Chapter 8 Raven
Raven
“Wake up, sleepyhead. We’re gonna be late.
” Thorne’s voice cuts through my dreams like nails on stone, and I crack open one sapphire eye.
The morning light streaming through the dormitory window catches something blue on my pillow—a piece of sea glass shaped like a crescent moon, smooth and cool against the white cotton.
I sit up slowly, my black wings rustling against the sheets as I pick up the glass. It feels warm, as if someone’s fingers just released it. “Did you put this on my pillow?” I hold it up, letting the light filter through its translucent surface so Thorne and Lily can see.
“No.” Lily shakes her head, her black hair gleaming in the sunlight as she grabs her pack. The leather straps creak as she slings it over her shoulder and leaves without another word.
“I know I didn’t do it.” Thorne gestures toward the side table behind me, her brow furrowed. “When did you put seashells there?”
I turn and see them—three perfect shells arranged in a careful line, their pearlescent surfaces gleaming.
A smile tugs at my lips despite the chill that runs down my spine.
“I didn’t. I guess my mate did.” The thought should thrill me, but part of me recoils at the idea of him being in my room while I slept.
Then again, the only beings I know who would help him slip past our defenses are my dad Ziggy or my sisters Belle and Azalea.
“The plot thickens...” Thorne laughs, the sound bright in the quiet room as she slips into the school uniform. The fabric rustles as she moves. I’m thankful that when Dad took over the academy, he made it possible for females to wear pants instead of those ridiculous skirts.
I dress quickly, the familiar weight of my leathers reassuring as I pack them for later.
I have one class outside of Shadowcarve today—dragon biology.
It’s a course Dad helped write with Klauth to teach us the things that used to be pure instinct, before our kind started losing touch with their primal nature.
“Are we hitting the cafeteria before class?” Thorne asks, hefting her book-heavy bag with a grunt.
“You go ahead. I’m heading straight to class.
” I walk out arm in arm with her, our footsteps echoing in the stone corridor.
We make our way downstairs and outside, where the crisp morning air fills my lungs and makes my wings twitch with the urge to fly.
We walk together to the halfway point before she turns right toward the cafeteria, leaving me alone with the scent of pine and distant wood smoke.
I stare at the Arcanum Campus, watching the different species mill about—dragons in their human forms moving with predatory grace, naga slithering between groups with serpentine elegance, guard drakes keeping watchful positions around the grounds.
I take several minutes to steel myself before heading into the building.
A large sign just inside the glass doors points left for dragon biology.
What could they possibly teach us we don’t already know?
I step into the auditorium, my boots silent on the carpeted floor as I move to the far right side.
Here, I have solid walls at my back and right side.
From this position, I can see the entire class and every entrance.
I scan the room methodically—exits, windows that open and don’t, sight lines.
What catches my attention most is the balcony level above me.
Before the room fills completely, I walk down the aisle far enough to look up.
There’s an open space and a door up there, plus another door behind the stage curtain.
Multiple entry points. Too many vulnerabilities.
I return to my seat and toss my pack on the chair beside me, saving it for Thorne.
Five minutes before class starts, Thorne strolls in with two glazed donuts in her hands. The sweet scent of sugar and yeast makes my mouth water. “I brought you one. Daddy Vaughn says they’re the best on campus.”
I accept the treat, the glaze still warm on my fingers, and take a bite as Samara slithers onto the stage.
Her scales catch the overhead lights, creating patterns of green and gold.
“Welcome to your Dragon Biology class.” The heavy doors slam shut with a metallic clang, and the room falls silent.
“I know what you’re thinking. What can a gorgon teach me about myself that I don’t already know?
” She moves closer to the edge, her serpentine tail making barely a whisper against the polished floor.
“Easy. The things that aren’t apparent to you until you turn twenty-one. ”
That gets my attention. I raise my hand, feeling the weight of every gaze in the room.
She gives me a curt nod. “Does this include mate theory and the signs that a male is our mate? Or how to tell if a male may be our mate before our twenty-first birthday?” I take a breath, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I have more questions, but they can wait.
“Yes, to all of your questions. As Princess Raven just said, I’m going to teach you about the signs that a male is your mate.” She turns and presses a button. A whiteboard drops down with a mechanical whir. “Does anyone know the first sign?”
Thorne raises her hand, and Samara acknowledges her with a nod. “He feels like home.”
“A feeling of warmth and safety is one of the key factors of the initial tether. What else?” Samara’s yellow eyes sweep the room. Another female mentions that he leaves presents for his intended.
“Very good. Has anyone received presents from a potential mate?” Three other females besides me raise their hands. Samara has each girl describe what they received before her attention turns to me.
“The first present was six matched throwing knives with carved bone hilts.” I can still feel its perfect balance in my hands. “The second was seashells and sea glass—two of my favorite things to collect.”
Samara nods, her smile warming her reptilian features. “All potential mates must make themselves known to the female’s father. He must prove he’s worthy of the daughter by whatever trial the father puts him through.”
I shake my head and look down, pulling out the piece of sea glass to examine its smooth edges. The blue seems deeper now, like ocean depths. “Dad is so going to kill him...”
“Shhh...” Thorne silences me, her hand covering mine with gentle pressure. The warmth of her touch is comforting.
Samara continues for the next hour, but all I can think about is my father’s legendary temper and what he’ll do to my mate when they meet. When class finally ends, I hug Thorne goodbye, breathing in her familiar vanilla scent, then spread my wings and take to the sky.
The wind beneath my wings clears my head as I soar toward Shadowcarve.
