College of Mages

The air in the courtyard was cold and crisp, heavy with the smell of damp stone, wet ivy, and the dry, decaying leaves of late autumn. The bell tower had just struck four, its deep echo fading into the gray, overcast sky.

She stood before the monument. The statue of Tel'arin towered over the courtyard—a woman carved in stone, her cloak frozen in a wind that had died six hundred years ago. She was a legend. The savior. The woman who killed the Blood Mage, Kelan, and stopped the world from falling into an endless night. Every student on this island knew the story. They learned it in history books, they saw the plays, they read the fairy tales. But to the modern generation of 2004, it was just that—a story. A myth. A bedtime story about a monster and a hero.

But standing here, looking up at her raised hand, she could feel it. The stone seemed to hum. The black ribbon on her wrist caught the gray light, and for a second, it looked like it was actually fluttering in a phantom breeze. The walls of Veridian Hollow remembered. And so did her blood.

High above the courtyard, in the tall, narrow windows of the West Dormitory, someone was watching.

Daemon Ashford stood in the shadows of the empty hallway, his pale forehead pressed against the cold glass. His black hair fell over the left side of his face, hiding it. But his right eye—a striking, unnatural blood-red—was fixed entirely on her.

He didn't know her name. He didn't know where she came from. But the moment she stepped through the iron gates, the white ribbon tied around his wrist had started to burn. A dull, pulsing heat against his skin. He felt a sudden, violent pull in his chest. A dark, suffocating attraction. It was the same sickness that had driven his ancestor, Kelan, to his knees. The same obsession that had ruined the world. Daemon hated it. He gripped the windowsill, his knuckles turning white, unable to look away.

Down in the courtyard, the heavy oak doors of the main hall creaked open. A group of students spilled out, laughing loudly, their breath fogging in the cold. They walked right past her, oblivious.

Except for one.

He stopped a few feet away. A tall, slim figure in black—a worn Joy Division tee under an unzipped hoodie, headphones hanging around his neck. His black hair was messy, streaked with natural silver, falling over tired, dark blue eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week, but his gaze was sharp.

He was staring at her. Not with the casual curiosity of a stranger. He looked at her like he had just seen a ghost.

He didn't move for a long moment. Then, he pulled his hands out of his pockets and walked closer. The wind kicked up, blowing dead leaves around his boots.

He stopped just out of arm's reach. His jaw was tight. His heart was slamming against his ribs—a frantic, inexplicable rhythm that he couldn't control.

"You feel that," he said, his voice quiet, raspy from the cold. It wasn't a question. "That... pull. Right?"

He swallowed hard, his eyes flicking from her face to the statue of Tel'arin, and then back to her. There was a flicker of fear in them.

"I'm Mello," he added, his voice dropping even lower. "And I'm sorry, but... who the fuck are you?"

The Great Hall was an absolute disaster of pink and red. Someone—probably Joey—had enchanted the ceiling to rain down tiny paper hearts that kept sticking to people's hair, and someone else had charmed the punch bowl to bubble in a very suspicious, very phallic way. It was Woven Heart Day. The one day of the year when the entire College of Mages pretended to be nice to each other, exchanged ribbons, and pretended they didn't want to kill each other for the rest of the semester.

Mello was sitting at a table in the far corner, looking like he wanted to be literally anywhere else. He was drowning in a heavy black hoodie, his headphones slung around his neck, playing something loud enough that the tinny bleed of guitars could be heard over the chatter. A small mountain of envelopes was stacked in front of him. He was sorting through them with the enthusiasm of a man doing his own taxes.

Another pink envelope. Another heart sticker. Another 'you're so mysterious, Mello.'

"Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered under his breath, flicking a card onto the growing pile. "It's like a Hallmark factory vomited all over my table."

He picked up a red ribbon, tied clumsily into a lopsided bow. He didn't look moved. He looked exhausted, like the sheer effort of being perceived was draining his life force. He dropped it into the 'will burn later' pile without a second glance.

He rubbed his tired eyes, sighing heavily, and finally looked up. He saw her walking toward him, holding a letter of her own.

Mello didn't smile. He didn't even wave. But he did nudge the chair across from him with the toe of his boot. An invitation, silent and lazy.

As she sat down, he tilted his head at the envelope in her hand. He looked at it, then at her. His dark blue eyes practically rolled out of his skull, heavy with sarcasm.

