Jamie stared at the vaulted ceilings of the lecture hall, tracing their elaborate architecture with his restless gaze. Everything at Darling Academy was designed to make him feel small, from the towering stained-glass windows to the sprawling Gothic arches. The other students, with their aristocratic features and dispassionate stares, watched him as if waiting for something to break. Professor Blackwood's low voice floated through the cavernous room, recounting the brutalities of the Blood Wars. Jamie tried to focus, to lose himself in the ancient history instead of the present tension, but the professor's words triggered something raw and terrible inside him. The world blurred, and suddenly he was somewhere else, somewhen else drowning in the metallic scent of blood, his mother's screams echoing in his ears, shadowy figures tearing through his past with merciless speed. His body went rigid in his seat, a muted cry escaping his lips before everything went dark.
The murmur of low voices rose and fell around him. The opulent architecture that towered above made Jamie feel dwarfed, as though the room were alive and conspiring to crush him under its weight. Candlelight flickered behind stained glass, casting long shadows that moved across the room with a disconcerting autonomy. He glanced around at the other students—vampires, all of them, with their regal postures and perfectly composed expressions. Some seemed amused, others indifferent, but they all seemed to watch him like an experiment that might go wrong at any moment.
Professor Blackwood's presence dominated the front of the room. His hair, silver-streaked and carefully parted, caught the light as he moved with fluid precision. He spoke of the Blood Wars with a detachment that belied the violence of the history. "Entire clans were decimated," he recounted, "bloodlines extinguished in the space of a single night."
The cold detail in his voice was both mesmerizing and chilling. Jamie struggled to concentrate, hoping that the immersion in ancient history might insulate him from the prying eyes of his classmates. He'd convinced himself that the lecture would offer a reprieve from his growing sense of isolation. But the words only brought his own history crashing into the present.
"In the north, the Rose and Mortevert clans united forces, leaving trails of carnage as a warning to those who might challenge their power," Blackwood continued, his gaze sweeping the room and momentarily fixing on Jamie. It was as though the professor could see through his carefully maintained composure to the chaos simmering beneath.
Jamie clenched his fists, focusing intently on the cold marble beneath his feet. Blackwood's lecture was relentless, each word striking like a blow. "One such retaliation resulted in the midnight massacre of an entire opposing clan—no mercy shown, no lives spared."
Jamie felt a tightening in his chest, a familiar panic clawing its way to the surface. He knew he was supposed to feel detached from these events, just a human observing from the periphery of vampire society. But the description was visceral, personal. It shredded through the thin veneer of distance he'd tried to maintain.
His vision blurred, and he was no longer in the lecture hall. The scent of blood filled his nostrils, vivid and metallic. His mother's screams echoed around him, terror etched into the fabric of his memory. Shadows, swift and lethal, moved with the precision of a nightmare.
The other students dissolved into phantoms as his past consumed him. He could see their fanged grins in the faces of his parents' murderers. Figures loomed in his periphery, all focus and speed, tearing through the memory of his family.
He felt the sickening pressure of hands gripping him, not in violence, but the memory was enough to send him reeling. He was back there again, that awful night, the night everything was taken. His breath came in shallow, desperate gasps, unable to fill his lungs. There was too much, too fast. The sounds of tearing flesh and his own panicked breathing drowned out Blackwood's words. His body went rigid, a muted cry escaping his lips before everything went dark.
The room fell silent, then erupted into gasps and whispers. Jamie was dimly aware of his collapse, of the dull thud as his body met the cold floor. The other students' reactions swirled around him, some surprised, some curious, and at least one genuinely concerned.
"Did you see that?" a voice murmured, too soft and detached to care whether Jamie could hear.
"Just like a human," another scoffed. "He's bound to be a bit fragile."
As though through fog, Jamie registered the sound of someone standing—movements smooth and unhurried.
"Eliza, sit," another voice ordered, its owner close enough for Jamie to feel the light tremor of his concern. "They'll sort him out. Just watch."
He caught a glimpse of the girl, her eyes narrowed in a sharp, worried glance. Then the faces were blurring together, shadowy and indistinct.
