4. Casandra
Low cloud and sea mist cling to the island as I make my way toward the academic wing for Introduction Day the next morning.
Even through the fog, I can feel the weight of the stares tracking my every move.
Everyone knows my face now, courtesy of the show Nikolai put on yesterday, and the quiet whispers that follow me confirm I’ve officially become the academy’s main event.
My head is a mess of schedules and strategies. Choosing my curriculum isn’t about personal interest. If it were, I’d be back in Sweden finishing my marketing degree.
No, every class here is a strategic move.
Supernatural Political Theory. Inter-species Law.
Advanced Combat Tactics. I have spent the last year in Transylvania cramming centuries of history into my brain, and Blackmere is the next step.
If I am going to wear the crown that is my birthright, I can’t just know how to survive a fight; I have to know how to navigate the egos of the people starting them.
I spent one year in Karlstad, just a short train ride from the Swedish-Norwegian border.
I am used to the bridge between the two cultures—the way the languages bleed into one another, the shared stoicism.
I wanted a quiet life there, climbing the corporate ladder while living in the slow Scandinavian pace.
But destiny has a way of dragging you out of the quiet.
I walk into the main auditorium for Introduction Day, the massive space already humming with the chaotic energy of nearly three hundred students.
It’s a mandatory herd-gathering—a welcome back for the second and third years who are busy loud-talking over the crowd, and an awkward introduction for the incoming first-years like me.
Wanting to observe without being observed, I slip through the noise and claim a seat in the far corner, near the very back.
I pull out my tablet, scrolling through the digital welcome material to make myself look completely unnoticed and unremarkable, as if my entire world is contained in a PDF.
Founded upon the ashes of our fractured history, this institution stands as a living testament to a new dawn.
Our sacred mission is to bridge the gap between species, fostering an environment where we do not merely coexist, but excel as a unified team.
By binding our strengths together, we ensure that the leaders of tomorrow possess the empathy, resilience, and collaborative spirit necessary to protect the hard-won peace of our supernatural world.
A few minutes later, the doors swing open.
I look up for a second to see Lukas. He climbs the tiers, his footsteps measured, and slides into the seat directly next to mine.
I keep my eyes on my screen, scrolling through a document I already read three times. I don’t acknowledge him. I don’t even blink.
“You’re a long way from V?rmland,” he says, his voice a smooth, cultured baritone. He speaks with a soft Swedish lilt, the kind I used to hear every day in Karlstad.
A cold jolt of shock goes through me, but I don’t let it reach my face.
I keep my gaze fixed on the screen, though the words blur.
I expect the Council to know who I am, but my time in Sweden?
That’s supposed to be a footnote. A human life lived in the shadows of ordinary cafes and lecture halls.
It isn’t a secret, but it’s irrelevant. Or it should be.
I continue reading as if he was invisible.
He leans back, undeterred by the silence. “I’m Lukas. My father sits in the Council.”
I don’t respond. I simply swipe to the next page.
A small, amused huff escapes him. He leans in just enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his shoulder, though he is careful not to touch me. He looks at my screen, then back at my profile, his blue eyes sharp with a terrifying level of observation.
“But I suppose you already know all of that, don’t you?” He lowers his voice, his tone sharpening into something more formal, more dangerous. “Especially as a daughter of the Carpathians. Isn’t that right... Your Highness?”
I freeze, my finger stops mid-scroll. I slowly lift my gaze to look around and see if anyone heard him, but everyone else is lost in their own conversations.
“You’re a long way from home, too, Lukas,” I say, finally turning my head to look at him.
Before he can reply, the doors at the front of the room crash open.
Nikolai walks in, together with Magnus. His head immediately snaps toward the back of the room, his nostrils flare as the mate bond hits him. His eyes go dark, his jaw clenching as he sees Lukas sitting next my me, whispering into my ear.
A low, vibrating growl rolls through the auditorium, making the students in the front rows jump.
Lukas doesn’t flinch. He just turns his gaze toward the Prince, then back to me, his smirk widening. “It seems our future King has a very loud way of showing his regret. How long do you plan on letting him play the fool before you show him who he’s actually insulted?”
“My name isn’t a secret, Lukas. And neither is my title. It just hasn’t exactly... come up in conversation yet. Usually, the ‘fucking vampire’ part gets in the way of the introductions.”
I glance pointedly toward the front of the room, where Nikolai is still standing, his hand gripped so tightly on the back of a chair that the wood is beginning to groan.
Lukas follows my gaze to where Nikolai stands, then turns back to me. This time, he doesn’t just lean in; he drifts closer, his shoulder brushing mine as he bridges the gap between our chairs.
He lingers there, his head dipping low enough that his lips are inches from the shell of my ear. The movement is slow, deliberate—a performance targeted for the man at the front.
“A tragic oversight on his part,” Lukas murmurs, his breath ghosting against my skin.
I turn my head slightly, meeting his gaze at point-blank range. Up close, his eyes are the color of a glacier under a midwinter sun.
“Careful, Lukas,” I breathe, my voice barely a thread of sound. “If you’re trying to win me over, you’ll find I require a lot more than a few insults directed at the Prince.”
For a second I scold myself mentally. I’m not in a position where I should be flirting with anyone.
But the thought quickly vanishes as Lukas’ eyes flare with a sudden, sharp interest.
A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face, one that says he is more than happy to put in the work.
“I’ve always enjoyed a challenge, Princess. The easy victories are never worth the effort.”
He lets his gaze drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second—just long enough for it to be an invitation—before he finally, slowly, straightens back into his seat.
A low, guttural sound rips through the air.
At the front of the room, the chair Nikolai is holding finally gives way.
The frame snaps like a twig under his grip, the sound echoing through the hall like a gunshot.
Nikolai doesn’t even look at the splintered wood in his hands.
His chest is heaving, his eyes fixed on the spot where Lukas’s lips have just been near my neck.
The mate bond is screaming, and even from across the room, I can feel his possessive rage.
“Nikolai!” a professor barks. “If you find the furniture at Blackmere so offensive, you are more than welcome to stand in the hallway.”
Nikolai doesn’t move. He looks like he is one second away from lunging across the desks to tear Lukas’s throat out.
Lukas doesn’t even look at him. He just winks at me as if he hasn’t just lit a fuse on a powder keg.
“But don’t worry, Princess,” he adds. “Your secret is safe with me. I’ve always enjoyed having something the Prince doesn’t. It’s a Swedish tradition, really.”