Page 7 of Her Guardian Demon

They say she failed her final exam – fatally.

I head to my first lesson of the week. Necromantic Theory with Professor Dearborne. The classroom is a vast, dimly lit chamber, the walls adorned with skulls of various creatures, their empty eye sockets seeming to watch our every move.

Professor Dearborne, a gaunt figure with skin like parchment and eyes that glow with an eerie, otherworldly light, stands before us. "Today," he announces, his voice dry as ancient bones, "you will attempt to forge a connection with the realm of the dead. The student who establishes the strongest link will be rewarded. Those who fail... Well, let's hope none of you do."

My stomach churns as I take my place in the circle of students. We've studied the theory before, but we've never attempted to actually reach beyond the veil. I close my eyes, trying to calm my racing heart as I recall the techniques we've been taught.

I reach out with my senses, not physical but ethereal, feeling for the boundary between life and death. At first, there's nothing but a vast, cold emptiness. Then, slowly, I become aware of... whispers. Countless voices, just beyond my perception, a cacophony of the departed.

I push deeper, searching for a singular presence I can latch onto. Suddenly, I feel something – a tendril of spectral energy, cold and ancient. Without thinking, I grasp it, drawing it towards me. The sensation is overwhelming, a rush of otherworldly power that leaves me gasping.

When I open my eyes, I'm no longer alone. A translucent figure hovers before me, its features indistinct but unmistakably sorrowful. Around me, my classmates are in various states of concentration or distress. Some have managed to manifest wispsof spectral energy, others seem to be struggling against unseen forces.

A sylph-like fae girl, curled up on the floor, sobs uncontrollably, surrounded by a swirling vortex of angry spirits, but the teacher doesn’t seem to mind too much, snapping his fingers and leaving her to cry it out, stepping over her to get to me.

"Impressive, Miss Aria." Professor Dearborne's voice cuts through my shock. He's standing over me, a rare look of approval on his face. "It seems you have a natural affinity for communing with the dead. But be warned – such gifts often come with a heavy price."

As the spectral figure before me begins to fade, I'm left with a mixture of exhilaration and dread. I've touched the realm of the dead, drawn forth a spirit from beyond the veil.

I should feel proud, but all I feel is sick. As we leave the classroom, I catch the fae girl’s eye, and she looks different… changed.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of disturbing lessons and unsettling encounters. In every shadowy corner, I feel eyes watching me. More than once, I spin around, certain I've caught a glimpse of Kieran's imposing figure, only to find nothing there.

Am I going mad? Or is this all part of some twisted test?

My last class of the day is Advanced Herbology, held in Ravencrest's sprawling twilight gardens. The air is thick with the scent of otherworldly flora and pulsing with fae magic. Rows of strange plants stretch as far as the eye can see, their forms shifting and twisting in ways that defy mortal botany.

"Your task," our instructor, a changeling named Ms. Thornweave, announces, her voice as melodious as wind through reeds, "is to harvest the twilight mandrakes. But be warned – they do not appreciate being uprooted."

I approach my assigned plot, trying not to shiver as tendrils of mist curl around my ankles. The mandrakes look deceptively ordinary at first glance – just another root vegetable nestled in the loamy soil. But as I look closer, I notice the leaves shimmer with an unnatural iridescence, and did that one just... twitch?

Ms. Thornweave glides between the rows, her skin shimmering with an otherworldly pallor, hair like living vines framing her ageless face. "Remember," she cautions, "these are not your mundane mandrakes. They prey on the unwary who mistake them for common roots. Approach with caution and purpose."

I take a deep breath, steeling myself as I reach for the first mandrake. As my fingers brush its leaves, I feel the winter court magic building within me. It's terrifying, yet also... exhilarating.

I grasp the mandrake firmly and pull. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, with a shriek that sets my teeth on edge, the creature erupts from the soil. It's a twisted thing, its root-like body writhing as a maw full of crystalline fangs snaps at my hand. Eyes – far too many eyes – open along its length, all fixing on me at once.

I've barely registered my success before it lunges, faster than thought, its teeth sinking into my arm. Pain explodes through me as its icy bite sears my flesh.

I scream, unleashing a burst of power I didn't know I possessed. The mandrake freezes solid, shattering like black ice as it falls from my bleeding arm.

"Interesting technique, Miss Aria," Ms. Thornweave says, suddenly beside me. Her eyes glitter with curiosity and something else – approval, perhaps? "Unconventional but effective. You may go to the healing glade now."

As I clutch my wounded arm, Ms. Thornweave adds, "The Grimoire of Twilight Flora, pages 30-97 for tonight's reading.Mind you, keep up. Next class we tackle the whispering willows, and they have so many fascinating secrets to share."

I nod, still shaken, and make my way to the healing glade. As I leave, I can't help but look back at the twilight garden. The remaining mandrakes seem to watch me go, their leaves rustling in anticipation or hunger. This is a far cry from the botany classes I once knew. In the fae realms, it seems even gardening is a perilous endeavor.

Clutching my injured arm, I stumble out of the rime-covered chamber, eager to reach the healing glade. But before I can get there, an unfamiliar figure blocks my path.

"Well, well," a voice drawls, dripping with disdain. "What do we have here? Kieran's new pet human, I presume?"

I look up to see a changeling girl standing before me. She's breathtakingly beautiful in that otherworldly fae way - tall and willowy, with skin that shimmers like moonlight on water and hair that seems to be woven from living shadows. But her perfect features are marred by a sneer of disgust as she looks me up and down.

"I'm Vesper," she announces, as if bestowing a great honor upon me. "Daughter of the Twilight Court's ambassador. And you... You're the hexblood upstart everyone's been whispering about."

Her eyes, which shift color like oil on water, glitter with cruel amusement. "I heard you had a little accident in Twilight Herbcraft. Tsk, tsk. Can't even handle a simple mandrake? How pathetic."

I try to push past her, but she grabs my injured arm, sending waves of pain through me. Her grip is surprisingly strong, her nails digging into my flesh like icy needles.

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