The sky over Coveén was split between morning sun and the lingering mist of night—a perfect metaphor, Blair decided, for this cursed academy.
Half light, half shadow.
Just like her.
She trudged across the stone courtyard toward the combat arena, boots thudding against ancient, rune-etched tiles that shimmered faintly underfoot. Her new uniform—tight black leathers with silver accents—was more comfortable than the dress from yesterday, though it still screamed performative nobility. Every student wore a version of it. Some added embellishments. Capes. House sigils. Magic charms braided into their hair.
Blair didn't bother. She'd pulled her curls into a loose bun and slipped a dagger into each boot. That was enough pageantry for her.
She paused outside the arena gates and eyed the other students filing in.
High Fae. Vampires. Shifters. A few humans. Even fewer lowborn fae, their uniforms slightly less tailored, their gazes lowered. Blair knew how Coveén worked—the prestige, the pecking order. Even here, bloodlines whispered louder than spells.
Inside, the combat arena was a circle of white stone and iron. An instructor—a grim-faced woman with ash-grey skin and hair like coiled steel—stood at the center.
"Welcome to Foundational Combat," the woman barked. "I am Instructor Vaelen. You will refer to me as Instructor. Not Lady. Not Mistress. I don't care who your parents are."
She scanned the class, sharp eyes sweeping over each face like a sword poised to cut. When her gaze landed on Blair, her lips twitched into the faintest smirk.
Great.
"Combat partners are assigned. No switching. No whining."
A scroll unfurled with a flick of Vaelen's fingers, and names began appearing in glowing light above the arena.
Blair didn't need to look. She already knew.
Sure enough, she heard it—low, almost amused—from behind her.
"Well, featherbutt," she muttered, turning around.
Riziel Veidryn stood a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest, wings tucked tightly behind him. He didn't look pleased. Then again, she wasn't either.
His voice was like cold smoke. "This must be my punishment for existing."
"No," Blair said sweetly. "It's mine."
Vaelen clapped her hands once. "Veidryn. Blightsteen. Center ring. Now."
They walked toward the ring in matching silence, tension crackling between them like a live wire. The moment they stepped into the circle, runes lit beneath their boots—binding them to the arena.
Blair rolled her shoulders. Riziel just watched her.
"Rules are simple," Vaelen called. "No magic. No wings. First to draw blood wins."
"Afraid of ruining your pretty face?" Blair asked under her breath.
Riziel's mouth twitched—not quite a smile. "Just hoping not to ruin my boots."
The moment Vaelen shouted, Blair moved first, knives flashing from her boots. Riziel dodged the swipe with an infuriating amount of grace, wings twitching slightly even though he kept them folded.
"You're quick," he said, sidestepping another jab. "For someone so... loud."
"And you're smug," she grunted, spinning and landing a blow that almost grazed his ribs. "For someone who still hasn't landed a hit."
His blade sang free of its sheath.
Fast.
Blair barely deflected the blow.
Their movements blurred—steel against steel, footwork against instinct. The class watched in silence as sparks flew between them, literal and not. When Riziel finally caught her wrist and twisted, she hissed and dropped a blade. But instead of pushing the advantage, he paused.
Just long enough for her to ram her knee into his gut.
He staggered back.
"Never hesitate, featherbutt," she said, panting.
Riziel coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You fight like a gutter-born."
Her eyes flared, anger lighting the dark corners of her mind.
"You don't know a damn thing about me."
Vaelen's voice cut the air like a whip. "Enough."
Blair and Riziel didn't take their eyes off each other as they stepped back.
Blair was breathing hard, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Not because she'd won—she hadn't—but because for the first time since entering this gilded cage, she felt something.
Alive.
----------
Riziel didn't move right away.
The heat of her words still echoed in his chest, sharper than her blades. You don't know a damn thing about me. Maybe not. But he knew enough.
Enough to see the cracks.
She masked it well—fire and bravado, a tongue sharpened like her knives—but that fury? It wasn't born from arrogance. It was old. Feral. Something that had been caged too long.
And for one stupid, breathless moment, it had almost looked like his own.
He hated that.
Hated the way her eyes flared when she fought. Hated that she didn't flinch when he said gutter-born. Hated that she made him hesitate.
He never hesitated.
Riziel turned without a word and stepped out of the circle, runes dimming beneath his boots.
He didn't look back. He didn't have to. Her presence stuck to him like smoke.
Blair Blightsteen was dangerous.
Not because she was powerful.
Because she wasn't. Not the way she should be. Not the way the others were.
But she still fought like hell to take up space.
And that kind of recklessness? That kind of defiance?
It got people killed.
Riziel clenched his fists and kept walking.
He'd been assigned to watch her. That was all.
So why did it feel like she'd already seen straight through him?
-------
Blair left the arena with her jaw set and her fists clenched.
You fight like a gutter-born.
She'd heard worse. But never from someone who meant it the way Riziel had. Not out of anger. Out of certainty.
She turned into a quiet corridor on her way to Arcane Theory, boots echoing sharply against the marble floor.
Then came a sound that stopped her—low voices, a soft thud, and a sharp gasp.
She rounded the corner.
A younger student, fae by the pointed tips of his ears and small antlers, was crumpled on the ground. Two older students—both lowborn from the look of their rough uniforms and hard faces—stood over him. One of them had a ring on his finger, glowing with a faint charm.
"Thought you'd like a taste of what it feels like to be useless," one said, voice low. "Don't worry. You're not dead. Yet."
The boy whimpered, cradling his side.
Blair's hand went to the dagger at her hip before she even thought about it.
"Step away from him."
Both aggressors looked up, surprised. The one with the ring sneered. "And you are?"
"Someone who doesn't like kicking down," Blair said. "Try me."
The taller one laughed once. "You think just because you're wearing noble colors, we'll listen? Your kind's the reason we have to fight like dogs to survive here."
"I'm not your kind," she snapped. "But I'm not theirs either."
That gave them pause.
The ring-glow dimmed slightly as the first student stepped back. The other one—narrow-eyed, cold—studied her longer.
"You're not with them," he said quietly. "But you're not with us, either."
"No," Blair said. "I'm with me."
A beat of silence.
Then the taller one grabbed the boy by the collar, shoved him roughly against the wall, and said, "Next time, stay out of noble halls."
He let go and walked off. His companion followed, but not before glancing back at Blair.
Something in his expression unsettled her.
Not anger.
Calculation.
Blair helped the boy up. He didn't speak, just nodded in thanks and limped off.
She exhaled slowly, heart still racing.
From behind a nearby pillar, someone stepped out.
A girl, maybe her age, with close-cropped silver hair and a half-healed burn along one arm. Her uniform was patched and faded, but her stance was confident.
"You shouldn't have done that," she said flatly.
Blair turned. "He was getting pummeled."
"That wasn't a beating. It was a message." The girl tilted her head. "To people like you."
Blair's eyes narrowed. "People like me?"
"Straddling the line," the girl said. "Pretending you don't have power when you do. Pretending you don't pick sides when you already live on one."
Blair stepped closer. "I don't pick sides because both of them reek."
The girl smiled—not kindly. "We'll see."
Then she turned and vanished down the corridor like smoke.
Blair stood there a moment longer, then shook her head and continued toward Arcane Theory.
She didn't know who those students were, or what kind of "message" they were sending—but it didn't feel like justice.
It felt like warning.
And Blair had no interest in becoming part of someone else's war.