Professor Ossian's face darkened to a dangerous shade of purple, the veins in his forehead pulsing like living things beneath his skin. "This match is terminated!" he roared, his voice echoing off the obsidian walls. "Nightshade is disqualified for breach of arena protections and unauthorized mental manipulation!"

  Mo barely heard the words. She was staring at Valerius—her tormentor, her rival—now lying in blissful ignorance, utterly defenseless against her power. His eyes remained fixed on something only he could see, lips curved in a dreamy smile that looked alien on his usually sneering face. She hadn't meant to do this. Hadn't even known she could.

  And that, perhaps, was the most terrifying revelation of all.

  From the stands, Nyx's obsidian form rippled with shock, their usually fluid movements frozen as they stared wide-eyed at the scene below. Beside them, frost crept rapidly across Lucian's collar, his silver eyes reflecting the crackling energy still dancing across the arena.

  "Did she just…?" Lucian whispered, but in the sudden silence, even Mo could hear it.

  Mo saw as Nyx nodded wordlessly, their skin shifting between midnight blue and obsidian. "Our barista," they finally managed, voice carrying multiple harmonics of awe, "has teeth. And apparently, they're venomous."

  And then all the thirteen hells broke loose. Literally.

  The Combat Applications arena resembled ground zero of a magical catastrophe. Obsidian tiles—designed to withstand the most destructive spells known to demonkind—lay scattered like black confetti, some hovering three feet off the ground, others embedded in walls where no tiles should be. They pulsed with rosy light that beat like a heart, casting eerie shadows across horrified faces.

  Professor Ossian's attempts to restore order merely added to the chaos—every counterspell he cast transformed into something unpredictable. His binding magic turned a fallen chandelier into a constellation of miniature stars. His restoration spell gave voice to a pile of shattered pottery that began singing opera.

  A student's quill danced through the air, signing florid declarations of love on foreheads and arms. A grimoire fluttered open, pages turning frantically as it read itself aloud in five different voices simultaneously. In the corner, someone's enchanted boots performed an elaborate tap routine, growing more complex with each passing second as if auditioning for a demonic Broadway.

  The students weren't faring much better. Most had managed to shake off the immediate effects of Mo's magic. Still, remnants lingered—a girl with fairy wings couldn't stop giggling whenever she looked at her potion partner. Two bitter rivals were awkwardly avoiding eye contact after their moment of mutual adoration. The antlered boy was writing a sonnet titled "Ode to Ossian's Cheekbones" while pretending he wasn't.

  In the center of it all stood Mo, her hair standing on ends from magical backlash, her face burning with mortification. The emotional exposure felt worse than any physical attack Valerius could have landed. Her classmates had seen not just her crush on Julian but her deepest fears and most private moments—practicing villain speeches in the mirror, crying after harsh training with her father, and her moment of doubt about returning to Blackthorn Keep.

  "Fascinating display, Nightshade," Damien Ravencroft called from the stands, loud enough for everyone to hear. The vampire's aristocratic features twisted with malicious delight. "I didn't realize 'complete magical meltdown' was an approved combat technique. Perhaps next time you could just cry until your opponent drowns?"

  Several students laughed nervously, eyes darting between Mo and the still-entranced Valerius, whose expression remained one of blissful adoration as he knelt motionless in the center of the arena.

  Nyx materialized at Mo's side, their form shifting protectively larger. "Bold words from someone who got his undead behind handed to him in the first round," they retorted, voice dripping with theatrical scorn. "At least Mo's magic has a pulse—unlike some people I could mention."

  "Venom breeds venom," Lucian murmured, frost spiraling from his fingertips as he joined them. "Yet even winter's cruelest bite cannot match the cut of thoughtless words."

  Professor Ossian silenced them sternly before turning his full attention to Mo. His tall frame seemed to grow even more imposing as he loomed over her, thin lips pressed into a bloodless line.

  "In my dozens of years of teaching Combat Applications," he began, voice dangerously quiet, "I have never witnessed such an irresponsible display of magical incompetence."

  Mo opened her mouth to defend herself, but no words came. What could she possibly say? Sorry, my suppressed succubus powers decided to throw a coming-out party in the middle of a duel?

  "Not only did you endanger your fellow students," Ossian continued, "you demonstrated a complete lack of basic magical control. Such recklessness is unbecoming of any student at this academy, let alone one who claims to be…" he paused, making air quotes with skeletal fingers, "Dark Lady of anywhere."

