The morning air hung heavy with fog, curling around the iron gates of Sinners Academy like smoke from an old war. Raven Moreau stood just beyond them, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. She wore defiance like a second skin—tight, tailored, and unrelenting. Her dark green dress, sleek with a slit that kissed the top of her thigh, billowed slightly in the wind, but her stance didn't waver. Even here, where legacies ran thicker than blood, Raven was a wildfire in the middle of a manicured forest.
"Back again, Miss Moreau," said Headmistress Voss as she walked past, the heels of her shoes tapping a brisk warning on the stone path. "Let's hope your first week doesn't end in another expulsion."
Raven smirked. "Hope is a fragile thing, ma'am."
Inside, the halls of Sinners Academy were lined with portraits of former prodigies—young, brilliant monsters framed in gold leaf. Their eyes followed her as she walked, but she didn't flinch. She belonged here, and they knew it.
Or at least, she intended to make them believe she did.
---
Killian Vale watched her from the top of the marble staircase like a shadow carved from the school's oldest secrets. Dressed in black-on-black, his uniform tailored to cruel perfection, he looked every bit the cold-blooded prince of Sinners Academy. His ring glinted—silver with a blood-red insignia that marked him as one of the elite Circle Seven.
She hadn't changed.
And that was the problem.
She was still sharp edges and daggers in silk. Still the girl who once kissed him just to distract him long enough to burn his name off the admissions list.
But he'd clawed his way back in. And now she was standing in his kingdom, with that same fire in her eyes.
Game on.
---
At lunch, the elite students gathered in the glass atrium that overlooked the academy's private gardens. Sunlight streamed through the arched windows, casting sharp slants of gold across the marble floor. Raven slid into a seat at the far end of the long table, ignoring the hush that fell around her.
Killian took his time joining. When he finally did, it was with a cold smile and a silver fork in hand, tapping it lightly against his water glass. The sound was like a countdown.
"To the return of Raven Moreau," he announced. "May the chaos be just as unforgettable as last time."
Chuckles followed, but Raven leaned forward, her eyes locked on his. "Careful, Vale. Flattery sounds suspiciously like fear when it's forced."
He raised an eyebrow. "Fear implies I think you're a threat."
"I am."
It wasn't a boast. It was a promise.
---
Later that day, their paths crossed again—this time in the library's restricted wing. Raven was tracing a spine with her fingers, eyes scanning titles written in ancient Latin, when Killian's voice broke the silence.
"You shouldn't be here."
She turned slowly. "Neither should you."
They stood just feet apart, the tension thick enough to slice. She could smell the faint smoke and cedar of his cologne, see the way his jaw tightened every time she moved closer.
"Looking for something?" he asked.
"Looking to burn what doesn't belong."
"Still dramatic."
"Still watching me," she shot back.
He smirked. "Because the last time I didn't, you set the west dormitory on fire."
Raven's eyes narrowed. "That was an accident."
"Of course it was."
The silence stretched, charged and electric.
"Why did you come back?" he asked finally.
She tilted her head. "To finish what I started."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "And what exactly is that, Raven?"
She stared at him, a smirk curling at the corner of her lips. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
He did.
More than he wanted to admit.
---
That night, the academy held its annual Masquerade Gala—an event drenched in tradition and veiled threats. Raven descended the staircase wearing a crimson dress that moved like blood in moonlight. Her mask was simple, black lace across her eyes, but it was her presence that turned heads.
Killian stood at the base of the stairs, dressed in a tailored midnight suit, a silver wolf mask covering half his face. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. It was like the crowd disappeared—like the air around them bent under the gravity of something neither of them could name.
"Dance with me," he said, not as a question, but as a challenge.
Raven placed her hand in his. "Try to keep up."
They moved like fire and storm—dangerous, unyielding, beautiful. Onlookers watched in stunned silence as two forces collided in perfect rhythm.
"Still think I'm not a threat?" she whispered against his ear.
He pulled her closer. "I think you're the most dangerous thing in this room."
"For once, we agree."
But even as their bodies moved together, their hearts warred. This wasn't romance. This was strategy. This was revenge laced with temptation.
And in that moment, Raven knew one thing for sure:
Killian Vale was the dagger she'd been waiting to twist.
And she was the fire that would make him burn.
---
As the music faded and their hands dropped, they didn't speak.
But the war had officially begun.