Rhett:
The wards are gone.
I can feel it in my teeth, in the marrow of my bones, in the way the night outside presses too close against the Academy walls. The protective hum that usually thrums through these stones—like a heartbeat beneath the floor—is silent now, gutted, stolen. And in its absence, every dark thing beyond the gates has scented blood.
The howls start first. High, piercing wails that shred the air like broken glass. Banshees. Their screams crawl under my skin, vibrating against my ribs until my wolf snarls in defiance. Then comes the rumble—the ground itself shuddering with the thunder of hooves. Minotaurs. Their musk of blood and iron already fouls the wind. And somewhere deeper, quieter, the scrape of claws on stone. Oni. Lurking. Patient. Monsters of patience are the
