Nefera De Nile | NSAFM

The halls of Grimmoire echoed differently at night. By day, they thrummed with chattering voices, shifting staircases, the moan of portraits eager to be overheard. By night, silence carried weight—every step reverberating like a claim of ownership, every candle flame bowing as if to acknowledge its superior. At least, that was how Nefera de Nile chose to interpret it.

She had lingered behind after her “Monster Ethics & Coexistence” lecture, not because she needed clarification on any of the content—hardly. She could recite the canon of monster oppression and the accords that followed in three languages if pressed. No, she lingered because she disliked arriving to her dormitory without ceremony. Entering spaces was a performance, one she timed deliberately: when most had already gathered, when whispers had filled the air, and when her presence could be felt like the shift in gravity before a storm.

Tonight, however, was different. The professor, an ancient vampire whose voice cracked like parchment, had asked her to assist with packing away enchanted scrolls. Normally, Nefera would refuse. Servitude did not align with her principles, nor her position. But the professor’s tone had been deferential—he had called her “Lady de Nile”—and Nefera could not resist indulging such acknowledgment.

Her hands, adorned with gilded cuffs that clinked faintly with each movement, worked with precise efficiency. She rolled the scrolls tighter, stacked them at immaculate angles, and murmured to herself the protective chants she had memorized centuries ago. Even menial tasks could be elevated when performed with the bearing of royalty.

When she finally stepped out into the cool night air, the Necrogreen stretched before her in pale moonlight. Clusters of students lounged across the enchanted lawn, their voices carrying, their forms flickering between shapes. A witch trio hovered cross-legged above the grass, chanting softly. A pair of ghouls floated upside down, tangled in laughter. And at the fountain’s edge—always at the fountain, she noticed—her siblings lingered.

Cleo sat rigid, her bracelets catching moonlight with each agitated gesture. Even from a distance, Nefera could read the set of her shoulders, the tilt of her head. Cleo was trying too hard to appear unbothered. That much was obvious.

Beside her lounged Khem, the middle child, half-wrapped, half-modern in his desert-toned attire. He had tied his hair back but loose strands framed his face, and turquoise eyes flicked now and then between his sisters with the wary attentiveness of someone caught between two great storms.

Nefera’s lips curved into something that might, on anyone else, be mistaken for a smile. On her, it looked more like a verdict.

She descended the stone steps slowly, each footfall deliberate, her jewelry and bandages catching just enough light to draw attention. Conversations in her proximity faltered. It was subtle but unmistakable; people adjusted when she moved through space.

“Cleo,” she called, her tone velvet over steel. “Khem.”

Her younger sister stiffened at once, turning with an expression that hovered between irritation and defensiveness. Khem only offered a small wave, his hand halfway raised before he dropped it, eyes darting as if to measure the temperature of the air between them.

“You look... spirited,” Nefera continued as she drew closer, her gaze sweeping over Cleo’s attire with clinical thoroughness. “Have you been rehearsing your speeches again? You gesticulate too much. A leader should not need to underline her words with frantic hands.”

Cleo’s sharp inhale betrayed her. Nefera savored it.

The eldest De Nile princess took her place beside the fountain as though it had been carved for her alone. She trailed a fingertip along the marble lip, feigning casual grace. Students nearby pretended to continue their conversations, but Nefera knew their ears tilted toward her. They always did.

“Campus feels smaller than I anticipated,” she mused aloud, as though speaking to the air itself. “One expects a university of NSAFM’s stature to feel... infinite. And yet, in just one week, the patterns reveal themselves. Who sits where, who whispers to whom, who avoids whose gaze.” Her turquoise eyes cut toward Cleo, then softened just barely when they settled on Khem. “Predictable. Comforting, in its way.”

Khem shifted, uncomfortable under her scrutiny. Cleo crossed her arms, bracelets clinking defiantly.

“You haven’t changed,” Cleo muttered.

Nefera tilted her head, as if considering. “No,” she answered simply. “And why should I? Do you imagine the pyramids change each season? Stability is power. You might reflect on that.”

The silence that followed was thick, charged with unspoken history. Nefera could almost taste Cleo’s retort—sharp, indignant, desperate to prove herself. Khem’s silence was heavier still, caught between loyalty and exhaustion.

For a moment, Nefera allowed herself to drift inward. To remember the night of her last breakup, a week before coming here—the heated words, the accusations of her being too demanding, too cold, too unwilling to yield. She had ended it cleanly, clinically, as though snipping away a frayed bandage. Still, the echo lingered. Not regret—never that—but irritation at imperfection. A reminder that not everyone was suited to stand beside her.

She looked at her siblings again, her expression unreadable.

“Perhaps,” she said softly, almost conspiratorially, “we should have dinner together. As a family. Before this place swallows us whole with its mediocrity.”

Cleo’s eyes widened, suspicion overtaking irritation. Khem blinked, as though caught off guard. Around them, the fountain continued to flow, the moon continued to glint, and the Necrogreen hummed with faint laughter and magic.

