Lyra woke to the rhythm of iron wheels on stone.
Her head throbbed, a dull ache behind her eyes that pulsed in time with the mark on her wrist. She was lying on a hard wooden bench inside a carriage that smelled of old parchment and damp earth. Opposite her sat High Proctor Vane, his eyes buried in a thick, leather-bound ledger.
"Where are we?" Lyra's voice was like sandpaper.
"Passing through the Deadwood Gates," Vane replied without looking up. "Look outside, child. It is the last time you will see a horizon that isn't made of obsidian."
Lyra dragged herself to the small, barred window. Her heart sank.
Ebonveil Academy didn't look like a school. It looked like a titan's ribcage turned into a fortress. Seven massive towers of black stone stabbed at the clouds, each one spiralling upward like a jagged horn. Runes pulsed along the walls in a slow, rhythmic heartbeat of sickly green and violet.
As the carriage passed through the iron gates, Lyra saw them the other students.
Hundreds of teenagers filled the courtyard, but it looked like a spilled palette of paint. A group of girls laughed near a fountain, their hair a vibrant, shocking pink that shimmered like silk. Beside them, a tall boy with hair the color of a raging forest fire was practicing a spell, sparks of orange flame dancing between his fingers.
"Why... why is everyone so bright?" Lyra whispered, her hand instinctively going to her own dull, coal-black hair.
"Bloodline Resonance," Vane said, finally closing his book. "At Ebonveil, your hair is your rank. The pink you see? That is the Creation Gate bloodline builders and illusionists. The red? Pyromancers and warriors. Silver hair marks the Healers, and blue marks the Seers."
He leaned forward, his coin-colored eyes fixing on her.
"And then there is you. Black hair. The color of ash. The color of an empty grave."
"You said I was a Nocturne," Lyra snapped, her fear turning into a defensive spark of anger. "You said I was potent."
"You are an anomaly," Vane hissed. "In our world, black hair usually means a 'Blank' someone with no magic, an F-rank peasant. But in the Nocturne line, black hair means the power is Dormant. It is a void waiting to be filled. Until you 'Awaken' and your hair turns the color of your true element, you are nothing but prey for the higher ranks."
The carriage lurched to a halt. The door was ripped open by a gust of cold wind.
"Out," Vane commanded.
As Lyra stepped onto the stone courtyard, the chatter of the other students died down. One by one, heads turned. Pink, red, blue, and gold hair whipped in the wind as hundreds of eyes settled on the girl in the ragged cloak.
"A Blank?" a voice snickered.
A girl with neon-green hair stepped out from the crowd. Her eyes were sharp, her skin tinged with a faint, olive hue. "Why is a peasant being brought in through the Proctor's gate? Did she get lost on her way to the kitchens?"
"Careful, Vipera," Vane warned, though his tone was bored. "This one is... volatile."
Vipera, the green-haired girl, stepped closer, sniffed the air, and recoiled with a smirk. "She smells like dirt and cheap herbs.
Hey, Blank! Do you even know how to hold a focus, or do you just dig for potatoes?"
Laughter erupted from the students. Lyra felt the heat rising in her face, but she kept her chin up. She thought of Leo. She thought of her house. She couldn't afford to break yet.
"I can do things you wouldn't believe," Lyra whispered.
Vipera laughed, a sharp, mocking sound. "I'm sure you can. You can probably sweep a floor faster than any B-rank here. Don't worry, little girl. By the end of the first week, you'll be begging to go back to your farm."
"Enough," a new voice boomed.
The crowd parted like the sea. A man in robes of pure white the only person without a drop of color on him walked toward them. His presence was so suffocating that Lyra felt the air leave her lungs.
The Headmaster.
He didn't look at the other students. He didn't even look at Vane. He stopped in front of Lyra and reached out, his fingers catching a lock of her black hair.
"Midnight," he murmured, his voice sounding like two grinding stones. "The color of the end of the world."
He looked into Lyra's eyes, and for a second, she saw a flicker of something that wasn't hate or mockery. It was recognition.
"Welcome to Ebonveil, Lyra Nocturne," he said loudly. "Try to survive the night. It would be such a waste to bury you before I see what color you turn when you bleed."