Chapter 2

Dinner at the Warlock manor was served at sundown, as it always was.

Liliana sat at Julian's right in a pale gown that made her look fragile as a paper saint. Her fingers rested near his on the tablecloth — not quite touching, but close enough to claim.

She turned to me with a smile that was all surface.

"Celeste, I want you to know — I've forgiven you for what happened to Shadow." A delicate pause. "I know you can't always help yourself. It's not the first time, after all."

Charles's gaze flickered toward me — complicated, guilty — but he said nothing.

Julian set down his goblet.

"Celeste. As your tutor, I'll remind you — your sole concern right now should be the qualifying examinations. Do not waste energy on anything beyond your studies."

Liliana watched from behind her glass, eyes bright with quiet triumph.

I knew what he was really saying. Don't imagine there is anything between us beyond ink and obligation.

I looked at him steadily.

"You're right, Professor Ashford. From now on, I won't do anything beyond what's required of me."

His fingers stilled on the stem of his goblet — something in my tone had caught.

"With your marks, admission to the Kindred Lyceum shouldn't be difficult. If your performance holds, I could continue as your advanced mentor —"

"That won't be necessary." My voice came out quieter than I intended. "After graduation, we will no longer be student and tutor. So you needn't worry."

Something shifted in his expression — a crack, barely visible, quickly sealed.

"Is that your way of being defiant again? I thought I made myself clear about those... unrealistic ideas."

I did not explain. There was nothing left to explain.

Once, I hadn't wanted the arrangement at all — because I'd been hiding a selfish little hope beneath it. But now that I'd decided to stop loving Julian Ashford, the arrangement served no purpose either.

…

The next evening, I arrived at the Kindred Lyceum to find my desk destroyed.

The words were gouged deep into the wood. LIAR. THIEF. FRAUD. Across the surface in jagged script: You stole her sacrifice. Everyone knows.

Inside the drawer, wrapped in black cloth, lay a severed bat — its wings pinned open with silver needles, a crude mockery of the Shadow Sigil carved into its chest.

I recoiled — one sharp breath, nothing more — then swept my gaze across the hall.

No one met my eyes. But several watched from the edges of their vision, half-smiling, waiting for me to shatter.

In the center of the room, Liliana sat surrounded by her circle, chin lifted, expression serene. She didn't need to speak. The message was already spreading through every corridor of Kindred society.

I closed my eyes. When I opened them, there was nothing left but cold.

"There are rune-wards on every pillar in this building. They record everything. If I find out who did this, I will file a formal grievance with the Council — and that means your family name goes on public record."

Several students flinched. In Kindred society, a Council grievance was a stain that lasted generations. The crowd thinned.

Liliana passed close on her way out, leaning in just enough to whisper: "Don't get comfortable. This is only the beginning."

I hadn't even made it past the Lyceum gates when Grandmother Beatrice's call came through.

Her voice hit before I could speak.

"Have you lost your mind entirely? Liliana Warlock gave her soul to save that man's life, and you have the gall to go around claiming it was you?"

My throat locked. "Nonna, I didn't —"

"You were taken in by a noble House — fed, clothed, educated — and this is how you repay them? By slandering the real daughter?"

"Nonna, you raised me. You know I wouldn't —"

"What I know is that your father died so you could have a better life. And you're throwing it away chasing a man who doesn't want you. Do you think you're worthy of an Ashford?"

The line went dead.

Once, Grandmother Beatrice had been the person who loved me most in the world. Before my father died. Before everything rearranged itself into a shape I no longer recognized.

I was still standing in the courtyard when the black carriage rolled up. The Ashford crest — a silver thorn wreathed in shadow — gleamed on the door.

Julian leaned out. "Get in."

"I can walk back to the manor."

His eyes held mine — not with warmth, but with the flat insistence of someone accustomed to being obeyed. The carriage behind us sounded its horn. I had no choice. I climbed in.

Inside, I pressed myself against the far door — as far from him as the cabin allowed. Rain drummed against the roof.

"I'll say this once. Stop antagonizing Liliana. She is the one who bears the Sigil. She is the one who saved my life. Whatever fantasy you've built around that night — let it go."

My chest felt like something had driven a needle through it — fine, precise, radiating in every direction.

Years ago, Julian would have investigated before condemning. He would have said, Tell me your side, Celeste. I'll listen. That man was gone.

A reckless impulse seized me — to tear open my collar, to show him the real Sigil burning beneath my skin. But I had tried before, more than once. Every attempt had ended in his fury and my punishment.

So I simply nodded. "I understand."

His expression eased. He reached into his coat and produced a small tin of healing salve. "For the wound. Apply it tonight."

Beat you black and blue, then offer small mercies. Once, I'd been naive enough to mistake those scraps for something special — proof that I was different from the rest. That somewhere beneath the coldness, he still cared.

I took it. "Thank you, Professor —"

The carriage jolted — a violent stop, hooves screaming on wet stone. My body pitched forward toward Julian.

Before I could touch him, his hand shot out and shoved me backward. Hard.

My spine slammed against the carriage door. Pain flared white across my shoulders, reigniting every half-healed wound beneath my clothes.

His eyes were winter.

"Even now? You would use any excuse to throw yourself at me. Have you no dignity at all?"

I couldn't breathe. Not from the impact. From the understanding that this man — this man I had traded my soul for — looked at me and saw nothing worth saving.

"Get out," he said.

I did.

The rain hit me like a wall. The carriage pulled away without pause, its lanterns shrinking to pinpricks in the dark.

I did not cry. I walked.

By the time I reached the Warlock manor, my clothes were soaked through. I stopped at the threshold of the main hall. Inside — firelight, warmth.

Julian's voice, soft and concerned: "How is the Sigil feeling tonight? Any discomfort?"

Liliana, leaning into him: "Sometimes it aches... just a little. You'll stay close, won't you?"

"Always," Julian murmured. "I owe you everything."

I pressed my hand to my chest.

Beneath my soaking clothes, the real Shadow Sigil — the one no one would acknowledge, the one burning hotter with each passing night — seared against my ribs so sharply I nearly doubled over.

I bit down until I tasted blood.

The fake sigil on Liliana's wrist felt nothing.

The real one was killing me.

And no one in that warm, firelit room would ever know the difference.