The dissonant bell chimes scraped against Mo's nerves like fingernails on glass, each note reverberating through her skull as students gathered their things. Several were still muttering dramatic speeches under their breath, perfecting their villainous cadence. "What's next?" she asked, massaging her temples and desperately hoping for something—anything—mundane.

  Nyx's eyes lit up with mischief. "We have to split, darling." Nyx's eyes twinkled as they twirled, their cloak billowing outward in a perfect arc that defied the still air. "I have Traditional Villain Aesthetics and Decorum—where one learns the proper angle for cape flourishes and the exact degree to which one's eyebrow should arch when pronouncing doom." They spun dramatically, their cloak whipping around with practiced precision. "That's where I got the inspiration for the previous class! I just looked at the workbook's cover and it clicked. But you have something different, I think."

  "Let me check," said Mo, unfurling her orientation scroll. "Ah, yes… I have Minion Mismanagement. The Council demanded I choose it. Maybe it was their reaction to my demand to give the goblins a tax break."

  "You did what?" Nyx exploded with laughter, their form momentarily losing cohesion at the edges from sheer amusement. "A TAX? BREAK? To goblins?" They clutched dramatically at their chest. "Oh, that's positively revolutionary! The Council must have collectively choked on their ancient wine. And what glorious chaos ensued?"

  "I don't know," said Mo. "I'm here and they're there."

  "So, when's our next class together?" asked Nyx. "Ah, yes. It would be the last class of the day. Not a single demon should miss Hexes & Curses. That's what my father always said. I wonder what attracted him to this class so much."

  Mo nodded and watched Nyx vanish down the passageway. On her way to Minion Mismanagement, she navigated Umbra's shifting corridors, each one more unsettling than the last. She passed an open classroom door where the acrid stench of brimstone made her eyes water—inside, a student stood over a summoning circle while their creation, a minor demon with its head twisted backward, spewed curses at the ceiling.

  In the next hall, students gathered three-deep to watch an instructor whose extra limbs moved with precision, demonstrating how to strangle enemies "with the appropriate theatrical timing." The instructor's voice drifted out: "Remember, allow them just enough breath for final words—the audience expects it."

  Mo slowed as she passed an alcove where senior students huddled like conspirators, their voices dropping to whispers at her approach. The words "Midnight Trial" floated toward her, wrapped in tones of both excitement and unmistakable dread. One student caught her looking and narrowed six pupils at once. She quickened her pace, wondering if she'd ever feel anything but out of place in these halls.

  During her hours away from Nyx's irreverent company, Mo endured Minion Mismanagement with clenched teeth. The instructor droned on about "optimal fear-to-loyalty ratios" and "the art of selective punishment," while Mo's mind drifted to her bookstore. There, leadership had meant remembering everyone's coffee preferences and lending an ear when Ellie, her part-time assistant, needed relationship advice. Not... this calculated cruelty disguised as efficiency.

  Her pen hovered over her notes as the question that had haunted her since accepting the provisional crown resurfaced: How could she transform Blackthorn Keep without becoming her parents? They'd ruled through fear and manipulation, traits seemingly baked into the very stones of the fortress. Even now, with them gone, their absence left a void that expected—demanded—to be filled with the same darkness.

  Mo caught herself sketching a latte art design in her notebook and quickly covered it with her hand. She'd fled to humanity and built a life where kindness wasn't a weakness, yet here she was, back in this twisted world.

  But if not me, then who? The thought surfaced unbidden. Someone would take Blackthorn Keep—someone who wouldn't hesitate to squeeze the goblins dry, who wouldn't question the old ways.

  She'd seen the gleam in Aldric's eyes, the barely concealed ambition. The Keep might not be what she wanted, but perhaps it was where she needed to be—if only to ensure it didn't fall into worse hands. As the bell finally released her from class, Mo found herself counting the minutes until she could see Nyx again—the one person whose outlandish defiance of tradition made her feel less alone in this madness.

