3. Aria

3

ARIA

I jolt awake, heart pounding, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. The events of earlier come rushing back – the forest, the chase, the imposing figure at the gates. I must have lost consciousness.

No.

It had to have been a nightmare .

But as my eyes adjust to the dim light, I realize with growing dread that this is no dream. I'm in a spacious chamber, the bed beneath me a massive four-posted affair, its frame carved from ebony wood into twisting, organic shapes. Sheets of midnight silk whisper against my skin, cool and unnervingly soft.

Heavy velvet curtains in deep crimson frame a tall, arched window. Beyond the glass, a sky the color of bruised flesh stretches endlessly with no hint of sun or clouds.

An ornate chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling, its crystals seeming to absorb light rather than reflect it. A writing desk of polished obsidian sits in one corner, its surface bare save for an elegant quill and inkwell that appears to be filled with something too dark and thick to be ordinary ink.

Across the room, an armoire of the same dark wood as the bed looms ominously, its doors adorned with silver filigree in patterns that hurt my eyes if I look too closely.

The floor is covered in plush carpets so deep my feet sink into them. Their intricate patterns seem to shift and change when I'm not looking directly at them. A full-length mirror in an ornate silver frame stands in one corner, but I can't bring myself to look into it just yet.

"This isn't real," I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut. "I'll wake up any second now."

A sound like nails on glass makes me snap my eyes open. There, hovering at the foot of my bed, is a creature straight out of a nightmare. Vaguely humanoid, with skin like polished obsidian and too many limbs, all impossibly thin. Its face is a blank mask, save for a mouth full of needle-sharp teeth.

"Orientation begins in ten minutes," it hisses, voice like dry leaves scraping stone. "Do not be late."

Before I can scream, it's gone, leaving only a lingering chill in the air. I sit there, trembling, for what feels like hours but must only be moments.

This is real.

This is happening.

With shaking hands, I pull on the clothes laid out for me – a high-collared black dress that feels uncomfortably like a second skin and as I step into the hallway, I'm hit by a wave of vertigo. The corridor stretches impossibly long, twisting and turning at angles that hurt my eyes to look at.

Other... students? ... emerge from rooms along the hall. Some look almost human, others are clearly anything but. A girl with wings like shattered glass gives me a predatory smile as she passes. Something that looks like a living shadow slithers by, leaving a trail of frost in its wake.

I follow the flow of bodies, trying to make myself as small and unnoticeable as possible. We descend a spiral staircase that seems to go on forever, each step sending a jolt of cold through my bare feet.

Finally, we spill into a vast chamber. The ceiling arches so high it's lost in shadow, supported by columns that look unsettlingly like petrified trees. At the far end stands a raised dais, upon which sits a throne that seems to be made of writhing darkness.

A hush falls over the crowd as a figure glides onto the dais. He's beautiful in a terrifying way – skin like moonlight, hair a cascade of living shadows. When he speaks, his voice fills the chamber without effort.

"Welcome, students of Ravencrest," she intones, a smile that doesn't reach her eyes playing across her lips. "I am Headmaster Gravewood. You stand here because you have the potential for great and terrible power. Whether you survive to wield it... well, that remains to be seen."

A ripple of nervous laughter runs through the crowd. I feel sick.

"Your education here will push you to your limits and beyond," he continues. "You will study dreamweaving, to shape the very fabric of nightmares. Shadowmancy, to bend darkness to your will. Conjuration, evocation, and necromancy, and that's just for starters."

My head spins. This can't be happening. I don't want to learn any of this. I just want to go home.

A sharp crack echoes through the cavernous space, and crystalline tablets materialize before each of us. I stare at mine in mounting horror. The schedule etched into its surface is impossible – classes from before dawn until long after midnight, with titles that leave me reeling. "Advanced Nightmare Conjuration," "Soul Theory and Manipulation," "Ethical Dilemmas in Magical Theory (There Are None)."

His words hang in the air, heavy with promise and threat. Then, with a wave of his hand, we're dismissed to our first classes.

