Elira Vale knew one thing — monsters wear silk gloves too.
The silence in Blackthorne Hall wasn't peaceful. It was the kind that crept beneath your skin, wrapped around your spine, and whispered warnings you were too proud to heed.
Elira had spent days hiding in plain sight, the perfect illusion of a studious, distracted transfer student. But beneath the soft cardigan and lowered lashes was a blade — one honed for destruction. Her purpose had always been clear:
End the Moreaux line. Burn it to its bones.
So when she stood outside the locked doors of the eastern library wing — the one no student was allowed to access — and picked the ancient lock like a pianist, she wasn't worried.
She was calculated. Cold. Ready.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and rot. Velvet chairs had long gone gray, and old paintings stared with hollow, accusing eyes. She'd memorized the layout from the stolen blueprints. But what she didn't expect was…
A photograph.
Crisp. New. Placed dead center on the antique table.
Her photograph.
She froze.
No blood rushed. No breath came. There she was — Elira Vale — walking out of the headmaster's office. Same clothes. Same expression. Taken maybe three hours ago.
The ink hadn't even dried.
Her pulse thundered. This wasn't just surveillance — this was a warning.
He knew.
Azriel Moreaux hadn't slept. He didn't need rest when his world was war.
From the moment he saw her on campus, a tension had started pulsing beneath his skin like poison. He'd spent years building order. Fear. A kingdom no one dared challenge. But she... she had fire in her eyes and poison in her smile.
She was not afraid of him. And that? That was a problem.
He watched from the shadows as she entered the forbidden wing.
Brazen. Beautiful. Stupid.
He waited thirty seconds. Then followed, his footsteps silent as the grave.
Elira scanned the walls. Nothing else had been touched. Whoever left that photo wanted her to see it, but not why.
She slipped it into her coat pocket.
And turned — only to find a hand already wrapped around her throat, pressing her against the old bookshelf with inhuman speed.
"Curious little rats get eaten, darling," Azriel said lowly, his voice made of smoke and steel.
Her spine hit wood. Books tumbled. Her hand reached instinctively for the dagger hidden in her boot, but he caught her wrist mid-motion.
Of course he did.
His grip tightened.
"You're not what you pretend to be."
"And you're not as clever as you pretend to be," she hissed back.
He laughed. Actually laughed — dark and sharp like broken glass. Her legs kicked but he didn't flinch. His face was close now, eyes burning with something inhuman.
"You think I don't know a killer when I see one?" he said. "Tell me your real name, Elira Vale. The one you left behind with your family's ashes."
She went still.
He knew. He knew everything.
His hand dropped suddenly, and she collapsed to the floor, coughing, furious, but not broken. Never broken.
He knelt before her, voice low:
"You've been walking through a fire pit thinking you're the flame."
She met his gaze with steel. "I am the flame."
He didn't said anything. Just smirked, and went away like nothing.
__
Back in her dorm, her hands trembled as she stitched the tear in her coat. Azriel hadn't followed her after that — hadn't said another word. But the message was clear.
She'd been found out.
And worse?
She wasn't the predator anymore.
Across campus, Azriel stood on the balcony of his private suite, staring out into the velvet dusk.
"She's here to kill me," he said aloud.
Behind him, his second-in-command — Caelum — stepped forward.
"We expected this."
Azriel didn't answer.
Because what he didn't expect — what terrified him far more — was the realization that he didn't want her dead.
Not yet.
He wanted to see what she'd do. How far she'd go. Whether she'd burn the world down with him... or for him.
Two days passed in bitter silence. Elira avoided him. He let her.
But both of them knew the game wasn't paused — it was just mutating.
In the third lecture of the day, the professor handed out a single sealed envelope to Elira.
No one else got one.
Inside: one black card. Gold lettering. No signature.
"Dinner. Tonight. South Tower. Come unarmed — or don't come at all."
Her lips curled. Cute.
That night, she wore blood-red silk and a dagger in her bra strap. Just in case.
Azriel stood at the far end of the table, candlelight dancing off his face like a demon in disguise.
"Welcome, Ms. Vale," he said, voice silken. "Wine?"
"I don't drink with men who try to strangle me," she replied coolly.
"Then you'll die thirsty."
She sat.
For thirty minutes they danced around each other in the form of polite conversation. But under the words was war.
"Why are you really here?" he asked eventually, swirling his glass.
"Why are you hoarding files on every student like you're running a slaughterhouse?" she snapped.
He smiled. "Because some of them are not students. Some are assassins."
She froze.
He set his glass down.
And leaned forward.
"You're not the only one wearing a mask here, Elira. The real question is—His voice dropped. "Who sent you?"
Her eyes widened — not in fear, but in fury.
"You think I'd give you answers over dinner?"
Azriel leaned back.
"No. I think you'll give me answers when your world starts burning. One limb at a time."
And then—
The doors slammed open.
Caelum rushed in, blood on his collar, panting.
"Sir—one of the girls on your list. She's dead."
Azriel didn't flinch. Elira stood slowly, fingers twitching.
"Where?" he asked.
"In the courtyard. Carved into her skin — a message."
Caelum's voice cracked.
"Tell the devil his queen is here."
_________
To be continued <3