25. CHAPTER 25
It was the first day of autumn. Except for summer, each equinox was celebrated just like the first day of lectures.
This year, the celebration was planned for September twenty-seventh, a Saturday evening.
Over the past few weeks of lectures, we had been doing the same activities—sparring, climbing mountains, attending lectures, sparring more, and falling down the mountain.
On October first, regardless of the day, the Riders would climb the Flier’s Rite of Passage. We were only days away from that.
Current events class involved a lot of debating of the brewing war between Yebel and Rudemont.
We all piled in there each morning, this morning was no different.
As a Flight Guide, I had moved to the upper rows with the other cadet leadership.
Today it was only Melamora leading the class, bravely taking all of us on.
“Humans do not fight as we do. They breed armies by the tens of thousands, trained for lines and volleys. They rely on steel and powder, on ships and engines that can cross the ocean and fire upon us from distances even a Rider cannot close unscathed. In the last decade, they have perfected machines that launch storms of arrows tipped with alchemical fire—what the troops call iron rain.”
She let the words hang, her eyes sweeping the lecture hall.
“Against us, they know they cannot match sorcery or dragon fire. So, they turn to numbers, industry, and endurance. Where a Fae soldier may fight for three centuries, a human army replaces itself every twenty years. When one wave dies, another rises behind it.”
A Historian cadet raised his hand. “Then why are we not already invaded? ”
“Because,” Melamora said, “power is not only measured in numbers. A single bonded Rider with phoenix or dragon fire can break a fleet. A ward woven by a Sorcerer can turn aside cannon shots. But do not mistake our strengths for invincibility. The humans adapt. Every year they bring new weapons across the sea, and every year they press closer.”
Professor Melamora’s voice carried across the tiers. “Intelligence suggests the humans are experimenting with blood rituals—binding their soldiers to magic stolen from the land itself. These rites may prolong life, may twist humans into something that heals from wounds no mortal should survive.”
A low murmur spread through the cadets.
“What are they making?” an Infantry cadet blurted.
Melamora’s expression hardened. “No one knows for certain. Some call them Alp. Others, Strigoi. But the word appearing most often in reports—” She let the pause stretch, her eyes sweeping the rows, “—is Nosferatu.”
The name hit the hall like a cold draft.
“That’s just a legend,” one Historian scoffed, though his voice shook.
“Legends,” Melamora said sharply, “are only stories until someone decides to make them real. Do not dismiss what you do not understand.”
The mutters grew louder, cadets leaning in to whisper the name under their breath Nosferatu. Nosferatu .
The word Nosferatu clawed straight through me.
I had heard it before. Years ago, when I was still little enough to sit on my father’s knee while he spun stories by firelight. He’d told it like a camp tale, voice low and dramatic, letting the shadows on the walls dance as he spoke.
“They’re men who traded their souls for blood,” he’d said, eyes gleaming with the fire. “Bodies that don’t stay dead, hearts that don’t beat, but still they walk. Their teeth are sharp enough to tear through bone, and their thirst never ends. Nosferatu.”
I’d pulled the blanket to my chin, wide-eyed. He’d only grinned, leaning close so his breath tickled my ear .
“If you ever hear one scratching at your window,” he whispered, “don’t look. Don’t open. Once you meet their eyes, they’ll never let you go.”
Then he’d laughed, ruffling my hair, as if it was only a game to spook me before bed. But I still remembered lying awake that night, staring at the shutters, half expecting to hear the scrape of claws.
And now, years later, the word didn’t sound like a story anymore.
The word lingered in the air like a curse.
“Nosferatu,” one cadet muttered, the syllables sharp as broken glass.
“That’s a ghost story,” another scoffed. “Meant to scare children into shutting their windows.”
“Exactly what you’re acting like now,” Melamora cut in, her voice flat. “Ghost stories are often truths wrapped in warning.”
A Historian cadet leaned forward. “Even if it were true, why would humans need such abominations? They already outnumber us.”
“Numbers aren’t everything,” Melamora said. “They fear our fliers, our wards, our lifespans. So, they create what they cannot be. Something that doesn’t tire. Doesn’t die. If they succeed, it won’t matter how many troops we have.”
Someone snorted. “If they drink blood, we’ll cut their throats before they get close enough.”