I find myself herded into a classroom that seems to be carved from a single, massive piece of obsidian. Runes pulse along the walls, casting an eerie, shifting light. Our professor is a gaunt figure with skin like parchment stretched over bone. When he speaks, his voice rasps like dry leaves.

"I am Professor Nightshade. Today, we begin with the basics. Channeling your innate magic."

He demonstrates, conjuring a writhing mass of shadows in his palm. "Now, you try. Reach deep within yourselves, find that core of power, and bring it forth!"

The other students begin to produce various magical effects – sparks dancing between fingertips, miniature whirlwinds, even a student whose eyes now glow with an inner fire. I close my eyes, feeling foolish. I'm not magical. I don't belong here. I'm just a normal college student who took a wrong turn, right?

But as I concentrate, something shifts within me. A jolt of icy power surges through my veins, both terrifying and exhilarating. My eyes snap open as I feel... something... manifesting in my outstretched hand.

A small, writhing tentacle of pure darkness sprouts from my palm. It's as if a piece of the void has taken form, hungering, reaching. I scream, shaking my hand violently, trying to dislodge the abomination.

The tentacle dissipates, but the damage is done. Sneers and whispers ripple through the classroom.

"Pathetic."

"Can't even control a simple shadow construct."

"Why is a mortal even here?"

Professor Nightshade's eyes narrow as he studies me. "Interesting," he murmurs. "A latent hexeblood, perhaps? We shall see what you become, initiate."

The rest of the morning passes in a nightmarish blur. In "Principles of Fearomancy," we file into a classroom that seems to breathe, its walls pulsing with a sickly, bioluminescent glow.

Our professor is a changeling, his form a fluid blend of human and fey features. One moment he appears almost elven, with pointed ears and iridescent skin, the next his features shift to something more wild and primal. His eyes, however, remain constant - deep pools of swirling mist that seem to reflect one's deepest fears.

"Welcome, fledglings, to the art of Fearomancy," he says, his voice melodious yet unsettling. "I am Professor Whisperwind, and I will teach you to harness the power of terror itself."

He explains that changelings and the fae, once human but transformed by fey magic, have a unique connection to the realm of emotions, particularly fear. "We don't merely sense fear," he tells us, a sly smile playing on his ever-changing lips. "We shape it, nurture it, and draw power from it and the mortal world is our canvas," he says, his form briefly shimmering into something darker, more menacing. "A crowded subway, a dark alley, a hospital waiting room - all become wellsprings of power."

He demonstrates by subtly shifting his features, becoming a little more "other" - a little less human. I feel a chill run down my spine, an instinctive reaction to something that defies natural law.

"You see?" He grins, and for a moment his teeth seem just a bit too sharp. "Fear is always there, waiting to be coaxed out."

Lunch is a new form of torment. The grand hall is a cathedral to the macabre, with tables made from fossilized bones and chandeliers that weep luminous ichor. The feast laid before us is a smorgasbord of horrors. Plates writhe with tentacled morsels. Goblets foam with liquids that change color as I watch. A towering cake in the center of the table screams faintly when sliced.

My stomach churns as I force myself to eat, knowing I'll need the energy. Each bite is a new adventure in terror and strange, alien flavors. To my disgust, I find some of it almost... tasty.

The afternoon brings "Introductory Dreamweaving." Our professor, a lithe figure with skin like mother-of-pearl, explains the basics of entering and manipulating dreams. For our first practical exercise, we're paired up to enter each other's nightmares.

By the time I stumble back to my room, I'm physically and emotionally drained. I collapse onto the bed, too exhausted even to cry.

A piece of parchment on my pillow catches my eye. With trembling fingers, I unfold it.

"Your progress today was most intriguing, little hexeblood. I look forward to seeing how you develop. Sleep well... if you can.

Headmaster Gravewood."

I crumple the note, a mix of fear and something I don't want to name churning in my gut.

As I drift into an uneasy sleep, one thought echoes through my mind.

What have I gotten myself into?