Chapter Two – The Red Moon Rules

I woke up to the sound of bells.

Not the sharp kind that jolts you awake, but low and heavy, as though they’d been rung underwater. The sound rolled through the stone walls, vibrating faintly in my chest.

The morning light crept weakly through my window, muted and gray, while a faint mist outside blurred the trees into shadowy outlines. My body felt heavy, like I’d been pinned down by strange dreams I couldn’t quite remember.

I sat up, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

“New day,” I whispered to myself, voice cracking a little. “Just a school. Just classes.”

If I kept saying it, maybe I’d start believing it.

***

The main hall smelled of wax and damp stone, the kind of cold scent that clung to the back of your throat. Candles lined the walls in tall iron holders, dripping slowly, their flames bending as though someone was breathing over them.

Students moved in groups, their footsteps echoing across the floor. I felt every glance flicked my way. Not long enough to be polite, not long enough to register as curious—just sharp, fleeting stares that stung like tiny cuts.

I kept my head down and clutched my books tighter.

My first class was History of Order and Duty. Whatever that meant.

The room looked more like a miniature amphitheater than a classroom. Stone benches and desks were arranged in rising tiers, worn smooth by generations of students. The air hummed with a strange energy, students whispering to each other with smiles that looked more like snarls.

I slipped into the back row, clutching my notebook like it was armor.

The professor stepped in.

He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t have that careless swagger I’d seen in the hall. He moved with quiet precision, each step measured, his long dark coat brushing his knees. His eyes were the kind of blue that looked almost black until the light caught them—like storm water about to swallow a ship whole.

He set a stack of books on the desk. The sound cracked through the whispering, pulling the whole room into silence.

And then he looked up.

Straight at me.

For too long.

The air around me thickened. My breath snagged in my chest.

“Duty,” he said finally, his voice smooth but edged like steel. “Loyalty. Blood. These are the pillars of our kind. Fail one, and you fail them all.”

He began pacing slowly, the heel of his boots echoing sharp against the stone. His words dripped with practiced rhythm, tales of ancient wars, packs shattered and rebuilt, loyalty sworn with blood oaths that lasted generations.

But his eyes kept dragging back to me.

Every time, a little longer.

“Miss Hawthorne.”

My heart slammed into my ribs. “Yes, sir?”

He tilted his head, studying me like I was a riddle only he could solve. His gaze pinned me so thoroughly that the rest of the class seemed to vanish.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

My mouth went dry. I blinked. “Because I… transferred?”

The class chuckled, low and mean, a ripple of amusement at my expense.

But the professor didn’t smile.

He leaned against the desk, arms crossed, eyes never leaving mine. “No,” he said softly. “You shouldn’t exist here.”

The words hit me like ice water.

I forced a swallow. “Excuse me?”

He straightened, his tone suddenly dismissive. “We’ll see how long you last.”

And just like that, he turned his back, chalk squealing against the board as if he hadn’t just publicly gutted me in front of thirty strangers.

A whisper rippled through the class. Some smirks. A few curious looks. My face burned hot while my hands went cold and clammy.

I stared at my notebook, the page swimming before my eyes, and tried not to let them see me shake.

***

By lunch, my stomach was in knots.

The dining hall was vast and cavernous, ceiling arched high enough for echoes to nest there. Shadows collected in the corners like secrets no one wanted uncovered. Long tables stretched in neat rows, each claimed by clusters of students whose laughter was too sharp, whose voices were too low.

I balanced a tray in my hands, scanning the hall like a battlefield.

“Lyra!”

The sound cut through the murmur like a knife.

Cassian.

He was lounging on a bench like it was a throne, blond hair catching the lantern light, grin both easy and dangerous. He waved me over like we’d been friends for years instead of strangers for two days.

Against better judgment, I walked toward him.

“You look pale, pretty thing,” he teased, tilting his head. His eyes gleamed with mischief, the kind that made your pulse quicken in warning. “Did Vale scare you already?”

“Vale?” I echoed.

“Our dear professor. He’s got a sharp tongue. And an… unhealthy memory.” Cassian’s grin widened. “But don’t worry. You’ve got me.”

I didn’t get the chance to respond. His hand shot out suddenly, playful but firm, giving me a shove just light enough to disguise intent.

I stumbled—straight into someone’s path.

A tray vanished from my hands, lifted effortlessly as though it weighed nothing.

I looked up.

Malachai.

The name dropped into my head like a stone. I didn’t know how I knew it—I just did. His presence said it before anyone else could.

He was tall, skin pale against the dark fall of his hair. His eyes were so dark they seemed carved from obsidian, and when they fixed on me, I felt stripped bare.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t scold or sneer. He simply turned, walked to a table at the center of the hall, and set my tray down.

Then he sat.

Just sat.

Like the food had always been his. Like I had never existed at all.

The hall went quiet for a beat, heavy silence pressing at my ears. Then the whispers began.

“He took her tray.”

“Why her?”

“Malachai doesn’t… he never—”

Cassian chuckled low, clearly delighted by the spectacle. “Well, that’s a first.”

I stood frozen, heat crawling up my neck.

Malachai didn’t even glance at me again. He simply ate, slow and deliberate, each movement controlled, like a king used to obedience.

I left the hall without touching food.

***

The afternoon dragged me into Combat Class.

The training hall was an open stone arena, the kind meant for blood rather than learning. High walls rose around it, shadows stretching long across the floor. Wooden weapons lined the racks—swords, staffs, knives dulled at the edge but still threatening.

Students paired off quickly, their laughter sharper than blades. The air smelled of sweat and dust.

“Transfer,” the instructor barked. His voice cracked like a whip. “You’ll pair with Veyr.”

My stomach dropped.

Storm-eyes.

Ronan Veyr stepped forward, shoulders squared, jaw tight. His presence commanded the room without a word. His eyes met mine for the briefest second before flicking away like the sight of me burned.

We circled each other, practice blades in hand. His movements were fluid, precise, rehearsed a thousand times. Mine were stiff, awkward, too loud against the silence.

He struck lightly, guiding me into a block. I fumbled, nearly dropping my blade. He caught my wrist, twisting gently to correct me.

Our skin touched—just for a heartbeat.

And he recoiled violently.

Like I’d burned him.

The room hushed, the silence sharp and watching. Every eye turned toward us. Whispers coiled through the air like smoke.

“Did you see—”

“The heir flinched—”

“Why her?”

Ronan’s jaw clenched tight enough to crack bone. His hand flexed once, then dropped to his side. He turned his back on me and stalked away without a word.

The instructor’s face was carved stone, but his eyes flicked between us, too sharp, too knowing.

My face burned. My chest ached with humiliation.

***

By the time I reached my dorm that night, exhaustion weighed heavier than my bag. My legs dragged, my body felt scraped hollow. I dropped onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling where cracks spidered like veins.

A rattling pulled me upright.

The window.

The glass shuddered in its frame though the night outside was still, the mist pressing thick against the panes.

And then the howls rose again.

Closer this time.

Circling.

The sound dragged claws down my spine, primal and wild. My chest throbbed sharply, pain spreading through my ribs like something inside was trying to tear its way out.

I grabbed the edge of the bed, gasping, nails digging into the wood.

And then—inside my head, as clear as breath on my neck—

Wake up.

The same voice. The same command.

Only this time, it didn’t feel like a whisper.

It felt like an order.

Like I’d already obeyed.