I don’t want to talk to anyone right now.
Several minutes later, I land in the stone courtyard with a soft thud, and immediately I feel the shift.
Here, within these ancient walls, I’m not just another student.
I’m Princess Raven, daughter of Willamina, and every student knows it.
My spine straightens as I fold my wings against my back.
The familiar weight of expectation settles around me like armor, but it doesn’t feel heavy—it feels right.
This is my domain, my inheritance. The shadows seem to bend toward me, welcoming me home.
I can feel the power thrumming through the fortress walls, recognizing my bloodline, acknowledging my place.
A group of second-year initiates pause in their sparring practice to watch me cross the courtyard. Their eyes hold the same mixture of respect and wariness I’ve grown accustomed to. But there’s something more—a thread of genuine fear that makes my lips curve slightly.
Black dragons are rare on campus, and everyone knows there are only a handful of us.
Which means they’re all doing the math, trying to figure out if I’m related to Abraxis, the feared general whose name makes seasoned warriors break into cold sweats, or Thauglor, the headmaster and great wyrm whose very presence can make the bravest souls tremble.
Either possibility is cause for serious concern, and they know it.
The uncertainty keeps them guessing, keeps them on edge.
I don’t acknowledge them directly. I walk with the fluid grace my mother taught me.
Every step is deliberate, every movement calculated to remind them that whatever they’re imagining about my bloodline, the reality is probably worse.
Envelopes are pinned to the notice board—room reassignments for the females.
I grab mine; the paper is crisp between my fingers.
My name is written in Balor’s distinctive script, and I can almost hear the pride in those careful letters.
Whatever room they’ve given me, it won’t be by accident. Nothing here ever is.
I head toward my assigned room, my boots ringing against the stone with quiet authority.
Other initiates step aside without being asked, creating a path for me as naturally as water flowing around a rock.
This is what it means to be a legacy—to carry the weight of a name that commands respect before you’ve even earned it yourself.
When I step inside, my breath catches. Paintings of Mom’s mates span one entire wall, each face rendered with loving detail.
This is Mom’s old room. I reach out and touch the painting she did of my father Thauglor, tracing the strong line of his jaw.
I can see the love in every brushstroke.
The way she captured the fierce tenderness in his sapphire eyes—eyes I inherited. I want a love like that someday.
I shake off the melancholy and change into my leathers.
The familiar ritual grounds me—strapping my swords down the length of my back between my wings, sheathing my bone-hilted daggers at my ribs, securing additional blades to both inner forearms. Twelve blades and two swords rest against my body, not counting the garrote wire that can slice through wood or sever a head. The weight feels right, feels safe.
“Initiates!” Balor’s voice booms across the courtyard, making the stone walls ring. Four numbered flags flutter in the breeze—marking our years, I assume. I move to stand behind the number one flag, my boots crunching on the gravel.
Balor catches my eye and winks. I dip my head a fraction in acknowledgment, feeling the familiar flutter of nerves and anticipation.
Orpheus lines up behind me, and I catch his familiar scent—leather and steel. “Here we go,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear.
I nod, not trusting my voice. Azalea and Belle line up behind flag number two, their green and black hair catching the afternoon sun. Three blonde males suddenly materialize behind flag number three, their appearance so sudden it makes me blink.
“Blink hounds,” Orpheus supplies quietly. “They were in first period with me.”
The information settles in my mind like pieces of a puzzle. There are five other females in Shadowcarve with us, and it makes something tight in my chest ease. We’re not the only girls here after all.
“We’re going to start with sparring,” Balor announces, his voice carrying across the courtyard like rolling thunder.
He stands on the stone platform, arms crossed, his scarred face serious as he surveys us.
“But this isn’t practice-sword work, initiates.
Today you fight with live steel. When your name is called, you’ll move to the numbered ring indicated and face your opponent with real blades. ”
A ripple of tension runs through the gathered students. Live steel changes everything—one wrong move, one moment of hesitation, and you’re bleeding on the ancient stones.
“The rules are simple,” Balor continues, his dark eyes glinting.
“First blood ends the match. Deliberate maiming will result in immediate expulsion. Death...” He pauses, letting the word hang in the air like a blade.
“Death will be investigated, but accidents happen when steel meets steel. Remember that.”
My gaze shifts to the instructors positioned around the six chalk rings. Ziggy stands imposing beside ring one, his presence commanding the same respect he’s always held in our family. Callan is positioned at ring four, arms crossed, his stance authoritative. And there, at ring six, stands Corvis.
Unlike the others watching with investment in our success, Corvis observes us with cold calculation.
His pale eyes sweep over the initiates like a predator assessing prey.
The contrast is stark—while most of the instructors want to see us succeed and grow stronger, Corvis has an entirely different agenda.
Leander moves to stand beside ring five, and there’s Abraxis at ring three—the feared general whose reputation precedes him into every room.
I realize this isn’t just a sparring session.
This is an evaluation by some of the most powerful beings in our world.
The weight of their combined attention settles over the courtyard like a heavy cloak.
Balor leaps down from the platform with fluid grace, landing in a crouch before rising to his full height.
“Six circles mark the ground between you and your ranking within these walls. Your performance today will determine not just your standing among your peers, but whether you have what it takes to call yourself Shadowcarve.” He strides toward ring two, completing the circle of observers.
My pulse quickens as anticipation and bloodlust war in my veins. Part of me feels anxious, but the darker part—the part that’s truly my father’s daughter—is hungry for violence. It wants to tear everyone apart except my siblings.
Time to be Daddy’s little terror.