Chapter 1-Amrin
Oh gods—my mother was going to kill me.
Not literally.
Probably.
But the look she would give me?
That might be worse.
I stared down at the parchment in my hands, the bold, unmistakable mark at the top bleeding into my vision like an accusation.
An F.
Not subtle.
Not ambiguous.
Not salvageable.
Just a clean, definitive failure.
My fingers tightened around the edge of the exam as I exhaled slowly through my nose, willing myself not to crumple it then and there.
Around me, other grad students were already gathering their things—some chatting, some laughing, some already moving on with their lives like failure wasn’t something that clung to you.
Like it didn’t follow you home.
Or sit at your family’s table and stare at you while you pretended not to see it.
“That’s it, everyone. Class is dismissed.”
Professor Franco’s voice cut through the noise, and I didn’t move.
Not right away.
I stayed seated, shoulders drawn in, as though making myself smaller might somehow lessen the weight pressing down on my chest.
It wouldn’t.
It never did.
Because this wasn’t new.
This wasn’t unexpected.
This was… consistent.
Predictable.
Disappointing.
Me.
It was just me.
I pushed to my feet—too quickly—and immediately collided with something solid.
Or someone.
I stumbled back, nearly losing my balance before dropping gracelessly into my seat again.
“Sorry,” I muttered, heat creeping up my neck.
The towering, blue-skinned male I’d bumped into didn’t so much as acknowledge me.
He simply turned and walked away, his tail flicking once behind him, his horns catching the light from the rune-lamps overhead.
Of course, he ignored me.
That was typical.
I let out a small sigh.
“Well, that tracks,” I muttered under my breath.
He’d looked like some sort of devil—no, that wasn’t the right word.
Devils felt lesser somehow.
Predictable.
He was something else entirely.
Something older.
Something carved from a time before names existed for things like him.
He moved like he belonged to the night itself, like the shadows parted instead of clung, like the air understood him in a way it never had me.
And gods—he was beautiful.
Not in the way people usually meant.
Not soft. Not easy. Not safe.
But striking in a way that made it impossible to look away.
His skin—cerulean tinted, unnatural, luminous in certain light—should have made him strange.
Instead, it made him… other.
Untouchable.
Like one of those ancient gargoyles carved from marble and set high above cathedral doors—watchful, powerful, built to endure centuries without breaking.
Nothing could hide the strength in him.
Not the dark clothes.
Not the way he tried to keep to himself.
The lines of muscle beneath his tunic were impossible to miss, shifting with every step, controlled, deliberate, as though every movement was calculated.
Danger wrapped in restraint.
And I—I noticed.
Gods help me, I noticed.
It wasn’t polite to stare.
Or ask.
Or assume.
Especially here, where the wrong question could get you hurt.
So I didn’t.
I just watched him go, something warmer than curiosity flickering low in my chest—something I refused to name—buried quickly beneath the familiar weight of my own shortcomings.
Because whatever he was—whatever existed in that space between power and control—it had nothing to do with me.
And I had no business wanting it to.
“Focus, Amrin,” I whispered to myself.
Because that was the real issue, wasn’t it?
Not the Monsters.
Not the magic.
Me.
Always me.
The clumsy one.
The shy one.
The fat one.
Always too soft.
Too slow.
Too late.
A Cordoza by blood, and yet somehow, the least impressive of us all.
My sisters had been brilliant.
Elegant.
Powerful.
Beautiful.
Their magic had manifested early, strong, undeniable.
Mine?
Late.
Inconsistent.
Embarrassingly weak.
And that was only if it showed up at all.
The Cordoza crest—a flame-bound heart—was meant to symbolize passion, strength, legacy.
When I thought of it now, it felt like something that shrank in my presence.
Like even that symbol knew I didn’t belong beneath it.
“Damn it,” I whispered.
Professor Franco was already heading toward the door.
And I needed to act.
Now.