  ***

  Mo leaned against the stone wall outside the Hexes & Curses classroom, her ginger hair falling over one eye in what she hoped was a "couldn't care less" fashion but probably just looked messy. The corridor, with its dark walls and flickering torches, was meant to inspire dread—but it only triggered a dull headache and the overwhelming desire to be back shelving novels in her human bookstore.

  A ripple disturbed the air at the end of the hallway like heat rising from summer pavement. And then, there was Nyx, their obsidian skin shifting between crystalline forms as they approached. Eventually, they'd settled on a tall, angular body with shoulders that tapered to impossible points.

  "So, what else did you have?" Mo asked, pushing herself away from the wall and trying to ignore how it seemed to pulse slightly beneath her fingertips. "Demonic Histories? How was it?"

  "Barely survived," Nyx's voice rippled with multiple tones. "Professor Grimshade—aptly named, I might add—spent two excruciating hours recounting how his great-grandfather disemboweled an entire village. With visual aids. He called it 'inspiration for ambitious young villains.' I call it 'how to lose your appetite for the next century.'" Their form shifted briefly into something smaller before snapping back. "You?"

  "After that complete fiasco they quite reasonably called Minion Mismanagement I had Infernal Etiquette. We practiced the proper way to laugh when your enemies are consumed by hellfire." Mo demonstrated with a lackluster "Mwah-ha-ha" that earned her a stern look from a passing senior student. "Apparently, I lack proper villainous conviction."

  "Shocking," Nyx replied.

  Their conversation halted as a cool draft wafted through the corridor. Approaching them was a tall figure that seemed to radiate winter itself. His frost-white hair caught the torchlight, sending prismatic sparks dancing across the ceiling. The guy's skin held a pale blue tint, and tiny ice crystals formed around him with each exhale.

  When he caught them watching, his silver eyes widened, and frost spread across his cheeks in what Mo realized was the ice demon equivalent of a blush. She recognized him immediately—her reluctant partner from Monologuing class, whose subdued demeanor had made the mirror critic's harsh judgment slightly more bearable.

  The frost-haired boy gave a slight bow that radiated rebellion in its subtlety—not the deep, groveling obeisance required by Infernal Etiquette, as Mo had recently learned, but something graceful and efficient that spoke of self-respect. As he straightened, tiny ice crystals formed and cascaded from his fingertips like diamond dust catching the torchlight in prismatic explosions. The temperature around him seemed to dance between winter's kiss and spring's gentle touch—controlled power rather than intimidation.

  "Pardon the intrusion," he said, his voice soft as new-fallen snow. He inclined his head toward Mo. "I'm pleased our paths cross again after that... theatrical assessment." His gaze shifted to Nyx, silver eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight. "And I don't believe we've been properly introduced. Lucian Frostbrook, at your service." A rueful smile touched his lips as frost patterns spiraled across his collar. "They claim in villain halls that blood runs cold, but mine's merely frozen outright—winter's gift, ensuring I never truly warm to the family business of turning heartbeats to silent clockwork."

  Mo blinked. She'd never expected anyone at Umbra Academy to introduce themselves with what sounded like a line from a melancholy poem. Beside her, Nyx's form rippled slightly, their shoulders losing their aggressive points as curiosity overtook performance.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "You've been my partner during monologuing," Mo said. "And this is Nyx."

  "Obscuris," Nyx added with a sharp-toothed grin, "But only when it annoys my parents."

  Lucian's silver eyes widened slightly, recognition flashing across his face at both names, but he merely nodded, a tiny ice crystal forming at his collar. "A pleasure. I believe we share the next class." His formal diction seemed both natural and practiced, like someone raised on etiquette manuals but who genuinely preferred their rules to chaos.

  "The Frostbrooks…" Nyx said, voice pitched like a blade balanced on its edge—both curious and accusing. "The ice dynasty that turned the Emerald Kingdom into an eternal winter sculpture during the Midnight Wars?"

