Page 71 of Seraphina (Castle Omega)

Ashton, on the other hand, doesn’t evoke the same primal attraction, but I still perceive him as part of my pack, albeit differently. Our connection is akin to the warmth of a familiar pub on a winter day, a place where everyone knows you, your favorite drink is ready, and your preferred meal awaits. With Ashton, there is a sense of comfort, of home.

Avery, however, is a different story entirely. He’s like a match to dry tinder. With a single glance, he ignites a fire in my veins, a connection we’ve never dared explore. Our paths, constrained by the circumstances of our lives, never seemed to align.

Yet.

I sigh as I pass the playground where Seraphina and I once spontaneously swung on the swings. That encounter with her was unexpected, a serendipitous moment born out of a failed business errand. Devlin had tasked me with surveying an empty building down the street for a potential business venture, but I found myself standing before locked doors, with no listing agent in sight. At the time, it didn’t strike me as significant.

Now, though, a compelling urge drives me to double-check. A nagging feeling whispers that if I don’t, I might live to regret it.

It is a feeling I now don’t ignore.

I continue past the park, following the street as it winds around the woods, leading me toward the building. It looms ahead, a sentinel in the night. The streetlights cast a dim glow, flickering to life one by one, while my breath forms small clouds in the chilly air.

The snow settles more firmly on the ground, a reminder of our limited time, but I’m not concerned. We will return home, for that’s where Seraphina awaits.

As I approach the corner, just before crossing the street to the building, a wave of nostalgia engulfs me. The structure before me bears a resemblance to the beta university I once attended, albeit in a state of disrepair. It’s a shadow of its former glory, with crumbling spires and a struggling metal fence meant to deter intruders.

The streets are eerily quiet, the accumulating snow dissuading others from venturing out as night falls. This solitude is precisely why I chose to come here now.

I swallow hard, crossing the street and ascending the hill to the building’s front. This structure, once a bustling high school, carries a history even deeper than its educational past. It previously served as an asylum, a fact I’m acutely aware of each time I stand before it. The resemblance it bears to the institute stirs a shiver down my spine as I halt at the front steps.

The rusted gate, long since broken, lies askew. I push through, grateful for the lack of residential eyes on this side of the street. The gate rattles loudly as I maneuver my large frame through it, and I wince as the sound of fabric tearing accompanies a sudden chill up my leg. I pause, turning to ensure my intrusion remains unnoticed, then inhale slowly, searching for any lingering scents, but there’s nothing.

Approaching the steps, I test the door handle—locked, as expected. I retrieve the small lockpick kit Ashton gifted me for my last birthday from my pocket. It’s a skill he taught me one night when we found ourselves locked out of the southern base. I never expected Ashton to be adept at lockpicking, but I’m grateful for it now.

I glance around once more, ensuring the coast is clear, before working on the lock. It takes me a focused five minutes, butfinally, the lock clicks open. I gently push the heavy glass door and step into the eerie quiet building.

Despite no open windows, a pervasive chill envelops the space, one that transcends mere temperature. It’s an unsettling feeling, not of being watched, but of being surrounded by the echoes of memories and desolation. This building, now silent, was once alive with energy, its bricks imprinted with the lives that passed through here.

My boots crunch over shattered glass as I step toward the old office. The broken window on the door is typical for a building in such disrepair. Pushing into the office, I take a quick survey. It looks like everyone left abruptly, abandoning their belongings, including dusty pictures on the empty desks.

My phone’s buzz interrupts the silence, and I answer Avery’s call with a hushed tone. “Hey.”

“Where the hell did you go?” Avery’s voice, tinged with irritation as though he’s upset about my absence, rumbles through the phone. A part of me wants to purr in pleasure at his concern.

“The other day when we found the attacked omega,” I whisper back, moving quietly down the hall. The open doors along the corridor suggest a hasty departure.

“And?” Avery’s voice sounds muffled as he speaks to Ashton.

“Unfinished business,” I reply, pausing outside the nurse’s office. Memories of Grace feigning sickness to spend time with me fleetingly cross my mind. “Did you find anything?”

“Unfortunately.” There’s a sound of doors slamming in the background, and through our bond, I sense his unease. “The cat treats were a decoy.”

“Explain,” I demand, a growl edging my voice as I stop at the school’s entrance.

“It was all for show,” Avery explains, his footsteps resonating on the hard floor. “Someone tampered with her sugar dish,almost imperceptibly. I nearly missed it, but Ashton noticed, and you won’t believe what it was.”

“What?” I prompt, urgency sharpening my tone.

“Sugarplum,” he reveals.

My heart skips a beat. Sugarplum is a rare nut indigenous to the Dragonstall Isles, and it’s seldom shipped to our region. In the southern Dragonstall Isles, they are known for their toxicity. Mages commonly use them in potions, skillfully extracting the magic while neutralizing the poison. If someone like me, untrained in such arts, were to consume one directly from the tree, it would be fatal. They resemble dark purple walnuts, soft enough to bite into like an apple, and are deceptively sweet.

I know this because during my time in the south, I spent weeks on the isles, learning everything I could. The three-day sail was a detour from my main research in the icy south, searching for the elusive peace mushroom, but the mystery of the sugarplum nut intrigued me.

Referring to Seraphina as “sugarplum” was no coincidence. The first time I caught her scent, that’s exactly what it reminded me of.

“Fuck,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face.

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