Before this turned from failure into something worse.
I shoved the exam into my bag, nearly fumbling it in my haste, then hurried after him, my boots slipping slightly against the polished stone as I tried not to trip over the hem of my robes.
“Professor! Professor!”
He stopped—reluctantly.
Turned.
“Yes, Miss Cordoza. What can I do for you?”
I nearly walked into him.
He leaned back slightly, his round belly pressing forward, and I instinctively stepped back to create space.
Too close.
Too visible.
Too much.
Students moved around us, a blur of motion and conversation, but I felt exposed all the same. Like everyone could see it.
The failure.
The desperation.
The fact that I was about to beg.
Oh, well—it was now or never.
“Professor,” I began carefully, forcing my voice into something steady, something controlled, “I heard, that is, do you offer extra credit opportunities?”
He blinked.
Then smiled.
“Yes, indeed, I do. Are you interested, Miss Cordoza?”
“Yes,” I said immediately. “Very. I—” I stopped myself, exhaling. “I would like the opportunity to improve my standing.”
That sounded better.
More composed.
More… adult.
He studied me for a moment.
“You are not like your sisters,” he said.
I almost laughed.
Because for once—he was absolutely correct—and it didn’t sound like an insult.
“No,” I said quietly. “I’m not.”
Not tall.
Not thin or graceful.
Not effortlessly powerful.
But I was still here.
Still trying.
And that had to count for something.
“Nonetheless,” he continued, already reaching into his briefcase, “all students are given the same opportunity.”
He handed me a single sheet of parchment.
I took it.
Read it.
Once.
Then again.
Slower.
Carefully.
Because there had to be a mistake.
“There isn’t,” he said mildly, as though reading my thoughts.
I looked up at him.
“This is a joke,” I said.
Not a question.
A statement.
Because it had to be.
Somewhere, faintly, I thought I heard someone chuckle—but when I glanced around, no one was close enough for it to make sense.
I turned back to him.
“No joke, Miss Cordoza,” he said. “I expect your submission by the Equinox.”
Then he was gone.
Just like that.
Leaving me standing there with a piece of parchment that felt heavier than my failed exam.
I read it again.
Carefully.
Every word.
Because I had a tendency to miss things.
To assume.
To fill in blanks that weren’t actually there.
And that had gotten me into trouble more than once.
A love quest.
I stared at the words.
Unblinking.
Uncomprehending.
A course in Astronomy—one I had taken because I genuinely loved the stars, even if I couldn’t interpret them the way others could—and this was my only path to passing?
The task?
Chart a course to your true love.
Using celestial alignment.
Magical resonance.
Occultation tracking.
I let out a slow breath.
“Of course,” I murmured.
Because why wouldn’t this be the solution?
Why wouldn’t the universe decide that the one thing I had never managed to find—love, a connection, a relationship, being desired, chosen—would now be the key to my academic, and maybe my general survival?
I folded the paper carefully.
Too carefully.
Because if I didn’t treat it like something fragile, I might rip it in half.
And that wouldn’t solve anything.
Nothing ever did.
“Fine,” I whispered to myself.
Because what choice did I have?
Fail?
Go home?
Face my mother with nothing to show for years of effort except confirmation of everything she already believed?
No thanks.
I lifted my chin slightly.
Drew in a breath.
“I’ll do it.”
Even if I didn’t believe in it.
Even if I didn’t believe in myself.
Even if the idea of someone—anyone—being destined for me felt like the cruelest joke of all.
Because if there was even the smallest chance that I could prove them wrong.
That I could prove her wrong—then I would take it.
No matter how impossible it seemed.
No matter how much it hurt to try.
And even though my stomach turned with anxiety—somewhere else, somewhere deep beneath that determination—I felt something other sit up and take notice.
It was quiet.
Uncertain, maybe.
But there.
As if the stars themselves had already begun to shift.
And the rest of us just hadn’t noticed yet.