  Lucian winced, a small flurry of snowflakes cascading from his hair. "My great-aunt, actually. The family celebrates that anniversary with ice sculptures of the victims," his voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm supposed to be carrying on the tradition."

  "But you'd rather not?" Mo asked, recognizing the familiar tone of someone dodging familial expectations. She'd perfected that particular dance at the age of seven.

  "I…" Lucian hesitated, then, with a subtle flick of his wrist, created a perfect miniature rose made of ice in his palm. "I see beauty where they see weapons." The rose gleamed with impossible detail—each petal translucent and delicate. "My father can create ice spears that pierce dragon hide. My mother's frost can stop a heart. And I..." He closed his fingers but gently placed the rose in his pocket instead of crushing it.

  "Make art," Mo finished for him.

  "A waste of Frostbrook potential," he said, echoing what was clearly a frequent criticism. "They sent me here hoping I'd toughen up. Convert..."

  Nyx's form shifted slightly, growing an inch taller. "Parents and their delightful expectations. How familiar. Isn't there a more appropriate place to put their offsprings than this circus of a school?" Their multiple-toned voice carried layers of bitterness.

  ***

  The Hexes & Curses classroom resembled a theater more than a traditional classroom—curved tiers of stone desks facing a central pit where a single chair sat ominously empty. Stains of various colors and viscosities marked the floor around it, telltale evidence of experiments gone either very right or very wrong. Depending on your perspective.

  Mo slid into a seat in the middle tier, and Nyx joined her. After a moment of visible internal deliberation, Lucian approached and asked if he could sit with them. Professor Malvolia swept in seconds later, her robes trailing green smoke that smelled faintly of sulfur and overripe peaches. Behind her shuffled a figure Mo hadn't expected to see here.

  He was unmistakably human with the kind of pallor that came not from supernatural heritage but from extended time away from sunlight. Dark circles nested beneath eyes that seemed too large for his gaunt face. His brown hair hung limp, and his movements suggested someone conserving energy with every step. The white button-down shirt he wore hung loose on his frame, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms crisscrossed with faded marks in various stages of healing.

  "Today," Professor Malvolia announced, her voice sharp enough to draw blood, "we begin with practical application." Her smile revealed teeth filed to points. "You were supposed to memorize the incantations and study the hand positions before this class began. Now—" she flicked her wrist, and the lights dimmed, focusing on the central chair like a spotlight on an execution block, "—you'll see the effects firsthand on living tissue."

  She gestured to the young man with theatrical flair. "This is Julian Fennar. He has... kindly volunteered to assist in our demonstrations." Her emphasis on 'volunteered' hung in the air like a threat. Julian's hollow-eyed stare and mechanical movements seemed to tell a very different story.

  The volunteer's expression didn't change at the professor's choice of words. He simply moved to the central chair with the practiced resignation of someone who had sat there many times before. His eyes swept across the classroom without really seeing any of them as he shifted his butt on what seemed to be a very uncomfortable surface.

  Mo felt her stomach turn. Beside her, Lucian had gone even paler, frost forming rapidly on the desk beneath his trembling hands. Nyx had gone completely still on her other side—a rarity for the shapeshifter whose form usually rippled with every emotion.

  "A human," Nyx whispered. "They're using a human as a test subject." Their form contracted slightly, edges becoming less defined. "Now I understand why my father spoke of this class with such... anticipation." Their voice dropped even lower. "I think I'm going to be physically ill."

  They looked around as if to check that Mo and Lucian concurred.

  "Don't look at me like that!" they said defensively. "I understand that humans are a major part of the workforce in many demon empires, but this is just sick. Why would anyone use a human, or a goblin, or anything that thinks as a test subject when you can conjure… something?" Their skin rippled with waves of midnight blue, betraying their disgust.

  As if hearing Nyx's comment, Professor Malvolia clarified: "Mr. Fennar is not merely a test subject. He is my research assistant, specializing in documenting and classifying hex effects on the human nervous system." She spoke with the detached pride of someone discussing a handy laboratory instrument.