"Oh, look. You got one too," he said, pointing at her letter with a lazy, mocking wave of his hand. "Don't tell me. It's from Marvin. He probably wrote a poem. Did he rhyme 'heart' with 'art'? I bet he fucking did. Probably drew a little chess piece next to his signature."

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, watching her with that exhausted, sharp stare. The music from the hall droned on around them.

"Well, go on then," he said, his voice dripping with dry amusement. "Open it. Let's see which poor, delusional bastard thinks they have a shot with you. I need a reason to laugh today."

He waited, his tired eyes fixed on the envelope in her hand. But then, his gaze drifted down—to her other hand, resting on the sticky wooden table. A fresh, unwoven ribbon was still curled between her fingers. She hadn't given it to anyone yet. It was still hers to give.

Mello's smirk faltered. Just for a second. He looked at the ribbon, his expression unreadable, before his eyes snapped back up to her face. For a brief moment, the sarcasm was gone, replaced by something quieter. Something that looked almost like a question.

The hallway leading down to the Catacombs was always cold. Even in the middle of spring, when the rest of the College was warm with sunlight and the smell of blooming gardens, this corridor remained freezing. The old stone walls seemed to leech the heat right out of the air.

At the end of the hall stood the door. Massive, black oak, bound in rusted iron. It was sealed shut—charmed with heavy wards that made the very air around it hum with a low, vibrating tension. The plaque bolted to the wood was old, the letters barely legible: RESTRICTED. DO NOT ENTER.

She was standing right in front of it, her hand hovering in the air, perhaps reaching out to touch the cold iron, when a voice echoed from the shadows behind her.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Daemon Ashford stepped out of the dark alcove, his hands buried in the pockets of his long black coat. His pale skin looked almost translucent in the dim light of the corridor, and his black hair fell over the left side of his face, leaving only that striking, blood-red right eye visible. It was fixed on her, unblinking. The white ribbon on his wrist caught the light, a stark contrast to his dark clothes.

He stopped a few feet away, his gaze drifting from her to the heavy iron door.

"They sealed this place up a long time ago," he said, his voice quiet, smooth, but entirely devoid of warmth. "But not before someone got curious. Before the wards were put in place, this was just a forgotten storage basement. A student once turned it into his personal laboratory. Practiced magic he shouldn't have. Blood magic. The kind that requires... sacrifice."

He tilted his head slightly, watching her reaction, a faint, humorless smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"The professors found it eventually. Jars with organs. Stolen corpses from the infirmary. Blood circles painted on the floor. He was exiled for it. Banished to the mortal world to live like a rat."

He took a slow step closer, his red eye locking onto hers with an unsettling, magnetic intensity.

"They say history repeats itself. Or maybe it just rhymes." He let out a quiet, bitter huff of a laugh. "I'm Daemon. And the charming bastard who built that lab? He was my ancestor. So, you know... irony."

The Anchor was always a shithole, but on a Friday night, it was a legendary shithole. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, the smell of cheap draft beer, and the heavy, thrumming bass of a rock song blasting from the jukebox in the corner. The pool table was missing a cue, the neon sign outside was flickering, and half the College was crammed inside, shouting over the music.

She was sitting in a booth with her friends, a half-empty glass in front of her. The conversation was loud, the laughter was easy, and the alcohol was warm in her veins. It was the kind of night where she lost track of time.

Then the song changed. The tempo slowed down, dropping into a heavy, gritty rhythm. The bassline vibrated right through the sticky floorboards. It was the kind of song that made people move closer, the kind that made the air feel suddenly electric.

And then she felt it.

A hand—warm, deliberate—brushed against her bare shoulder. The touch was light, but it was enough to send a jolt right down her spine. Then, a voice, low and raspy, murmuring right against the shell of her ear, cutting through the loud noise of the bar.

"Dance with me."

The hand on her shoulder didn't pull or grab. It just waited, a silent challenge. The music pulsed, the bar roared around her, and the voice was too close, too low to immediately place. The scent of cheap cologne, cigarette smoke, and something else—something sharp and distinctly male—washed over her.

She didn't see his face. The room was too dark, the flashing lights from the jukebox too distracting. The only question was who had just stepped out of the shadows behind her.

.