The vampire school was unlike anything Nyx had ever seen in the human world. Black marble stretched endlessly upward, polished to a mirror sheen that reflected the pale emerald glow filtering through the arched glass windows. The corridors echoed with the soft hum of levitating footsteps, a subtle reminder that flight was the default here, not walking. Students drifted past like phantoms, their crisp white uniforms immaculate, golden eyes flicking occasionally toward the newcomer who dared to walk instead of hover. Nyx's steps were deliberate, measured, his heavy gown hiding his feet from prying eyes. His expression remained cold, distant, unflinching. By now, he had grown accustomed to Natalia, Kuki, Julie, Ron, and Zendaya—the companions who hovered around him, curious about the boy labeled as Jamie Oliver's brother, yet wary of the aura he carried. Nyx answered their questions with curt precision, flat tones that revealed nothing beyond what was necessary. This was a world of power, of observation, and of survival, and he understood that every glance, every whisper, every detail mattered.
He paused for a fraction of a heartbeat when the door to the classroom opened, and two figures entered. The air seemed to still, the whispers dying on the lips of students. They commanded the room with a presence so absolute it forced every head to turn. Zess Mare walked first—nineteen, towering, muscular, his fair skin glowing under the emerald light, copper hair shining like molten metal. Beside him, Rieta Mare moved with equal elegance, her posture perfect, her gaze piercing, the golden light of her eyes radiating authority and allure. Students shifted instinctively, half in awe, half in fear. Nyx's eyes narrowed, studying them with the detached curiosity of a predator observing potential rivals. He leaned toward Kuki, voice low and measured. "Who are they?"
Kuki's whisper was almost conspiratorial. "The Mares. The richest of the Pye vampires. They don't talk to anyone. They keep to themselves—always." Nyx's interest sharpened; curiosity, once dormant, was now ignited.
"A group of two?" he asked softly, his tone neutral, carefully controlled.
Julie's smirk was faint, enigmatic. "No. There are two more. The originals—Nia and Carl Mare." Her voice dropped, conspiratorial and hushed. "The others—Zess and Rieta—are adopted. We all are, actually. Vampires can't reproduce naturally."
Nyx paused, letting the weight of her words settle. Every single vampire here, adopted? The revelation was subtle but significant. He leaned back slightly, folding the information into the ledger of knowledge he maintained in his mind. "So… none of you are born?" he murmured, carefully choosing words that would probe without betraying curiosity. Julie's laugh was soft but sharp, carrying the edge of amusement and derision. "Of course not. Are you… newly turned?"
The question stabbed, precise and deliberate. Nyx's eyes narrowed, his golden glare masking the faintest flicker of irritation. "No. My tongue slipped. Nothing more." His cold dismissal cut the conversation short, and inside, he catalogued every reaction, every subtle shift of expression. One careless word here could unravel his carefully constructed mask.
The lecture began. Yen Yark entered, a tall, severe figure whose long white robes trailed across the floor. His sharp voice cut through the murmurs, outlining the principle of vampire earnings: power was currency, accumulation was survival, and dominance over others ensured eternity. "Power," he intoned, eyes glowing with emerald fire, "is the blood that keeps us eternal. Without it, we are prey." Nyx remained motionless, calculating. Each word was a fragment to be stored for later, weighed, and analyzed.
But when Yen Yark turned to him directly, Nyx felt the weight of scrutiny. "Nyx Oliver," the instructor's voice sliced through the hall, "what is the answer to the law of threefold earnings?" The room turned, all eyes on him. Nyx's lips parted, words slipping carefully, precise. "Relief." The murmurs of understanding, faint but present, signaled recognition. Relief—the instinctive gazing toward the emerald moon when strength faltered—was one of the many truths learned from the Book of Blood. It had saved him once again.
Stepping into the courtyard, Nyx allowed himself a brief moment to steady his thoughts. The emerald moon above bathed the school grounds in cold, eerie light, and the world's vastness pressed against him. Yet still, he felt eyes upon him, unyielding, unseen but unmistakable.
Then came the scream. Piercing. Unmistakable. Witches—crooked, malevolent, swarming—dashed across the courtyard with limbs elongated and twisted, claws outstretched, eyes glowing with feral malice. Students retreated, magically locking doors behind them, but Nyx had no such protections. Panic, sharp and alien, licked at the edges of his composure.
A claw wrapped around his throat, lifting him into the air, hurling him off the terrace with terrifying speed. Wind shrieked past his ears, heart pounding with unfamiliar dread. His arms flailed instinctively—but then, two hands gripped him. One on the left, one on the right. He froze, suspended midair, caught between predator and savior.
Carl Mare. The boy on his left radiated strength unimaginable, a weapon of muscle and precision, eyes cutting through the emerald glow like molten gold. On his right, Nia Mare hovered with ethereal poise, her golden-brown hair haloing her face, skin shimmering like polished marble. Their hold was firm, protective, unyielding, and Nyx's analytical mind noted every detail—the strength, the skill, the mastery of power displayed in the mere act of holding him aloft.
Witches shrieked in dismay, realizing their prey was beyond reach. Carl moved with incomprehensible speed, claws slicing through their ranks with lethal grace. Nia multiplied, her form splitting, surrounding enemies with cunning precision, a deadly dance of agility and strategy. Nyx remained suspended, silent, fascinated, admiration warring with his customary detachment. They were no ordinary students—these two were predators of legend, and their display of power was awe-inspiring, almost divine.
When the last witch fled into the shadows, Carl's gaze fell on Nyx, searching, calm, steady. "Are you alright?" His voice was a grounding anchor in the chaos. Nyx could only meet the question with silence. The golden eyes fixed on him, unblinking, analytical, and something within him—a rare, unspoken acknowledgment—stirred.
Nia, protective and silent, carried him upward, the trio drifting toward the classroom like banners of authority in emerald-lit sky. Students gasped as they entered, eyes wide with awe. The grip of Carl and Nia set him down gently, their presence commanding respect without a word. Nyx's composure returned, but his gaze lingered—Carl Mare, impossible, absolute, and his mind catalogued the moment for later study.
The classroom still smelled of smoke and witch-fire when Teacher Yen Yark adjusted his white robe and fixed his sharp emerald eyes on Nyx. His voice was firm but carried concern, as though he was testing the boy's resilience. "Nyx, are you alright?" For a moment the room felt too still, the whispers of students dying down as all eyes turned to him.