I force a smile. “It was pretty awesome.”

“Awesome?” Mack scoffs. “They haven’t had anyone actually obtain the venom in over a decade.”

“Girls,” Professor Lambert calls, his stern voice echoing inside the high ceiling of the lecture hall. “I expect total silence during Miss Skywell’s demonstration.”

We all nod, and thank God, the attention of the room quickly shifts back to Eclipsa. Soulmancy is an ancient art, and once forbidden. The little I do know about it so far is fascinating. The Evermore, the elite and powerful Fae from the most prominent families, use soulmancy exclusively to live forever.

“As you may know,” Eclipsa says, her voice carrying from her spot on the stage. “Soulmancy can be very dangerous when done wrong. But when done right . . . it’s an absolute miracle to watch. Notice that when the spell is complete, the new body transforms to look like the old one. That doesn’t always happen, and it requires total focus, but that is the goal. To restore the Evermore to their former self completely.”

Apparently, Eclipsa has already declared her specialty in soulmancy, even though the Evermore students don’t have to declare until the beginning of the third year.

She motions toward the back of the stage at a Fae with donkey ears and a tufted tail. At her invitation, he joins her, carrying a cage with something inside. Soft black fur. Long, floppy ears.

They take the poor bunny out, his body limp and unmoving. Then Eclipsa unwraps a dark green linen napkin, revealing a light brown ball of fluff.

“This is third year Evermore Milken and his familiar, Bramble. Unfortunately, Bramble died three days ago of old age. A preservation spell was used to keep him fresh and his spirit close until another vessel presented itself. This”—she holds up the smaller brown baby rabbit—“is a baby rabbit born in Professor Balefire’s menagerie. He died shortly after birth today.”

Mack makes cooing noises along with half the girls in class.

Eclipsa sets the baby bunny down beside the older one. Then she places her hands palm down above the two rabbits. Behind her, Milken watches the ordeal with a stricken look, his hands tugging at his shirt.

From here, I can see Eclipsa’s lips moving as she speaks the incantation, but I can’t hear what she says.

Anticipation charges the room as we wait for something to happen. Then someone gasps.

At first, I don’t see what’s causing the class to react. Leaning forward, I spot the glow swelling beneath Eclipsa’s left palm. More light begins to seep from the older bunny. I watch, speechless, as shimmering fingers of sentient mist unfurl. They give a languid stretch and begin prodding the air.

They’re searching for . . . something.

When the tendrils of light reach the baby bunny, they hesitate, cautiously running along its brown fur. All at once, the light surges, pouring into the poor little guy. A sense of awe falls over all of us as we train our eyes on this tiny, furry thing. Willing him to awaken.

His foot jerks. I don’t blink, afraid I’ll miss what happens next.

With a startled squeak, the baby bunny begins to kick and thrash. But his fur is changing, darkening. When he’s completely black, he seems to calm, his frenetic movements ceasing. He hops to his feet and begins to chew on some grass Eclipsa hands him.

“Milken,” Eclipsa says, motioning him over.

Milken trembles as he approaches the bunny. “Bramble?”

The rabbit stops chewing and glances up. When he sees his familiar, he hops into his arms. It’s basically the cutest thing I’ve seen in years—or the creepiest. I’m still not decided.

The room erupts in applause, and Eclipsa performs a bow. “The transfer of the soul is complete.”

For the first time ever, I wonder how many times the prince has completed the soul transfer thingy-majig, and how old that makes him. Being attracted against my will to a reincarnated Fae thousands of years older than me was never part of my life goals.

Then again, I’m starting to question everything I ever thought I wanted. Six months ago, I would have told you my biggest ambition in life was finding enough food to feed my family. Six months ago, I would have laughed in your face if you told me I would be secretly attracted to a Fae Ice prince.

Six months ago, the idea that I would attend an academy and find not only friends, but a home, would have been ridiculous.

For whatever reason, the thought that I might love this place terrifies me more than anything. Because if life has taught me anything, it’s that the moment you love something, the universe rips it away.

42

After Properties of Magic class, we meet our Combat Theory instructor, Crenshaw, in the great hall. Most of the students lounge on the wide marble stairs that split into separate stairwells on either side of the mahogany paneled walls.

A stained glass window at the top of the stairs depicts deer and foxes playing in the snow together near a lake. It’s actually quite beautiful, like most Fae art, the light shining through the glass coloring the students orange and teal.