  Each word hit like a physical blow. Mo could hear whispers spreading through the recovering students and could feel their stares on her back.

  "Your performance today suggests you lack the fundamental aptitude for advanced magical study," Ossian said, warming to his theme. "Perhaps a remedial course would be more appropriate for your... limited abilities."

  Damien made a sound suspiciously like a suppressed snort of laughter. But the sound seized as soon as Nyx looked at the vampire.

  "I believe," Ossian concluded, "that immediate disciplinary action is…"

  A slow, deliberate clapping cut through his words.

  The sound echoed across the arena, each sharp impact silencing the chaos further until even the animated objects froze in suspended animation. Every head turned toward its source.

  A figure rose with fluid grace in the highest tier of the stands. She wore robes of midnight blue so dark they seemed to devour the surrounding light, their edges shimmering with arcane symbols that shifted and rearranged themselves with each movement. Her face remained partially obscured beneath an elegant cowl, but what was visible struck Mo with its ageless beauty and absolute stillness—like looking at a porcelain mask animated by something ancient and calculating.

  The woman continued her measured applause as she descended the steps, each footfall somehow both silent and menacing. The students parted before her, some instinctively bowing their heads, others taking several steps back. Even Professor Ossian had gone rigid, his skeletal fingers tightening around his staff.

  "Fascinating," the woman said, her voice carrying easily despite its soft timbre. "Truly fascinating." Each word seemed to have physical weight, settling in the ears like velvet-wrapped stones. "And some thought you had potential."

  She reached the arena floor and stepped over the remnants of the magical barrier as if it were nothing more than an inconvenient puddle. The obsidian tiles, still glowing with Mo's chaotic energy, dimmed beneath her feet as she approached.

  "Lady Morgana Nightshade," she said, fixing Mo with eyes so pale they appeared colorless. "I am Emissary Caldra of the High Council."

  A collective gasp rippled through the room. Professor Ossian immediately straightened his posture, something close to alarm flickering across his usually impassive face.

  "Emissary Caldra," he acknowledged with a formal bow. "Had we known you were…"

  "Observing?" Her lips curved in what might generously be called a smile. "That was rather the point, Professor."

  She turned her attention back to Mo, studying her with the detached interest of a scientist examining a particularly unusual specimen.

  "The High Council sends its regards, Lady Nightshade," she continued. "They've been most interested in your... unconventional approach to leadership. And now, having witnessed this remarkable display of untapped potential…" she gestured at the chaos around them, "…I believe our conversation has become even more urgent."

  The emissary's gaze swept across the arena, lingering briefly on the still-entranced Valerius, the floating obsidian tiles, and finally settling on Nyx and Lucian.

  "Your performance today demonstrates exactly why the Council requires your immediate presence," she announced, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I will escort you personally to the Grand Reception Hall where the delegation awaits."

  Mo's throat went dry. "The whole Council is here?" she managed.

  The emissary's not-quite-smile widened a fraction. "No, child. If the entire High Council descended upon Umbra Academy, I suspect there would be significantly more... structural damage."

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  Her cold eyes flicked to Professor Ossian. "The girl's companions may accompany us to the Hall, but they will wait outside during our discussion."

  Nyx stepped forward, their form solidifying protectively. "We're staying with…"

  "That was not a request," Emissary Caldra said softly, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. "It was a concession."

  Nyx fell silent but moved closer to Mo's side. Lucian joined them, frost patterns spreading across his collar.

  "Come," the emissary said, turning toward the exit with absolute certainty that they would follow. "The Council's representatives do not appreciate being kept waiting—especially by a Dark Lady who cannot control her own power."

  As Mo followed on shaky legs, whispers erupted behind them: "Did you see that?" "…High Council emissary…" "…watching us this whole time…" "…what does it mean…?" "…What about other students' performances…?"

  The emissary's presence carved a path through the stunned students. Mo caught Julian's worried gaze as they passed. He mouthed something that looked like "Be careful" before the heavy doors swung shut, sealing her fate.

  Whatever awaited her in that hall—judgment, punishment, or something worse—she would face it as she was: disheveled, exposed, but finally, unavoidably herself. The Dark Lady who couldn't even control her own magic, yet had somehow managed to disrupt the High Council's plans with a simple act of compassion.

  She hadn't even had time to wipe the magical residue from her face.

