Thirteen days had passed since Mo's disastrous duel with Valerius. Whispers followed her through Umbra's shifting corridors like persistent shadows. Nearly two weeks of struggling to rebuild her tattered reputation while simultaneously trying to implement their clandestine training system. The Council had promised to make her academic life a living nightmare, yet strangely, the worst hadn't materialized. Instead, a curious pattern emerged in her classes.

  Professor Ossian now avoided calling on her in Combat Applications, his skeletal fingers skipping past her name with studied casualness. Professor Malvolia's demonstrations in Hexes & Curses became marginally less horrific when Mo volunteered. Even Professor Mortis seemed to grade her uninspired villain monologues with unexpected leniency.

  "Either they're setting you up for something truly diabolical," Nyx had theorized during breakfast, "or they're absolutely terrified of you."

  Lucian's observation had been more nuanced. "Fear and respect share borders in villain society. Your raw power made quite the impression—especially on the male professors."

  Whatever the reason, the relative calm had given Mo precious time. The trio had spent half of that time searching for a proper location to practice their unorthodox skills—somewhere beyond the Academy's prying eyes. Umbra's architecture seemed designed specifically to thwart privacy, with whispering walls and portraits that reported student activities directly to faculty.

  "This is the umpteenth room we've checked today," Mo groaned, shutting the door on yet another unsuitable chamber. This one featured a mirror that asked uncomfortable personal questions in multiple languages simultaneously. "Are there no normal spaces in this entire school?"

  "Define normal," Nyx replied. "Is it the classroom where the floor occasionally becomes lava, or the one where the ceiling literally rains judgment down upon our unworthy heads?"

  Lucian glanced at his pocket watch—a delicate contraption of frost-etched gears that required no winding. "That's serendipitous! We have exactly thirteen minutes before we're late to Hexes & Curses. Perhaps we should continue our search after the class."

  As they rounded the corner toward the stairwell, Mo nearly collided with a cluster of senior students huddled in intense conversation. They immediately fell silent, eyeing the first-years with suspicious glares.

  "Watch where you're going," snapped a tall girl with antlers sprouting from her temples, several points gleaming in the torchlight. "First-years should be seen, not heard—and preferably not seen either."

  Mo muttered an apology, but as they passed, fragments of the interrupted conversation floated after them:

  "—got multiple volunteers this time—" "—thirteenth hour of the night in the forbidden corridor—" "—Donovan barely survived last year's Trial—" "—tougher initiations this time, after what happened to the Fletcher twins—"

  Nyx shot Mo a questioning look, but she shook her head slightly—not here, not where the walls literally had ears. They hurried toward class, the whispered phrase "Witching Hour Trial" echoing in Mo's mind like a half-remembered nightmare.

  "Did you hear that?" she whispered once they were safely seated in the Hexes & Curses classroom, minutes before Professor Malvolia's arrival.

  "The Witching Hour Trial," Nyx nodded, their skin rippling with intrigue. "Sounds deliciously ominous."

  "And completely forbidden, I'd wager," Lucian added, frost patterns forming intricate whorls of concern across his collar. "Secrets buried in shadow grow thorns; what blooms in darkness seldom brings light."

  Mo was about to respond when she noticed Julian entering the classroom. The research assistant looked even more exhausted than usual, with dark circles beneath his eyes as if he hadn't slept in days. If he was that drained just two weeks into the year, how did he survive until summer?

  Still, when he saw Mo, he offered a small nod of acknowledgment before taking his position beside Professor Malvolia's demonstration table.

  The lesson proceeded as grimly as always, with Professor Malvolia demonstrating a hex that caused temporary blindness. Julian dutifully narrated its effects: "Visual field deteriorating from the periphery inward, sensation similar to numerous needles behind each eye." As usual, during the process, he'd been doing his best to record every detail in his ever-present notebook. Even while his vision was compromised.

  When the students broke into pairs to practice a milder version of the hex, Mo managed to position herself near Julian's desk.

  "You look terrible," she whispered, keeping her voice below Professor Malvolia's hearing threshold.

  Julian's mouth quirked in a tired smile. "Thirteen hours of test sessions will do that to a person."

  "Test sessions? They're using you as a magical guinea pig outside class hours too?"

  Julian winced, glancing around to ensure no one was listening. "It's... complicated. Let's just say my family's arrangement with the Academy is... multi-faceted."

  Mo frowned, but before she could press further, she noticed his attention had shifted to something over her shoulder. She followed his gaze to where Nyx was dramatically pretending to writhe under Lucian's mild hex, collapsing with theatrical flair.

  "Your friends are... unusual," Julian observed. "In a good way," he quickly added. "Most students here are either vicious competitors or terrified conformists."