In the distance, Blackwood's voice rang with the crisp, detached authority of a scientist who'd discovered a rare specimen. "Raven, Malcross," he instructed two senior students, "take him to the infirmary."
The next thing Jamie knew, he was lifted, his limbs a weightless burden in the arms of his fellow students. As they carried him out, Blackwood's composure remained unbroken, though Jamie didn't miss the way the professor's eyes narrowed with interest.
The vaulted ceiling retreated above him as Jamie drifted in and out of consciousness. The soft murmur of voices receded, replaced by the fragmented memories that haunted him, like shards of glass pressing in from every direction. His father's desperate attempt to shield him, his mother's final words—a patchwork of pain he could never seem to escape.
He felt himself being drawn further from the lecture hall, from the smirking faces of his classmates. The sensation of shadowy figures moving with inhuman speed trailed after him like a ghost. "Just a human," a voice echoed again, a chorus of mocking harmony. Jamie tried to latch onto consciousness, to fight against the creeping darkness, but the tide was too strong. It pulled him under, drowning him in the nightmares he couldn't keep locked away.
***
The cold seeped into Vincent's bones, its bite as familiar as the man he waited for. Shadows curled like snakes along the stone corridor, each movement hinting at unseen watchers. Clarissa Rose's influence was as inescapable as the dampness down here, but Arthur had been insistent, almost desperate in his request for a meeting. Vincent stood with his back rigid against the etched walls, centuries of vampire history pressing in on him. When Arthur finally approached, his features caught the flickering light of the sconces, looking both regal and strained. "Vincent," he greeted, the word heavy with layers of history and unspoken concern. "How is he?" The question hung between them, echoing in the hollow space like an accusation.
Vincent's response was measured, a practiced exercise in control. "Enduring. Like the rest of us," he replied, allowing the pause to speak volumes.
Arthur came closer, his presence warm against the chill that enveloped the passage. He examined Vincent's expression, as if searching for cracks in his composure. "And you truly believe he belongs here?"
The inquiry stung more than Vincent cared to admit. He set his jaw, refusing to let the fissure widen. "You doubt his resilience?" Vincent countered, his tone turning sharp, edged with the faintest tremor of uncertainty. "The boy has survived more than most."
The flickering sconces lit Arthur's features with an unforgiving glow, emphasizing the creased lines that had begun to etch themselves around his eyes. "He's still young. And after today's incident…" Arthur let the words linger, hanging in the air like a sentence waiting to be pronounced.
Vincent crossed his arms, a gesture both defensive and resolute. "The Council was prepared for complications."
"You mean Clarissa was prepared," Arthur said, a note of melancholy seeping into his voice. "The others have never truly understood."
Vincent's expression hardened at the mention of the Rose matriarch, a calculated reaction designed to betray nothing. "Jamie is fine," he insisted, the words more for his own assurance than Arthur's. "We've all faced worse."
Arthur looked at him with an empathy that bordered on accusation. "And Victoria?" he asked softly, invoking the name that lay buried beneath layers of silence and regret.
A strained silence followed, stretching taut between them. It was Vincent's turn to let the pause do its work. "He's nothing like her," he stated, his voice cold but unsteady.
The breath Arthur took was almost a sigh, a whisper of resigned frustration. "That's precisely what worries me," he said, the concern in his eyes intensifying. "You know as well as I do how history tends to repeat itself in our world."
Vincent turned his gaze to the damp floor, battling the shadows that threatened to converge within him. Arthur's persistence was a battering ram against his carefully constructed defenses.
"And if the Council believes they have another Victoria on their hands—"
"They do not," Vincent interrupted, his voice slicing through the damp air with newfound conviction. He took a step forward, closing the distance between them. "The curse, as you call it, drove her to madness, but Jamie is nothing like Victoria. He has the will to survive, to resist." The flicker of pain in Vincent's eyes betrayed a vulnerability that had no place in these corridors.
Arthur's expression softened, a glimmer of compassion cutting through the tension. "We all thought she was stronger than she turned out to be," he replied, the echo of a hundred unspoken memories carrying the words.
