The archive room of Blackmoor wasn't part of the main school blueprints—it had been carved into the bedrock beneath the library, a place even seasoned professors avoided. Students whispered that it had been Richard's private collection, a vault of forbidden texts, blueprints, and relics too dangerous to display.
The door creaked open, pushed by Daemon's hand.
Dust spiraled into the glow of Hope's flame as they stepped inside.
"Smells like death and secrets," Stephen muttered, pulling his coat over his nose.
"Ironic," Raphael replied, surveying the shelves. "Since you live on both."
Daemon ignored them, his gaze fixed on the glowing orb Raphael had handed him earlier. It still pulsed with faint energy, like a heartbeat beneath glass.
Hope approached one of the desks near the back, where a parchment shimmered faintly beneath magical stasis. "There's something here," she said.
London moved beside her, brushing off dust and revealing an old map—drawn with glowing ink. It depicted the school and its surrounding lands... but below it was a second layer, an underground network.
"Look," Hope said, pointing. "These... these tunnels aren't in any of the school's known maps."
"Blackmoor has a crypt," Daemon said, stepping forward. "It's ancient, built before the school. Richard once told me it was sealed permanently. Looks like he lied."
"Lied or protected us?" Stephen chimed, cocking a brow. "We're dealing with ash magic. That's death magic with a vengeance. You don't leave doors open to things like that."
Celeste, who had lingered near the edge of the room, looked up. "Maybe he didn't seal it well enough."
Everyone turned.
She quickly looked away, covering with a shrug. "Just a thought."
But Hope was watching her. Something in Celeste's tone sounded...off. Not just worry—hesitation.
Still, there was no time for interrogation. Not yet.
"We need to split up again," Daemon said, tracing a path with his gloved finger. "These tunnels have three access points: one through the West Courtyard, one beneath the science wing, and one behind the old chapel ruins."
Hope nodded. "We take them at the same time. No more delays."
London grinned at her. "I'm with you."
Their eyes held for a beat, a spark threading between them. But just as she opened her mouth, Stephen cleared his throat obnoxiously loud.
"Ahem. Save the staring contest for after we survive, lovebirds."
Hope flushed. "You wish."
"Please," Stephen smirked. "I ship it."
---
The teams split once more.
Hope, London, and Celeste took the West Courtyard.
Daemon and Stephen headed to the chapel ruins—though Stephen insisted on stopping to grab "ghost-hunting snacks."
Raphael went solo under the science wing. "Faster alone," he said with a grin, flexing claws. "Besides, I don't trust science teachers."
Inside the courtyard, fog had rolled in like a slow tide. The moonlight above was dim, barely penetrating the stone archways as Hope raised a hand, fire crackling into her palm.
"There," Celeste pointed. "Beneath that statue."
London brushed aside ivy, revealing a hidden metal plate etched with runes. Hope placed her palm against it.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the plate clicked, and stone groaned as a staircase spiraled downward into darkness.
"Found it," Hope whispered.
But even as they descended, Celeste's steps slowed.
Her heart pounded—not from fear, but from conflict.
She remembered the figure that had spoken to her days ago in the moonlit garden. A cloaked girl with no face... but a voice that seemed to know her every thought.
> "You don't belong to them. You never have. Richard used you. He used your father too. You think you're safe in this school? Think again."
Celeste had said nothing. Not to Jessa. Not to Hope. She wanted to believe it was a trick. A hallucination. But the figure's final words had stuck like thorns in her soul:
> "You're powerful, Celeste. But your loyalty makes you weak."
She hadn't answered then. But even now, walking beside Hope and London, her silence felt louder than her footsteps.
Ahead, the tunnel opened into a massive chamber, lit only by the glow of runes etched along the walls.
In its center stood a pedestal.
And on it—a shard of Richard's cane.
Hope's breath caught.
"He was here."
London scanned the room. "No blood. No scorch marks. They didn't drag him—he walked in."
Hope stepped forward, reaching for the shard—but the moment her fingers grazed it, the entire room pulsed with heat.
A fiery sigil erupted on the far wall, spiraling open like an eye.
From its center, a voice slithered:
> "Still searching, little girl? You should have kissed him while you had the chance."
Hope's blood turned to ice.
London pulled her back just as the wall exploded in heatless flame—and a tall, ashen figure stepped through.
It wore armor of blackened bone, with no face beneath the helm. Smoke coiled where a head should've been. Its voice cracked like old wood.
> "The Headmaster will not return. His time is done. And yours... is borrowed."
Hope flared with golden fire, her aura blazing.
London stepped beside her.
"We're not done yet," he growled.
From behind them, Celeste lifted her hand—and though it trembled, her magic began to glow silver-blue. Her choice still weighed inside her, but for now...
She chose them.
For now.