  Julian nodded slightly, his eyes fixed on the middle distance. "I record the subjective experience of each hex," he explained, his voice surprisingly steady. "Pain levels, sensory distortions, duration of effects—data that can't be gathered from demonic subjects, whose physiology differs significantly from humans."

  Professor Malvolia drew a complex symbol in the air, her fingers leaving traces of that same green smoke. "Today we're examining the Trembling Veil hex. Pay attention to the progression of symptoms."

  The symbol floated across the room—glowing sickly green against the shadows—before sinking into Julian's chest like a phantom dagger. For a moment, nothing happened. Then his pupils dilated, darkness swallowing the warm brown of his irises until his eyes resembled bottomless wells. A fine tremor began in his hands, his fingers twitching as if trying to play a silent, frantic melody. The tremors crawled up his arms like invasive vines, seizing his shoulders in violent spasms.

  Sweat beaded on Julian's forehead, glistening under the harsh magical lights. Still, his voice remained unnaturally clinical, as he reported: "Visual distortion beginning. Objects appearing to vibrate. Tactile hallucinations—sensation of insects beneath the skin." His throat bobbed with a swallow. "Discomfort level at four, approaching five."

  Mo gripped the edge of her desk, fighting the urge to stand up and stop this grotesque demonstration. Julian continued his self-narration as the tremors intensified, his body jerking while his face maintained an eerie composure.

  Some students were taking notes with ghoulish enthusiasm, whispering excitedly when Julian's tremors intensified. A girl with scaled skin sketched the progression of symptoms in her journal, tongue flicking between pointed teeth. Others looked away, uncomfortable but unwilling to object—their discomfort itself viewed as a weakness to be hidden. One boy with antlers accidentally snapped his quill in half when Julian's voice cracked.

  Next to Mo, Nyx's carefully constructed form began to lose coherence. Their edges blurred, skin rippling between textures—obsidian to smoke to something like crushed velvet and back again. Their face stretched and contracted as if their features couldn't decide on a configuration that could adequately express their disgust.

  "This is…" Nyx's voice splintered into multiple tones, each pitched differently, "…this is wrong."

  Coming from Nyx, who had spent lunch describing how they'd enjoyed their Demonic Warfare class with unsettling enthusiasm, the statement carried weight. They'd embraced most aspects of Umbra Academy with rebellious glee, but this demonstration had clearly crossed a line even they recognized.

  Mo's stomach twisted into a knot of revulsion that went against everything related to her succubus heritage. Three years of morning rush coffee orders and late-night poetry readings had rewired something fundamental in her. She'd gone to Earth to hide from her legacy, and somewhere between alphabetizing romance novels and perfecting heart-shaped latte art, she'd absorbed humanity like ink into parchment. Her fingers itched to reach for the counter bell she used to ring when a customer needed help.

  But Julian wasn't a customer. This wasn't her bookstore where she could fix problems with a smile and the perfect book recommendation.

  Mo had believed humans were better off without creatures like her interfering in their lives. And Earth was one of the few sanctuaries where that was possible, with only a few areas that were exceptions to that rule. But this—watching a human methodically tortured in the name of education—made her question whether she'd be able to brave through this study.

  "Can they do this?" she whispered to no one in particular.

  Lucian's reply came with a small cloud of frost. "My family has a saying: 'Rules are for those without the power to break them.'" His silver eyes remained fixed on Julian, whose tremors finally subsided as the professor ended the demonstration. "I always thought it justified cruelty. Perhaps it should inspire protection instead."

  "That said, there are no rules preventing anyone from experimenting on live subjects here in the Academy," said Nyx. "If anything, it is encouraged. As for outside the Academy. Well… You know that better than I do, Dark Lady."

  Mo looked daggers at Nyx. "I hope you never use this title seriously," she said, her face a cruel mask. "Or I may show you how experiments on live subjects were performed in the flavor of Nightshade family."

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