Vincent held Arthur's gaze, unflinching. "And now you underestimate him," he said, a stubborn certainty threading through his voice. "That mistake will not be repeated."
Arthur studied Vincent for a long moment, as though considering how much further he dared to press. When he spoke again, the gentleness was almost more damning than any accusation. "I don't want to see him fall to pieces like she did," Arthur said quietly, the raw emotion cracking his composure. "And if the Council believes his presence threatens their world…"
"They will do nothing," Vincent interrupted again, unwilling to let the idea gain traction. He forced his voice to remain steady. "The boy is none of their concern."
"But if they think he's unstable, the human blood..." Arthur's words faltered, and a fragile silence stretched between them. "Clarissa has made assurances before."
Vincent's hand trembled slightly before he regained control, running it through his hair in a rare gesture of frustration. "Your concerns are unfounded," he insisted, the slight crack in his veneer almost imperceptible.
Arthur looked at him, the depths of his worry more visible than ever. "You must be careful, Vincent," he cautioned, his voice a blend of compassion and urgency. "About Jamie. And about yourself."
The sincerity in Arthur's words struck Vincent harder than he expected, and he turned away, unwilling to let Arthur see the toll their conversation was taking.
The echo of footsteps in the distance interrupted their standoff, the sound growing louder and more insistent with each passing second. Vincent's eyes narrowed, recognizing the approach of figures he did not care to encounter just yet.
"We're not done here," Arthur said, a trace of disappointment threading his voice as he noted Vincent's retreat.
Vincent's movements were quick and decisive as he slipped away into the shadows. "We'll see," he called over his shoulder, his tone a delicate balance of defiance and resignation.
He vanished into the damp, twisting passageways before the other footsteps reached them, leaving Arthur to ponder the words that still reverberated through the cold, stone corridors.
***
Shadows stretched long and jagged across the infirmary walls, splintering the cold, sterile space with dark reminders of the past. Jamie lay on the narrow bed, consciousness tugging at the edges of his mind. The antiseptic tang mingled with the scent of herbs, a confusing contradiction that mirrored the memories haunting him. Flashes of that night—blood, screams, his father shielding him—flickered relentlessly. Eliza's presence was an anchor, her steady gaze unraveling the worst of the terror. "I've never remembered it so clearly," Jamie whispered, each word a struggle against the shaking of his hands. He didn't notice Marlotte's silent entrance until the aristocrat stood over him, eyes like storm clouds brewing with unreadable intensity.
The infirmary felt more like a laboratory than a place of healing, its metallic surfaces and sharp corners offering little comfort. Jamie's head swam, fragments of memory assaulting him with brutal clarity. He closed his eyes, hoping to shut out the sterile glare of the overhead lights, but the past only rushed in more forcefully.
Blood. So much blood. It filled his senses, drowning him in its suffocating tang.
His father's face, etched with desperation, loomed large and agonizing. "Stay with us, Jamie," the ghost of a voice pleaded, a spectral echo from the edges of his consciousness.
The shock of it made him shudder, a physical tremor that ran the length of his body. He didn't want to remember, not like this, too vivid, too raw, too immediate.
The dissonance of antiseptic and herbs added to his confusion, the two smells a surreal marriage of modern and ancient remedies. Jamie took a shaky breath, feeling like he might splinter apart under the weight of all the memories.
Beside him, Eliza's presence was a grounding force. She watched him with eyes that were both piercing and kind, a steady beacon amidst the tumult. Her concern was palpable, yet she gave him the space to speak when he was ready.
"How are you feeling?" she asked softly, her voice like a gentle salve on an open wound.
Jamie forced himself to focus on her, to anchor himself in the present instead of drowning in the past. "Like I got hit by a train," he said, attempting humor but unable to mask the strain in his voice.
Eliza offered a small, understanding smile, her worry not lessened but more personal. "It looked pretty intense."
He nodded, still trying to reconcile the fragments in his mind. "The flashback," he began, each word feeling like a fresh effort. "I've never remembered it so clearly before."
Eliza waited, her silence encouraging rather than expectant.
