begin."

  "I'm waiting for my partner," Mo said, crossing her arms defensively.

  "Excuses already? Not promising." The mirror's reflection tapped its foot impatiently.

  A quiet voice spoke from behind her. "I believe I'm your partner. Lucian Frostbrook."

  Mo turned to find herself facing a slender figure with pale blue skin and hair like fresh snow. Tiny ice crystals formed in the air around him as he offered an apologetic smile.

  "Sorry to keep you waiting," he said softly. "I was, um, hoping to avoid this class entirely."

  For once, Mo felt an instant kinship with someone at this bizarre school.

  "Join the club," she replied. "I'm Mo—Morgana Nightshade."

  "Nightshade?" His eyebrows rose slightly. "I've heard of your family. Impressive lineage."

  "Yeah, well." Mo shrugged. "Don't believe everything you hear."

  "Enough pleasantries!" the mirror barked. "One of you, begin your monologue. Convince me you're worthy of fear and respect, or I shall eviscerate your performance with such cutting remarks that your great-grandchildren will feel the sting."

  ***

  After earning a grudging 'Passable' from the woman with the judgmental monocle, Mo turned her attention to Nyx a few mirrors down, who was clearly mid-performance with no intention of letting their mirror critic get a word in.

  "Silence!" Nyx commanded. "How dare you interrupt my meticulously crafted exposition! As I was saying, I have mastered the art of the seventeen traditional cape-swishes, each one a symphony of movement and grace. With a flourish, I can make the fabric billow like a stormy sea or snap crisply like a banner in the wind. These swishes are not mere gestures; they are an elegant dance, a performance honed to perfection through countless hours of practice, each twist and turn a testament to my dedication and skill." They demonstrated with an invisible cape, each movement more ridiculous than the last.

  Mo bit her lip, recognizing precisely what Nyx was doing.

  "Furthermore," Nyx continued, now adopting the professor's exact tone, "I have meticulously mastered the time-honored craft of detailing my entire master plan to the hero, weaving an intricate tapestry of my intentions and strategies. Each word is chosen with precision, revealing my grand scheme in all its glory. Yet, I always leave just enough of a window, a sliver of time, for the inevitable twist—their daring escape."

  From the back of the room, someone snorted with laughter—a thin, pale student with spectacles who immediately clapped his hand over his mouth in horror.

  Too late. The lich professor whirled, bone fingers weaving a complex pattern. "Disrespect the sacred traditions, will you? Perhaps a lesson is in order!"

  A sickly purple light erupted from his skeletal fingers, slithering through the air like a venomous serpent before striking the laughing student square in the face. The student's scream died in his throat as his lips rippled and sealed together—flesh melting like wax in reverse until nothing remained but smooth, unbroken skin where his mouth had been. His eyes bulged with primal terror as his fingers desperately clawed at the seamless flesh, his muffled screams trapped forever behind a prison of his own face.

  "The Silence of Shame will wear off in twenty-four hours," the professor stated coldly. "Perhaps next time you'll appreciate the gravity of proper villain education."

  The classroom fell into silence. Nyx's form shrank slightly, though their expression remained defiant. Mo scanned the room, reading the varied reactions. Horror in some eyes, but—more disturbingly—calculation in others. She could practically see their mental notes forming: Professor Mortis's hex—perfect for silencing rivals. Must learn how to trigger it against enemies.

  Mo stared at the student, then at the professor, her stomach churning. They actually hex students for laughs. This isn't just ridiculous—it's cruel.

  The man in the mirror, apparently oblivious to the tension, finally had an opportunity to give his remark. "While unorthodox, the delivery showed genuine commitment to performance. Seven out of ten for dramatic presence, though the content leaves much to be desired."

  Mo's hands trembled as she gathered her books. The image of that student—face smooth where a mouth should be—burned in her mind. She'd expected ridiculous at Umbra Academy, maybe even challenging, but not this casual cruelty masquerading as education. The worst part was how quickly everyone just... accepted it. Just another day at villain school. She caught Nyx's eye, searching for any sign that they found this as disturbing as she did, but their expression had become unreadable, their form unnaturally still.

  The dissonant bell chimes broke the silence, signaling the end of class—but Mo knew with cold certainty that this was just the beginning of Umbra Academy's horrors.

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