  ***

  The walk to the Grand Reception Hall felt longer than any portal crossing Mo had ever attempted. Emissary Caldra glided ahead, her robes flowing like liquid shadows, while Mo trailed behind with Nyx and Lucian flanking her protectively. Students pressed themselves against walls as they passed, conversations dying mid-whisper. Even the academy's resident ghosts—normally keen to terrorize first-years—retreated into stonework rather than cross paths with the High Council's representative.

  "Mo," Nyx whispered, their form still unnervingly solid compared to their usual fluid state. "Whatever happens in there, remember who you are."

  "A walking magical disaster with terrible timing?" Mo muttered.

  "No," Lucian said, his voice quiet but firm. "Someone who'd rather choose compassion when cruelty is expected."

  "How poetic," Emissary Caldra commented without turning around, her hearing apparently as supernatural as everything else about her. "Though I'd suggest saving such sentiments for your poetry class, Lord Frostbrook. The High Council tends to find compassion... inefficient."

  The entrance to the Grand Reception Hall loomed before them, the doors carved from a single slab of volcanic glass so ancient it predated the academy itself. Scenes of demonic triumph flowed across its surface—cities falling, kingdoms burning, and supplicants kneeling. Mo had passed these doors a dozen times since arriving at Umbra but had never seen them open. They were said to part only for visitors of the highest significance.

  Now, they stood partially ajar, leaking a cold light that seemed to strip the color from everything it touched.

  "Prepare yourself," Emissary Caldra said, pausing at the threshold. "And remember—when addressing the Council's representatives, speak only when spoken to, maintain formal address, and above all, do not lie. They will know." Her colorless eyes fixed on Mo with something that might have been pity. "They always know."

  She turned to Nyx and Lucian. "You will remain outside."

  Nyx's form expanded slightly, darkness radiating from their edges. "We're not leaving her alone with…"

  In a movement almost too swift to follow, Emissary Caldra flicked her wrist. An invisible force struck Nyx and Lucian, propelling them backward ten feet, where they froze in mid-air, suspended like insects in amber. Their expressions registered shock, then outrage as they struggled against the binding.

  "I said," Caldra repeated with chilling calm, "you will remain outside." She made another small gesture, and Nyx and Lucian slithered gently onto a stone bench against the wall. "Comfortably, of course. We are not barbarians."

  Mo stepped forward, anger momentarily overriding her fear. "Let them go. They're just trying to help."

  "Compassion, right? That's the word Lord Frostbrook used?" Caldra's porcelain facade cracked for a moment, revealing something almost like genuine concern. "But they cannot help you in there. Some battles must be faced alone, Lady Nightshade. This is one of them."

  Before Mo could argue further, the emissary gestured toward the door.

  "Don't worry about us!" Lucian called, frost forming around his restraints. "Remember—darkness reveals more than it conceals if you know how to look!"

  "Just don't let them intimidate you!" Nyx added, their form shifting erratically against the magical bonds. "And if they try anything, remind them whose Keep they're messing with!"

  The doors sealed behind Mo with a finality that made her heart sink. Ahead, the Grand Reception Hall stretched vast and imposing, its ceiling lost in shadow despite the cold light emanating from thirteen crystalline orbs hovering above a crescent-shaped table. Behind the table sat thirteen figures in identical midnight robes, their faces obscured by deep cowls.

  Only Emissary Caldra's face remained visible as she took her place at the center of the crescent. But if Mo didn't follow her movements with her eyes, she wouldn't be able to distinguish her from the other emissaries anymore.

  "Approach, Lady Morgana Nightshade," Caldra commanded, her voice amplified by the hall's perfect acoustics. No magic was needed here.

  Mo forced herself forward on trembling legs, painfully aware of her disheveled appearance. Magic still crackled occasionally in her hair, and the remnants of her disastrous duel clung to her like evidence of a crime. She stopped at the indicated position, a circular mosaic depicting a sealed portal to one of the lower hells.

  "Morgana Elaris Vexaria Nyx Nightshade, The Provisional Dark Lady of Blackthorn Keep stands before the selected representatives of the High Council," Caldra announced formally. "This interview shall commence."

  A figure to Caldra's right leaned forward, his cowl shifting to reveal a face so gaunt it resembled a skull with parchment stretched over it. "We have observed with interest your... unorthodox approach to claiming your inheritance, Lady Nightshade." His voice rasped like dry leaves. "Particularly your recent decision regarding goblin taxation."

  "A most unfortunate economic policy," added a figure on the left, this one's voice bubbling as if speaking through liquid. "Disruptive to established norms."