  "We're developing our own system," Mo said without thinking, then immediately bit her tongue. "I mean…"

  "A parallel syllabus?" Julian's eyes lit with unexpected interest. "Based on what? Let me guess… Your individual inclinations and your… untamed power?"

  Mo flinched at the reminder. "You are very… perceptive."

  "Sorry, I always thought directness helps to get to the point much faster," he replied, something like eagerness breaking through his exhaustion. "And here, it's not like we have a lot of time to talk."

  Their conversation was interrupted by Professor Malvolia sweeping past, only confirming Julian's statement. "Less chatting, more hexing, Lady Nightshade. Unless you wish to volunteer for a more advanced demonstration?"

  Mo hastily returned to her partner, a nervous wraith-girl who seemed terrified that Mo might accidentally entrance her. The rest of the class passed without further opportunity to speak with Julian, but as they filed out, he pressed a folded note into her hand—a brief message scrawled in neat handwriting: "North Tower, room thirteen, after dinner. The Witching Hour Trial isn't what you think. But it started ages ago." There was more there, but Mo didn't have time to read all of it as she hurried to her next class.

  ***

  That afternoon, Mo found herself in Professor Mortis's Advanced Cackling seminar, staring in disbelief at the assignment parchment that had just been distributed. The classroom was particularly gloomy, with numerous candelabras providing the only illumination, each holding black candles that dripped wax the color of congealed blood.

  "You can't be serious," she muttered, scanning the requirements again.

  "I assure you, Lady Nightshade," Professor Mortis intoned, his skeletal face somehow conveying profound disappointment, "the proper villain cackle is no laughing matter."

  The assignment required students to record thirteen variations of their "signature evil laugh," analyze the psychological impact of each, and submit both a written analysis and a practical demonstration. To make matters worse, the recording device was an ancient crystal orb that captured sound with unsettling fidelity.

  Mo stared at the instructions, wondering if she could sink any lower on the dignity scale.

  "Record in a room with substantial echo for optimal resonance," she read aloud in disbelief. "Include at least one laugh incorporating your House's traditional vocal flourish." She looked up in confusion. "What even is a Nightshade vocal flourish?"

  Beside her, a student with scaled skin smirked. "Everyone knows the Nightshades end their cackles with that distinctive throat-click followed by descending notes. It's been your family's signature since the Thirteenth Demonic Convergence."

  "Right," Mo said weakly. "Of course. That throat-click thing. Just testing you."

  The scaled student—Lex, if she remembered correctly—continued to smirk at her discomfort. Something tightened in Mo's chest—a mix of embarrassment and irritation that called to the power she'd been trying to harness. What if...?

  She inhaled slowly, remembering the controlled exercises from their makeshift training system. Stage one: Emotional Awareness. Stage two: Targeted Output.

  Mo met Lex's gaze and let a slender thread of her power flow, focusing on projecting not attraction but friendliness—the warmth she'd use to coax shy customers into discussing their reading preferences at her bookstore. A subtle rose-gold shimmer crossed her vision, almost imperceptible.

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  Lex blinked, his smirk wavering slightly. "I could—" he began, then cleared his throat. "I could show you the technique. Later. If you want."

  Mo felt a flicker of triumph—it had worked! Sort of.

  Professor Mortis cleared his throat—a sound like crumbling gravestones. "Demonstrations, students. Now."

  Emboldened, Mo tried to extend her empathic connection to the entire classroom, hoping to influence them to receive her lackluster cackling more favorably. The power within her stirred, then sputtered like a candle in a draft. Nothing happened.

  Individual connection versus group influence—noted.

  Mo spent the next hour attempting to produce something resembling a villainous laugh while her classmates delivered performances ranging from spine-chilling to embarrassingly theatrical. When her turn came, Mo managed a half-hearted "Mwa-ha-ha" that trailed awkwardly into silence.

  Professor Mortis sighed, a sound like autumn leaves skittering across a tombstone. "Lady Nightshade, your laugh lacks the essential element of all truly great villain cackles: conviction. You must believe in your own terrifying greatness for others to fear it." He gestured toward the crystal orb. "Practice. Multiple recordings by tomorrow's class. Find your inner darkness."

  Mo slunk back to her seat, wondering how exactly she was supposed to discover her "inner darkness" when all she really wanted was to be back in her bookstore, recommending romantic comedies to regular customers.

  ***

  The afternoon sunlight—a rare phenomenon at Umbra Academy—streamed through the high windows of the Grandiose Architectural Design classroom, casting patterns across Mo's notes that reminded her of the stained glass in her bookstore's reading nook. This classroom was unlike any other at Umbra Academy. Instead of the usual Gothic gloom, it featured soaring ceilings, clean marble floors, and massive drafting tables arranged in a perfect circle.

