Rhett:
Night tastes as heavy and cold as steel. The kind that bites the lungs and coats the tongue in metal.
I prowl the outer grounds of Ashwyck Academy, boots sinking into damp earth, every sense stretched thin. The wards hum faintly along the perimeter—usually a steady, comforting throb of magic—but tonight their rhythm skips. Weak. Erratic.
Something has touched them.
I inhale, letting the forest bleed into me. Wet pine. Old stone. And underneath it, a rank heat that doesn’t belong. Demon musk—smoke and sulfur, slick as rot.
A growl curls in my chest.
The moon is a dull orb behind storm clouds, the kind of sky that promises rain but withholds it like a threat. Perfect hunting weather. The thick, heavy air holds all the scents suspended within, leaving all the creatures lurking ar