  "Isn't it my prerogative to decide how the estate is operated?" Mo swallowed hard. "The goblins deserved fair treatment. They're the backbone of Blackthorn Keep's economy."

  A sound like distant wind whistled through the chamber—laughter, Mo realized with a chill.

  "Fair treatment," repeated a third emissary, her voice melodic but cutting. "How charmingly human a concept. One wonders where you acquired such notions." She tilted her head, and although Mo couldn't see her eyes, she felt them boring into her. "As for your estate. It could be your prerogative, if you obtain the full status of Dark Lady of the Keep. You see, there is an issue with the missing Dark Lord's will. It is…" she chuckled. "…missing."

  "But isn't the fact that I'm the daughter of that previous Dark Lord enough for inheritance?" Mo asked.

  "I thought Emissary Caldra should have instructed you," a fourth person interdicted. "We are asking questions here."

  "Emissary Noctis, you don't have to be so harsh, it's not often that a young Dark Lady get a chance to stand before a committee like this one. Especially if she'd been hiding among humans for so long," Caldra said. And then she looked directly at Mo as if trying to reach within the depths of her soul. "Where did you pick up these peculiar notions about the inheritance? Perhaps during your little... vacation? Serving coffee to creatures meant to serve you?"

  They were using it against her. Of course, they did.

  "No answer?" Caldra observed, "It doesn't matter. Your education on Earth has clearly influenced your governing philosophy, as has your apparent reluctance to embrace your succubus heritage. Today's display was most... illuminating. As for the procedure. There are some exceptions. Fine print, you know, as your lovely humans would say. A claim has been made. And we can't just ignore it. Right? Especially as it questions your ability to… perform."

  Caldara's voice became unexpectedly sultry when she almost whispered that last word. Heat rushed to Mo's cheeks. "You were watching the duel."

  "We have been watching you since the moment you disappeared from your high school," said another emissary, this one's voice carrying multiple tones simultaneously, like a chord struck on an out-of-tune instrument. "Your flight to Earth. Your little bookstore experiment. We even thought you were just entertaining your raging hormones. But no, it was boring. And you returned only when circumstances forced your hand."

  Something in the emissary's tone made Mo's skin crawl. There was contempt there, yes, but also something else—satisfaction, as if Mo had performed exactly as expected.

  "We had such hopes for the Nightshade lineage," sighed a sixth emissary, whose silhouette seemed oddly misshapen beneath the robes. "Your parents understood the natural order. The strong rule, the weak serve. No goblin shenanigans. Simple, efficient, eternal."

  "And yet," continued the skull-faced emissary, "their heir rejects this fundamental truth. Refuses her power. Hides among humans. Returns only to immediately undermine millennia of established hierarchy."

  "It's almost as if," the liquid-voiced one gurgled, "she were deliberately sabotaging her own inheritance."

  Mo's mind raced, pieces clicking together with sickening clarity. The Council's insistence on her attending Umbra. The "provisional" status of her coronation. The immediate attempt to override her decision about the goblin taxes. The impossible combat pairing with Valerius.

  They never expected her to succeed.

  "You didn't want me to return to Blackthorn Keep at all, did you?" Mo said slowly, the realization dawning. "You were counting on me staying away."

  Silence fell across the chamber, heavy and threatening. Mo pressed on, her heart pounding.

  "And when I did come back, you made sure my authority would be limited. Provisional. Subject to approval." Her voice strengthened with each word. "You arranged for me to be sent here, to an academy where I'd be set up to fail."

  "But why? What would be our reasoning?" Caldra said softly. "Such imagination. Perhaps you should consider Creative Villainy as an elective."

  Still, Mo saw it in the subtle shift of postures around the table—the slight tensing, the way several emissaries exchanged glances. She'd struck a nerve.

  "Who gets Blackthorn Keep if I fail?" she demanded. "Which of you has been promised a piece of my inheritance? Or is it being divided among you all?"

  "Careful, child," warned the skull-faced emissary. "You speak of matters beyond your understanding."

  The temperature in the room plummeted further, frost creeping across the mosaic beneath Mo's feet. The thirteen crystalline orbs pulsed in unison, their light suddenly harsh and interrogating. Mo felt the weight of ancient, calculating gazes from beneath thirteen cowls, all focused on her with predatory intensity.

  She had just accused the High Council—the most powerful entity in all demonic realms—of conspiracy and corruption.

  And judging by their reaction, she'd struck terrifyingly close to the truth.

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