Chapter Twenty-Two
Haide
The hallway dims as I leave class, draping me in that creepy darkness the walls of this place love to trap you in.
My codex is in hand and my jacket dangles from my satchel instead of on my shoulders where the instructors insist it belongs.
It’s too stiff, too polished, too Rathe.
Right now, the only thing I care about is the warm line of blood sliding from the gashes along my forearm, dripping past my wrist like it has somewhere urgent to be.
Warcraft games. I won. Mostly.
The other guy had to be portalled out, so I’m calling that even.
A smirk forms at my lips as I catch a familiar sight.
London LeCroix—or maybe it’s Deveraux now—leans against the stone wall, and the sight of her stops me for half a breath before I force my feet to keep moving.
White hair spills down her back, sleek as satin, eyes already flicking black as her Ethos comes to the surface, likely searching for a threat in me.
I saved her ass when I knew nothing about her, the reason she stands here at all, but I get it.
Bros before hos and all that.
She clocks the steady flow of blood running down my arm, her gaze dragging from my face to the mess dripping down my wrist, then back up again. The look she gives me is a sharp mix of frustration, annoyance…and something that feels too much like concern to sit right in my chest.
I hate that it reaches a small, stupid corner of me. I also hate that she’s the only person besides Legend who bothers to track me this closely.
“Well, well,” I drawl as she pushes off the wall with a lazy grace I will never have. “Look who it is. The newest queen of Rathe. How’s it feel to be the only queen in a pile of kings?”
She lifts a brow. “Missed you too, Haids.” Her eyes soften—barely—but it’s enough to sting my ego. “Got a bad habit of bleeding.”
Course she heard about the bullshit from the other day. “Yeah, well at least this time it was fair.”
“Come on.” She sighs. “Let’s go see Silver. Let him fix you up.”
“I’m fine.” I slide the jacket onto my arm, covering the blood like that solves anything. The warm liquid instantly seeps into the fabric.
London hums, unimpressed. “I’ll feed you after.”
That earns the smallest twitch at the corner of my mouth. “Lead the way then, your highness.”
She laughs once, half-annoyed and half-amused, and we fall into step together, trading light conversation that feels almost…normal. If anything in Rathe could be considered that.
Silver’s infirmary is half clinic and half battlefield. He’s already bent over someone when we step inside.
London presses closer first, looking over the male.
Her mouth falls open. “What the hell happened to him?”
The gifted glances toward us. Those yellow eyes linger on me; and he smirks like getting disemboweled is flirtation. “Exile girl.”
“Lycan boy.” I smirk right back, taking in the blood painted across his body like modern art. His clothes are a shredded pile sitting in a pool of blood by his feet. “You look like you got dragged backward through a war.”
“Felt like that too.” He chuckles. “I’m all fixed up now.”
“Shame,” I say sweetly. “I was hoping the eye that was hanging out when they carted you off like a baby would become your new jewelry piece. You know, the start of a new fashion trend.”
His laugh is deep and unbothered. “We can’t all have pretty little stable pieces on our bodies.” His gaze lifts pointedly to the jewels embedded in my temples.
I tap one with a finger. “Hey, I was born with mine. Or so I was told.”
“Well, just know, you have an open invitation after that performance. You can kick my ass anytime you want.”
“You say that like you crave the pain.”
“I’m a Lycan, little warrior. My skin was made to tear.” He rises from the table, moving toward us, and London hits him with a snap of magic—an invisible command that slams through the air like a leash.
“Down, Stygian,” she warns. “This one’s temporarily claimed by a royal. Wait your turn.”
Temporarily.
The word punches something low in my ribs, sharp and involuntary. I don’t like how it feels. I don’t like that I feel anything at all.
This place is poison to the heart and mind. I need to do better at remembering as much.
The Lycan lifts his hands and offers a small, respectful bow before silently stepping away. The evidence of his presence vanishes the moment he crosses over the illuminated markings that surround Silver’s work table. The floor returns to a polished marble, not a spec of red in sight.
Silver flicks a glance at me, then pats the table. “Hop up, Haide.”
I obey, mostly because I was promised food and partially because I like him. He’s steady in a way nobody else here is. Like he isn’t run by anger or resentment.
“You look a lot better than he did,” he says, nodding toward the Lycan sulking near the wall.
I smirk. “That’s the thing, doc. You all grew up with hovering bottles and little glass vials that do half the work for you.
All I’ve ever had at the tips of my fingers are sharp nails and endless free time.