Melamora’s eyes narrowed. “Arrogance is the first casualty of war.”
I caught myself gripping the edge of my seat, knuckles white. My father’s voice still echoed in the back of my mind. Shadows on the wall. Don’t open the window.
Across the rows, I saw Alex shake his head. “Humans can’t outmatch the Fae. Not in magic. Not in strength. Not in flight.”
“Keep thinking that,” Melamora said coldly, “and you’ll be the first to die.”
“Humans? Nosferatu? Stories to frighten children,” Asmoth said, loud enough for the rows around him to hear. “If they come, they’ll bleed like anything else.”
A ripple of laughter spread through the hall .
Melamora’s voice cut through it, sharp as steel.
“Do you think I stand here spinning ghost stories?” She let the silence stretch until the last nervous chuckle died.
“Ancient Historian records mention Nosferatu on Yebel centuries ago—creatures raised through rituals that drained the life of the unwilling. They fed on blood because their own bodies could no longer sustain them. Entire villages fell before a single one.”
The laughter was gone.
“But they were destroyed,” a cadet blurted, uncertain now.
Melamora’s gaze swept the rows. “Destroyed… or forgotten. History has a way of burying what we don’t wish to remember. If humans have rediscovered the process—or worse, improved it—then the war you’re preparing for is unlike any your parents or grandparents faced.”
A hush fell. Even the most arrogant looked uneasy.
I sat frozen, her words scraping down my spine. Nosferatu. I could still hear my father’s voice from years ago, spinning it like a fireside tale to scare me before bed. If you ever hear scratching at your window, don’t look.
Back then I’d thought he was teasing. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
Had he known? Had he told it like a story because he didn’t want me to see the fear in his eyes? He’d always been careful with what he shared—too careful. Every story I’d ever heard from him suddenly felt like a half-truth wrapped in a blanket of lies.
The hall was quiet around me, cadets shifting uneasily, but all I could hear was my own pulse. If the Nosferatu were real—if the humans had truly made them—then my father had kept far more from me than I ever guessed.
And gods, what else had he told me without telling me?
“What do you make of this?” I asked Zane.
“I’ve heard the rumors but thought they were rumors or stories… now maybe not.”
“My dad told me stories of them when I was younger, but said it wasn’t real.”
“I am sure he didn’t want to scare you.”
“He left me unprepared instead. ”
Melamora led the class through more heated debates, some cadets challenging the news she shared with us. My head ran around circles. I don’t know what I can even do about this, I couldn’t let something I had no control over, control me. I needed to focus on today. I needed to focus on my training.
***
It took me three weeks to finish level five.
The final challenge—swinging across short ropes in strong winds—was much more complex than I expected.
I finally completed it at the end of week four, just in time.
The following week, we lost our barrier.
Lorenzo was the first to fall when it was gone, breaking his femur and tibia.
His scream was so loud I felt like I still heard him the next day.
He was stitched up and returned the following week. His fall reminded us to go more slowly.
Last week, I slipped while running toward the ledge at the end of level five, but I managed to grasp it and pull myself up.
I kept telling myself, ‘I can do this.’ Several cadets had already fallen and couldn’t be saved.
We wouldn’t know the final count until all the Riders finished the Rite of Passage, but it seemed we had lost at least five cadets.
Clara and Sadie managed to complete the course by the end of the third week. Clara slipped once during week four but recovered quickly. Akira struggled with me, especially with the physical aspects. Despite being two inches taller, she was still shorter than most female Riders.
During sparring, she had more losses than wins, but she showed improvement every week.
We went to the gym in the evenings to do more training.
Micah, Lorenzo, and Jackson had been completing the pass since the second week, but when they tried to move too fast, each one made errors and slipped somehow.
It was our second-to-last day of practice before we finished, meaning we were just one step closer to the Rite of Passage. All seven of us gathered at the base of the mountain pass, forming a circle .
“I think our time is a little slow, but we are also graded on how many of us complete it as well as timing. If all seven of us make it, we should have good timing and not be in last place. Every time we tried to speed up, it cost us time because someone slipped. I know my height affects my speed, and I’m sorry for that,” I told our group.
“Electric Feather’s First Squad!” Jackson shouted.
“Electric Feather’s First Squad!” we all echoed.