  The illusion of normalcy shattered as soon as Professor Doomspire entered. The tall, gaunt woman wore what appeared to be a cape made entirely of miniature architectural blueprints, each depicting a different fortress, castle, or ominous tower. As she strode to the center of the room, the blueprints rustled and occasionally emitted tiny screams.

  "Today," Professor Doomspire announced, her voice like steel scraping stone, "we advance to the sixth principle of architectural torment: Impossible Material Substitutions." She flicked her wrist, and several ghostly architects appeared around the room, each looking more haggard than the last. "Observe the subjects' increasing distress levels. This is week two of the Endless Revision Protocol we discussed last session."

  The class erupted in appreciative chuckles as one ghostly figure began frantically tearing at his spectral hair, muttering about load-bearing walls and structural collapse.

  Mo leaned closer to Nyx. "Two weeks of Grandiose Architectural Design, and I still can't believe this class is actually about making architects miserable rather than designing anything."

  Nyx's form rippled with amusement. "What did you expect? 'Here's how to make a pretty lair with color-coordinated torture chambers'?" They gestured toward the professor, who was now describing how to demand ruby-infused marble for staircases minutes before the construction deadline. "Doomspire's legendary in the field. Broke the spirits of the architects who built the Thirteen Sunken Citadels."

  "But I'm starting to see something else," Mo whispered, her brow furrowing as she watched the ghostly architects scramble to redesign fundamental elements of their plans. A pattern was emerging—one she might have missed if not for her barista days listening to people's stories and offering them fantasies from the bookshop in return.

  The constant changes, the deliberate confusion, the crossed communications... it wasn't just sadism. It was strategy.

  "What do you mean?" Nyx asked.

  "Look at what she's having them do," Mo said, pointing at her notes. "Every architect is working with different plans. None of them has the complete picture."

  Realization dawned on her. "They're compartmentalizing knowledge. If no single builder knows the full layout..."

  "...then no one can betray your lair's secrets," Nyx finished, eyes widening. "Diabolically clever."

  "And it means you don't have to execute your architects when they're done," Mo added. "Disposing of master builders is wasteful. This way, they live to build again, never knowing enough to be dangerous."

  A chill ran through her as the implications sank in. This wasn't just cruelty for cruelty's sake—it was calculated efficiency disguised as typical villain behavior. How many other courses contained these hidden lessons? For the first time, Mo wondered if Umbra's apparent absurdity might conceal genuine wisdom—just not the kind mentioned in any syllabus.

  "Nightshade! Obscuris!" Professor Doomspire's sharp voice cut through their whispered conversation. "Perhaps you'd like to demonstrate the proper way to inform your sculptor that the eighteen-foot obsidian gargoyles they've spent months crafting should now be crystalline phoenix statues instead?"

  Mo straightened, but not before jotting a final note to herself: Look deeper. Nothing here is only what it seems.

  For the next hour, they learned not about structural integrity or aesthetic principles but rather about "strategic requirement changes" and "calculated deadline impossibilities." Professor Doomspire demonstrated numerous ways to demand last-minute moat relocations guaranteed to drive any reasonable builder to despair.

  Despite the bizarre focus, Mo found herself absorbing useful information about fortress layouts, defensible positions, and the psychological impact of architectural choices. Her thoughts drifted to Blackthorn Keep's crumbling infrastructure—perhaps there was something here she could use, a way to renovate that served both practical purposes and her own vision for reform.

  She was so absorbed in sketching potential improvements to the goblin quarters that she didn't notice someone watching her until a shadow fell across her parchment.

  "Fascinating modifications," said a soft voice with the precise diction of old money. "Housing improvements for lessers? How... unconventional."

  Mo looked up to find Dorian Blackwood studying her work with unnerving intensity. Though he'd been a silent fixture in Architectural Design since the term began—always positioned three tables away, always impeccably dressed, always watching—this was the first time he'd approached her directly.

  The timing wasn't coincidental. Nyx had just stepped away to consult Professor Doomspire about a particularly sadistic blueprint modification, leaving Mo momentarily alone. Dorian had been waiting for this opening since sending that cryptic note to Nyx thirteen days ago—a fact Nyx had mentioned approximately seventeen times since receiving it.

  Up close, Dorian was even more striking than Mo had noticed from across the classroom—aristocratic features carved from marble, eyes so dark they appeared to absorb light rather than reflect it, hair the iridescent black of a raven's wing. Unlike most Umbra students who favored dramatic fashion statements, he wore simple, impeccably tailored clothes in various subtly different shades of black, the overall effect more powerful for its restraint.

  "Worker efficiency improves with better living conditions," Mo replied neutrally, covering her sketch with her arm.