Nefera waited. Because Nefera always waited. And eventually, people bent toward her orbit. Instead, she watched as Cleo ran off, raising an eyebrow with a sigh, shaking her head. Khem decided to take his leave then as well, simply standing and strolling off towards the crypt dorms. Presumably to feed his cat.

So, Nefera sat alone, waiting for something, or someone, to inevitably happen.

The sun had only just begun to dip below the jagged peaks surrounding New Salem Academy for Monsters, gilding the necrogreen in molten gold and turquoise light — colors that seemed to belong to Nefera de Nile by right. She stood at the edge of the quad, the faint breeze lifting the ends of her jeweled bandages, her silhouette as flawless and statuesque as the monuments carved in her family’s honor thousands of years ago. The enchanted grass rippled with murmurs of students gathering in small groups, chattering, laughing, exchanging spells and stories. None of them dared raise their voices as Nefera passed by.

It wasn’t fear, exactly. It was the weight of presence. Nefera’s presence.

Her turquoise eyes narrowed, scanning the clusters of undergrads sprawled on conjured blankets, sipping blood substitute lattes, playing enchanted flutes. In every direction, she saw carelessness — and it grated against her nerves like sand beneath polished stone. She had been raised for precision, order, excellence. And here? Monsters played at adulthood, wasting their evenings on frivolity instead of ambition.

She adjusted the golden cuff on her wrist, polished to a gleam so bright it caught the dying light like a miniature sun. Her father’s gift — a reminder of what it meant to be firstborn, heir, unshakable. Cleo might have her little victories. Khem might charm his way through the middle ground. But I... She drew her shoulders back. I remain the pinnacle.

Of course, thoughts of her siblings were never far. Cleo’s presence haunted her like a shadow — smaller, restless, always trailing behind. Their dynamic was as old as childhood: Cleo clawing for approval, Nefera never granting it. And Khem... Khem was different. Their middle brother straddled both sides, a diplomat between sisters. At times Nefera admired his calmness, his refusal to be drawn into battles of pride. At others, his independence rankled her. She expected allegiance. Yet she could not deny a certain fondness for him, a protective streak buried beneath her pride.

Nefera’s sandals clicked against the marble pathway as she crossed toward Grimmoire Hall. The air here was heavy, laced with whispers from portraits whose painted eyes followed her. She let them. Attention was her birthright. Her flowing ponytail brushed her shoulders, teal streaked with threads of gold and bronze that caught in the candlelight of the sconces. She walked as if she owned the place — and in her mind, she did.

She paused beneath the haunted bell tower, her gaze drifting upward. That was when she let the façade slip, if only for a breath. A faint frown touched her lips, recalling the day she had first enrolled here. Even she, the great Nefera de Nile, had not been immune to the sting of expectation. Professors scrutinizing her name, peers whispering of Cleo’s rise to popularity at Monster High, the sting of past relationships that crumbled under her standards. A messy entanglement with a fellow model had ended in public embarrassment — something she would never forgive. Vulnerability was weakness, and weakness had no place in the De Nile legacy.

The crack of laughter across the courtyard snapped her back. She tilted her chin upward, the mask sliding back into place. If they expected her to sulk, they would be disappointed. Nefera de Nile did not sulk. She commanded. She reigned.

Still, tonight felt different. A shift in the air, as if the wards around New Salem hummed with restless energy. Students whispered of portals at the Rotunda of Realms, of strange visitors slipping between timelines. Others gossiped about Cleo’s breakup with Deuce — too loudly for Nefera’s liking. She had heard the whispers, the pity in their voices when Cleo walked past with her head held high but her spirit clearly fraying at the edges.

It irritated Nefera more than she expected. Not because she pitied Cleo — Nefera was not so soft. But because their family name was being dragged into petty dormitory gossip. If anyone was going to disgrace the De Niles, it would not be her sister weeping over a serpent-haired boy.

Her steps carried her toward Coven Commons, where torchlight spilled warm against the cobbled entrance. Students milled about with steaming mugs of cursed cocoa, parchment littering the tables from spellprint booths, familiars darting between legs. Nefera lingered in the doorway, her expression unreadable as her gaze swept the room. Somewhere in here, she knew, she would find Cleo or Khem. And whether tonight ended in a lecture, an argument, or a reluctant moment of sibling solidarity, Nefera would not walk away unseen.

She crossed the threshold, every gesture deliberate, every movement an announcement of her presence. The chatter softened as eyes shifted toward her. She let them look, let the silence hang. Then, with a cool flick of her ponytail over her shoulder, she selected a table near the enchanted firepit, seating herself with the ease of a queen upon a throne.

Her gaze lingered on the doorway, lips curving into the faintest, knowing smile. Let them come to me. They always do.

And so Nefera waited — for her siblings, for her rivals, for whomever dared test her composure on this restless night.