"It felt like something just… unlocked," Jamie continued, struggling to articulate the fear that came with the clarity. "Like I'd forgotten on purpose, and now it's all rushing back."
His hands shook slightly, and he clenched them into fists, trying to hold onto something solid.
"You probably did forget," Eliza said, her tone gentle but firm. "Sometimes our minds do that to protect us."
Jamie searched her face, looking for answers he knew she couldn't fully provide. "But why now? Why like this?"
Eliza reached out, placing a reassuring hand over his. The contact steadied him more than he wanted to admit. "The mind is weird like that," she said, offering what comfort she could. "Things can trigger us when we least expect it."
Her words resonated, a mirror to his own chaos. The bond between them deepened, an understanding forged in shared experience.
"It scares me," Jamie confessed, his voice a bare whisper. "That I can't control it. That it could happen again."
Eliza squeezed his hand, her grip firm and real. "I know," she said, the simple affirmation carrying a world of empathy. "You're not alone, Jamie. And you're not the only one."
He looked at her, really looked, seeing the shadows of her own past in her eyes.
Her family had been touched by tragedy too, that much he knew, but she rarely spoke of it. Yet here, now, she was opening up in a way that made Jamie feel less isolated in his own pain. It was both comforting and terrifying.
"I lost my brother," Eliza revealed, the words a quiet offering. "He was... special, like you. Didn't belong anywhere." She paused, her expression haunted but sincere. "It can be hard when the past won't let go."
Jamie swallowed hard, the solidarity in her confession weaving an intricate thread of connection between them. Before he could respond, the soft creak of the infirmary door drew both their gazes.
Marlotte Mortevert entered with the kind of silent authority that seemed to mark everything he did. The light caught his dark skin and high forehead, casting his aristocratic features into sharp relief. He paused at the threshold, his presence as striking as it was unexpected.
Jamie tensed, unsure how to react to the interruption. He was grateful for Eliza's presence, but Marlotte's arrival was a twist he hadn't anticipated.
The vampire noble approached with deliberate steps, his grey eyes fixed on Jamie. "Leclair," Marlotte greeted, the formality of his address only adding to the enigma of his intentions. "I came to inquire about your condition."
The words were perfectly measured, as though he were discussing the weather rather than Jamie's collapse.
Jamie shifted uncomfortably, caught between Eliza's warm concern and Marlotte's cool inquiry. "I'll live," he replied, trying for nonchalance but feeling the strain of the situation.
Marlotte nodded, a movement so slight it was almost imperceptible. "I was told it was quite dramatic."
His tone carried no judgment, but Jamie couldn't shake the feeling that he was being appraised, assessed in some inscrutable way.
Eliza's casual presence seemed to soften the moment. "Jamie's tougher than he looks," she interjected, a playful deflection that carried an edge of challenge.
Marlotte's gaze flickered to her, his expression unreadable. "Of that I have no doubt," he said, a hint of something like respect threading his voice.
The dynamic between the three was complex and charged. Jamie felt like an orbiting satellite, pulled between the gravitational forces of Eliza's empathy and Marlotte's intense scrutiny.
Marlotte regarded Jamie once more, his eyes betraying the faintest glimmer of interest beyond the immediate situation. "If you require anything, do let me know," he said, his offer as formal as it was unexpected.
The interaction left Jamie with more questions than answers, and he nodded mutely, still reeling from the confrontation of memory and reality.
Eliza watched Marlotte's retreating figure with curiosity, then turned back to Jamie, her expression shifting to one of quiet solidarity. "You gonna be okay?" she asked, her voice full of the reassurance he so desperately needed.
Jamie's gaze lingered on the door Marlotte had just exited, feeling the weight of all that had been left unsaid. "I don't know," he admitted, the uncertainty stretching between them like an uncharted horizon. "But maybe that's okay, too."