Professor Crenshaw has to call out three times to get the group’s attention. Today is Friday, and the Fae Yule holiday, meaning many of the students will be going home for the weekend. I try not to be bitter that I’m stuck here, telling myself I wouldn’t know what to say to my family, anyway.

The lie almost sticks.

Mack babbles on about her plans to visit her parents as the entire group follows the professor down a low-lit corridor to a dank set of stairs. We trudge single file for what feels like thirty minutes into a dingy basement. Cold, damp air settles around us, the scent of magic everywhere.

The professor waves his hand and orbs light from the overhanging chandeliers. That’s when I realize how big this place is. Glass cases line the worn wood floor, jewelry and chalices and other oddities inside. Beautiful, worn armor made of silver and gold hang off wooden mannequins. Gorgeous jewel-toned ball gowns fit for a Fae queen sparkle beneath the magical light.

“This is the hall of antiquities,” Professor Crenshaw says, his voice trembling in awe. “Some of these items are ten thousand years old. If you experience an overwhelming sensation of magic, that is the preservation spell you feel.”

Someone gasps and points to the ceiling. I follow their gaze.

At first, I’m not sure what I’m seeing. It looks as if a girl is suspended in the air above, her long vibrant red hair hanging far below. The peaks of her high, pointed ears are just visible. The train of the emerald green and gold brocade velvet gown she wears tumbles a good fifteen feet below, the delicate silken fabric putting every dress in the room to shame.

I blink as my brain tries to process why a Fae girl would be preserved above this place like some sort of prize. A living art sculpture on full display.

“Who is she?” Evelyn asks. For once, she doesn’t know something.

The professor’s face turns grim, and he takes off his hat. “No, they wouldn’t teach this story in your history books, would they?” His dark eyes turn watery, and he makes the mark of Titania, a touch to his heart and then a touch between his eyes. “She was the Summer King’s only daughter and heir. But when she fell in love with a member of the Unseelie, the king killed his only child, Titania’s favorite, to prevent her wondrous magic from falling into the Unseelie’s hands.”

“Why is she displayed?” Mack asks quietly.

Crenshaw twists his hands together. “A reminder of the new edict: No Seelie or Unseelie may fall in love or ever marry.”

After that, he makes another mark and refuses to say more. As the group wanders to other oddities, I have the sudden, overwhelming feeling that if I don’t get out of this room, I’ll suffocate.

When the professor beckons us to a red door with strange markings covering the surface, I tear my gaze from the dead princess and run to join the others.

“The forbidden Vault of the Darken. These weapons were used by the fallen king during the war, and their warped magic is partially responsible for the fallout that tore our worlds apart.”

Silence descends, heavy and ominous. His eyes narrow. “Before we enter, you should know, the weapons on the other side are outlawed weapons forged from dark, forbidden soul-magic. Touch anything, and I do mean anything, on the forbidden side, and you will be immediately expelled.”

He gestures and Magus appears, his hooves clopping loudly against the wood as he nears. “Only Magus can access this room. Anyone else, even with the keys, and the unlaggin that guards it will bash in your skull.”

“What’s an unlaggin?” I whisper to Mack.

She grins darkly. “A type of orc with one eye.”

Lovely. A cyclops orc. Fae monsters can’t just be regular ones, after all.

Everyone moves aside to let the centaur access the lock. I watch him fiddle with a key ring. The door pops open with a creak. As I pass, he nods kindly at me.

“Not going inside, Magus?” I ask.

His ears twitch. “If you knew what lurked inside, you wouldn’t either.”

A burst of magic comes from the next room, but it’s laced with something different than the usual lilies and copper smell.

Something closer to dust, blood, and decay.

An ominous sensation permeates the room, a dark, musty chamber that must be huge by the way our footsteps echo. Here, there’s no glorious chandelier, only small torches hanging from stone columns, making it hard to determine the exact size of the vault.

As we trickle into the room, I can’t shake the image of the dead princess. I must have read about her somewhere.

Could she have been the one who fought the prince in the Nocturus?

But, as I follow my classmates, my thoughts quickly shift to the row after row of deadly instruments displayed in the middle of the chamber.

Longbows with strange markings similar to the door. Ornate leather quivers brimming with arrows made of bone and iron heads. Iron axes that give off dark, curling shadows. Iron forged swords and daggers still smeared with old, black blood and gore, huge magical stones embedded inside their fancy guards.

Crenshaw explains that these are class six through ten weapons. Below our very feet, in a vault guarded by six beasts, are the few class eleven and twelve weapons confiscated during the war.