Page 18 of Wings of Ash & Flame
Iron gates groaned open as they approached, as if the academy itself had been expecting them. She straightened, fingers curling into the material of her leggings.
“Welcome to your new home,” Professor Ross said in a low rumble, his words almost swallowed by the wind. His eyes remained on the shadows of the main building.
The main castle was majestic, with high, formidable walls of aged stone and gargantuan arched windows—some flickering with candlelight, others adorned with stained-glass portraits of Lysia and Umbra.
What impressed Alaire most were the minutiae of the castle’s haunting beauty: ivy that clung possessively to the stone, iron gates lining the parapets, and gargoyles that seemed to track her every movement.
The grounds sprawled before her: a labyrinth of gardens, forests, and impressive buildings. Near the castle, the gardens were both beautiful and eerie, filled with otherworldly flora. The air hung thick with rain and moss, narrow paths winding between trees bristling with thorns.
“It’s a little doom and gloom for my particular taste,” Alaire muttered, hiding her awe. A small thrill at the unknown she was stepping into rushed through her.
Following Professor Ross over the threshold, Alaire shivered—not from the cold, but from the sensation that once she entered Aeris Academy, there would be no going back.
She continued forward anyway.
“Don’t leave this chamber. Once the rest of the students arrive, I’ll escort you to the dorms. There’s something I must attend to first,” Professor Ross instructed before abandoning her in a dimly lit room to fend for herself.
The room was larger than she’d anticipated. Vaulted ceilings arched overhead, lined with columns that soared upward toform ribs protruding from the hall’s backbone. Adorned with gold leaf and obsidian accents, representing Lysia’s radiance and Umbra’s shadow. It was as haunting as it was grand. Her boots made no sound against the marble tiles, veined with gold and lapis lazuli.
In the center of the room, carved into the floor, was the insignia of the Consortium: two serpents intertwined to form an endless figure eight—representing unity and continuity. She narrowed her eyes at it. How often had she heard that phrase uttered by the heads of the orphanage?Every end is a new beginning. Knowledge and power bound in an eternal loop, constantly feeding into and shaping one another.
More well-crafted words that meant nothing. The children of fae lords and ladies got to attend school in a gods-damned castle while human children starved.
Voices rang down one of the halls, cutting off her train of thought. She turned to study more of the room’s architectural details. The last thing she wanted to do was socialize after a long journey.
A prickle of awareness crept up her spine—sudden and electric—like the hum of a struck tuning fork vibrating through her bones, a heartbeat before impact.
A shoulder slammed into hers with deliberate force, sending sharp pain radiating through her upper back.
Alaire stumbled sideways, catching herself against the cool stone wall. She looked behind her, ready to confront whoever had collided with her.
A fae male continued down the hall without so much as a backward glance. His strides were fluid, yet purposeful.
“Watch where you’re going,” she muttered, too low for him to hear.
Heat bloomed under her fingertips as she rubbed her throbbing shoulder. Months at Grimstone had taken their toll.
Despite herself, she turned around, her gaze tracking him as he navigated the crowd that had begun to form. Others instinctively shifted to clear his path. Something about him set her on edge, a faint magnetic pull that unnerved her, as if the room itself tilted toward him.
The shift of muscle beneath his clothing rippled with the kind of effortless power that wasn’t made—it was born.
His shoulders cut a clean, unyielding line beneath dark leather. Broad shoulders tapered to a trim waist that hinted at hours spent training. Not that she was looking.
He stopped only when he reached a group of fae gathered near the double doors.
For a heartbeat, the hard lines of his face softened when another male with white hair tapped his chest. The contrast was jarring: one moment all feral intensity, the next a flicker of something almost warm, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
Alaire should turn away. But against her better instincts, she couldn’t help but be drawn in.
His dark hair fell just above his shoulders, pointed ears peeking through the strands. A flash of black on his hands stood out starkly against his olive skin.
It was undeniably attractive—if one cared for the brooding, mightier-than-thou type. Which, of course, she absolutely did not.
As if sensing her scrutiny, he turned, and their gazes locked across the hall.
Ice. His eyes were shards of aquamarine ice. High cheekbones, a defined jaw, full lips that twisted into a sneer.
He took a slow, sweeping inspection of Alaire, drinking her in from her hair to her lips, down her figure, to the drops of rain on her boots.