  Dorian's mouth curved in the ghost of a smile. "Pragmatic. I appreciate that." His gaze shifted briefly to where Nyx sat across the room, currently in a feminine form with midnight-blue skin and starlight hair. "Your shapeshifting friend is... remarkable. Titanborn demons typically resist change so vehemently they calcify. Yet Obscuris flows like quicksilver."

  Something in his tone sent a cold shiver down Mo's spine, and her signet ring suddenly felt heavy on her finger, warming as if responding to a threat. "Nyx is more than the sum of their abilities."

  "Oh, undoubtedly," Dorian agreed, his voice low and intimate. "Just as you are more than yours, Lady Nightshade. Your... display in Combat Applications was enlightening. Raw power without pretense. Refreshing, in its way."

  Before Mo could respond or Nyx could return, Dorian straightened and returned to his own table. Throughout the rest of the class, she felt his gaze on her multiple times, calculating and curious.

  When they finally escaped the classroom, Nyx immediately demanded details. "What did tall, dark, and mysterious want? Besides me, obviously." They shifted their appearance slightly, adding a subtle glamour that made their features more striking. "He's been staring at me for all these thirteen days since he sent me that note. I counted! Almost two weeks!"

  "I'm not sure," Mo admitted. "But whatever his interest is, it feels... strategic. And the way he approached me when you left… Are you sure he's interested in you?"

  "But of course," Nyx said. "That's the basics of getting attention. He acts as if I don't exist after he teased me. And I'm… oh… I'm only getting more and more intrigued."

  Lucian, who had been unusually quiet during class, finally spoke. "The Blackwoods collect things," he said, frost spiraling from his fingertips. "Rare magical artifacts, unusual beings, secrets that should remain buried. They've been doing it for generations. Be wary."

  ***

  "Are we seriously doing this?" Mo asked, unfolding Julian's note for the umpteenth time since dinner. There wasn't much information to work with, only the cryptic message pressed into Mo's palm as they left Hexes & Curses.

  The three of them had spent hours huddled in Mo and Nyx's dorm suite, debating whether to investigate the Witching Hour Trial or dismiss it as none of their business. As the clock's hand approached the first hour after midnight, they crept through Umbra's labyrinthine corridors.

  "The forbidden corridor, thirteenth door on the left," Mo whispered, checking the directions in Julian's perfect script. "According to this, they've been conducting these 'trials' for years without official approval."

  "But with unofficial tolerance, I'd wager," Lucian added, his breath frosting in the chill air. "If the Academy truly disapproved, these activities would have been stopped long ago. Nothing happens here without the walls themselves knowing."

  "Which brings me back to my original question," Nyx muttered, their form less visible in the darkness, edges blurring into the shadows. "Why are we involving ourselves in this nonsense? Heroic rescue missions aren't exactly on-brand for villain school."

  Mo hesitated. The truth was, she wasn't entirely sure herself. "Julian's note mentioned something else that caught my attention," she replied. "See this part? 'The chamber contains old magic the Academy has forgotten.' If we're looking for a place to practice without being spied on..."

  "A forgotten chamber with forgotten magic might be exactly what we need," Lucian finished, understanding dawning in his silver eyes.

  "Precisely," Mo nodded. "Plus, if Julian's right about them targeting unwilling first-years, it's only a matter of time before they come after one of us. We need to make a point."

  They reached the designated corridor—an ancient passage lined with sets of armor, each missing one crucial piece: a helmet, a gauntlet, a breastplate. The effect was deeply unsettling as if numerous knights had been dismembered in exactly the same way.

  When the trio located the thirteenth door, they paused, listening. From within came sounds that made Mo's skin crawl—a terrible symphony of choked sobs, hysterical laughter, and what might have been screams muffled into whimpers. All punctuated by the worst sound of all: encouraging shouts from voices drunk on power.

  "Remember the plan," Mo whispered. "We observe first. We need to understand exactly what we're dealing with before we act."

  The door wasn't locked—a sign of the seniors' arrogant confidence in their tradition. They slipped inside, keeping to the shadows at the back of the room.

  The chamber was vast and octagonal, with towering pillars supporting a domed ceiling that displayed an ever-shifting cosmos. In the center, a circular platform glowed with ethereal light, surrounded by hooded seniors forming a perfect ring. Within that ring stood a younger student Mo recognized from her Advanced Cackling class—a quiet boy with moth-like wings who always sat in the back.

  The boy was trembling visibly, tears streaming down his face as shadowy tendrils emerged from crystal orbs placed around the platform. The shadows coiled around him, whispering in voices too low to distinguish.

  "Face your deepest fear, Moth-boy," called one of the hooded figures. "Embrace the terror and transcend it. Thirteen minutes is all you need to endure."

  Mo's hands clenched into fists as the platform beneath the boy began to pulse with ancient power. Something about that circular stone dais called to her, a resonance she couldn't explain but somehow recognized deep in her bones.

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