***
Jamie drifted down the dim corridor, the flickering candlelight painting the walls with ghostly hues of orange and black. His mind felt as unsteady as his legs, haunted by lingering questions and half-formed fears. The infirmary's antiseptic chill still clung to his skin, a stark contrast to the oppressive warmth of the hallway. Just ahead, a muffled argument broke the silence. He pressed himself against the cold stone, heart racing as he caught Vincent's voice, sharp and unmistakable. "My brother's condition is none of their concern," Vincent declared, his words brimming with both defiance and desperation.
The candlelight wavered, a spectral dance that made Jamie's head spin. Each step felt like wading through molasses, the oppressive atmosphere thick with the residue of old secrets. Shadows flitted across the stone walls, transforming the corridor into a living entity that pulsed with his unease.
Jamie paused, resting against the wall and drawing in ragged breaths. He tried to steady himself, to clear his mind of the fragmented memories and tangled emotions that seemed to follow him like an unwelcome specter.
But clarity was elusive, as ephemeral as the light flickering around him. Jamie was caught in a web of uncertainty, each thread leading to more questions, more doubt. He felt the weight of everything pressing down on him, and he struggled to remain upright, both physically and mentally.
He resumed his unsteady walk, the soft pad of his shoes against stone echoing through the quiet hallway. The warmth felt suffocating, each candle a small beacon of heat that made the air feel heavy and difficult to breathe. Jamie thought of the cold sterility of the infirmary, the contrast sharp and unsettling.
A muted voice reached him from beyond the next turn. Jamie's heart quickened, the familiar cadence of Vincent's speech cutting through the thick air. He crept closer, each step tentative, as though approaching a precipice.
He stopped just shy of the corner, pressing himself against the wall, heart hammering. The argument was clearer now, each word a nail driven into his consciousness.
"He's unstable, Vincent," Headmaster Thorne's voice hissed, authoritative and laced with accusation. "This incident only proves what we've suspected. The Council will demand answers."
Jamie dared a glance around the corner, his pulse throbbing in his throat. The door to Thorne's office was ajar, the heated exchange spilling into the corridor with a clarity that sent shivers down his spine.
Vincent's silhouette loomed against the warm light from within the room. His posture was rigid, a dark figure of defiance amidst the grand opulence. "I will not allow them to interfere," Vincent replied, his voice low but edged with steel. "My brother's condition is none of their concern."
Thorne's laugh was a chilling, mirthless thing. "You think you can protect him?" he challenged, the words carrying a weight that made Jamie's stomach lurch. "From the Council? From himself? The boy is a liability, Vincent, and you know it."
The charged silence that followed was a living thing, tense and electric. Jamie clung to the shadows, each heartbeat a drumbeat of anxiety.
Vincent broke the silence, his voice layered with both conviction and desperation. "I will not lose him," he insisted, the declaration as much for himself as for Thorne. "We've all made sacrifices. You included. Do not presume to dictate this."
"How very like Victoria you are," Thorne remarked, the mention of her name a calculated blow. "Always believing you can control the uncontrollable."
Jamie's mind raced, the conversation a tangled mess of revelations and insinuations. He could feel the walls closing in, the history he was never meant to understand tightening around him like a vise.
"They will do nothing," Vincent said again, though his voice held the faintest tremor, a hint of the doubt he'd never admit.
"You can't possibly believe that," Thorne countered, the finality in his tone like a coffin nail. "He has the blood, Vincent. You can't change what he is."
Another silence stretched, its weight nearly unbearable. Jamie's thoughts spun in chaotic circles, struggling to process what he was hearing. Everything pointed to a web of intrigue he could barely comprehend. Each connection seemed to bring more danger, more uncertainty.
What really happened to his parents? How was it connected to Victoria's fate? And what role did he play in this deadly game?
Jamie's breath quickened, panic clawing at his insides. He felt the urge to run, to escape the suffocating truths closing in around him.
He pushed away from the wall, forcing himself to move, to act, before the knowledge crushed him entirely.
The echoes of Thorne and Vincent's argument followed him as he slipped down the corridor, their words a haunting reminder of all he had yet to discover. Jamie knew he was more than a pawn in their game, but the rules were obscured, hidden in the dark, much like the academy itself.
His mind raced with questions as he fled, the shadows swallowing him whole.