Oh, and glitter bombs.” I flick my fingers around and little trickles of glitter rain down.
“Absolutely worthless but fun to blow in people’s faces when they’re about to kill you for the tenth time. ”
He chuckles under his breath and pulls my jacket sleeve down.
I swing my legs where I sit on the table, heel knocking lightly against the metal frame. Silver’s quiet. Too quiet. When I glance up, a small frown creases the skin between his brows.
“What?”
He doesn’t answer. He lifts his hand over my arm, a soft glow blooming beneath his palm, and a shiver runs over my skin as his magic pets me. The dried blood melts away in a ripple of magic, sliding off my skin like ink pulled into water.
And left behind is…nothing.
Just smooth flesh, faint sheen of newness where there should be carnage.
Silver’s eyes flick up to mine, and there’s something new there—interest, uncertainty, calculation.
Behind him, London steps closer, her voice low. “Not even a scar…”
Silver glances her way, jaw tight.
“There were multiple,” she murmurs, staring at my arm. “And bone-deep. I wouldn’t have bothered to bring her here for anything less.”
“Huh,” I say, staring at the smooth skin where carnage should be. “Looks like I do the whole self-cauterizing thing now. That’s fucking cool.”
I expect some form of response. A joke. Or an eye roll. But all she does is stare at my arm like it’s a ticking time bomb. Something unreadable flickers across her features.
I shrug, pulling my jacket back on and tapping my nails on my codex. “Maybe Creed was right and I have some power in me after all.”
I hop off the table and start toward the door, only to realize London isn’t next to me.
She’s still by Silver, the two staring at each other with conflicting expressions.
“Well,” I call and she snaps her head toward me like she forgot I existed. I gesture down the hall. “Feed me.”
With one last look at Silver, London leads me out of Silver’s sanctuary. We walk through the middle of the school, and it’s kind of hilarious how everyone dips their heads when she walks by.
The girl’s got mad aura, and I don’t think it’s only because she’s currently the only queen they’ve got.
Maybe it’s the freaky white hair and the way her eyes flash black when the demon that is literally inside her gets triggered.
I wonder how that works?
Like, does it talk? Is it like a Lycan’s beast—a second being inside them who has a mind of its own? Or is it simply an extension of London herself?
She wasn’t born with it. According to all the shit I’ve been reading in my codex from Professor Astra, it’s a result of being fated to a Royal. A gift from the gods.
Wait…if it’s “fate,” then maybe she was born with it?
A huff leaves me, and I feel her look at me from the corner of her eye.
I need to have a little chat with that professor.
Probably need to bring my knives ’cause every time someone asks about royal bonds, she shuts the conversation down like it’s some coveted shit no one else should know about.
Lame. And apparently everyone is waiting and hoping to be matched with one of the Deveraux brothers around here, so this shit is like a daily topic at this point.
Not that I think I’m mated to Legend or anything…
Yeah. Okay, Haide.
Fuck.
London leads us to a place called The Cauldron House. It’s a creepy, cool place that sits high in the hills behind Rathe U, tucked so deep into the stone and steam that most students don’t bother climbing this far unless they’re starving or hiding.
Blackwood trees crowd the edges, their branches twisted like they’re reaching for the heat that rolls out of the open-air kitchen.
The whole place smells like charred herbs and roasted meat and magic—old magic, the kind grown from bone broth and cauldrons that have boiled for decades. Probably gifted bones.
London keeps glancing back at me like she thinks I’m going to cut into the trees and run. It annoys me enough that I dig my boots harder into the incline just so I can pass her at the last second and claim the shadowy table tucked beneath an overhang.
The moment we sit, someone drops a plate piled with meat in front of me. Perfect. I tear into it with my hands because utensils are slow and unnecessary—and because London looks faintly horrified when I do it. Always a plus.
For a while we eat in silence, just the low hum of the cauldron bubbling behind us and the soft scrape of London’s fork against her plate. It’s almost peaceful.
Then London ruins it.
“So,” she says casually, like she’s commenting on the weather and not about to stab me sideways. “You’re Legend’s mate, hm?”
I freeze mid-bite, hand still suspended in the air, grease slicking my fingers. It takes a moment to recover from the sudden question, and I search her face—trying to decide if she’s joking, prying, or trying to start a fight. I’ll lose if she uses her magic on me, literal demon inside her and all.
“So he says,” I manage around the mouthful.
London tilts her head. “But you don’t think so.”