Some masks are worn for power. Others to survive.
The ballroom of Sinners Academy was dressed to kill.
Velvet drapes spilled down like spilled wine. Gilded chandeliers dripped overhead like frozen fire. Students moved in packs, dressed like royalty, but hunted like wolves—eyes scanning, teeth smiling, claws hidden beneath gloves and couture.
Tonight was the Cloaks & Crowns Gala. An annual event where legacies were flaunted like war banners and secrets were bartered beneath the clink of champagne.
Raven Moreau stood at the edge of it all, her black silk dress hugging every curve like a whispered threat. The slit ran high—high enough to cause gossip, low enough to keep her dangerous. Her hair was loose tonight, cascading in glossy waves that didn't obey school rules or social hierarchies. She wasn't here to blend in.
She was here to reign.
"Look who actually showed," drawled a voice behind her.
She didn't have to turn to know it was Killian Vale. The air got colder when he spoke. Not like ice. Like marble—expensive, carved, untouchable.
"I go where I'm invited," Raven said, lifting her glass without looking at him. "Even if the host's pet demon shows up to shadow me."
Killian circled around her, dressed in black-on-black—sharp jaw, darker intentions. His cloak hung loose over one shoulder, revealing the silver ring that marked him as a Founding House heir. The same ring she'd seen him twist when he was lying. Or plotting. Or both.
"Careful, Moreau. People might think you're obsessed with me."
She smiled. A slow, venom-laced thing.
"Let them think it," she murmured. "I'd rather be underestimated than overexposed."
Their eyes met like clashing steel—hers wild and defiant, his cold and calculated. The music swelled, but neither of them moved. Around them, students danced, flirted, plotted. But in that corner, a war was brewing in silence.
"You clean up," Killian finally said, voice low enough to almost sound human.
"And you pretend well enough to pass for charming," she countered. "Don't get used to it."
Before he could fire back, the school's headmaster stepped onto the marble dais. "Welcome," his voice echoed, "to tradition. Tonight, your reputations wear crowns—and your futures wear cloaks."
Cryptic, dramatic, perfect for Sinners Academy.
The lights dimmed slightly. A spotlight hit the center of the ballroom. One by one, students were called forward by House to present their symbolic crowns.
It was a game. A power play. And Raven was about to be dealt in.
House Vale was announced. Killian stepped into the light with the practiced ease of a king entering his kingdom. The applause was thunderous—but Raven knew the truth. He didn't want admiration. He wanted control.
And he always got it.
Until now.
Because then: "Raven Moreau. House Ashmoor."
A ripple moved through the crowd. She wasn't supposed to be called yet.
She wasn't even officially a House member.
But here she was, striding forward in stilettos like weapons, chin high. The air shifted. Even Killian's smirk faltered for half a second.
Her crown was different. It wasn't gold or silver—it was black obsidian, carved with thorns.
She placed it on her head like a dare.
The moment Raven donned that crown, the ballroom pulsed with whispers. It wasn't just a fashion statement. It was a declaration of war.
Killian's gaze stayed locked on her, unreadable. Calculating. Like he hadn't expected her to steal that spotlight—and definitely not wear it better than the ones born into it.
He moved closer, lowering his voice just for her. "That crown doesn't make you a queen, Moreau."
"No," she said softly, facing forward. "But it sure makes you sweat like a dethroned one."
She walked away before he could reload.
The House tables were arranged like battle camps. Raven made her way to Ashmoor's section, but she didn't sit. She stood beside the chair, letting the crown gleam under the lights, like a slow poison in the room. Some students stared. Others looked away. A few smiled.
Enemies. Potential allies. Snake-pit.
The gala rolled on. Dancing resumed. Drinks flowed. But Killian didn't return to the floor. He watched her from the edge, that silver ring twisting on his finger.
And when the second round of House introductions began—the mock duels and games meant to "strengthen legacy bonds"—Raven knew the headmaster wouldn't let her slide under the radar.
"Up next," the announcer boomed, "a showcase of wit and will—Killian Vale of House Vale… and Raven Moreau of House Ashmoor."
Of course.
She stepped into the spotlight again, facing him across a marble-tiled ring. Not a real fight. Just a "test of control"—a traditional verbal chess match that sometimes turned humiliating.
Raven tilted her head. "Don't hold back, Vale. I like it rough."
A beat of shocked silence. Then a few laughs from the crowd. Killian's mouth twitched at the corner.
"Funny," he said, stepping closer. "I was about to say the same thing."
The rules were simple: trade verbal strikes, timed responses, no stalling. If one opponent broke rhythm or composure, they lost.
Killian led with something sharp. "Ashmoor's House fell because it put its faith in people like you—untrained, impulsive, temporary."
Raven's eyes glinted. "Vale's House endures because it builds walls so tall, even its heirs can't escape."
The crowd reacted—low, stunned murmurs.
He took a half step forward. "You talk like power's something you earn."
"I talk like someone who isn't afraid to take it," she replied. "Even when it's locked in someone else's pocket."
Their words tangled like vines, each sharper than the last. But it was Raven who delivered the final blow.
Killian said, "You're only here because someone gave you a second chance."
And she shot back: "You're only still on top because no one's taken their first."
Silence. Then scattered claps. Her win was clear.
Killian didn't flinch. He just stared at her, that cool exterior cracking for half a second.
"You really think you've got what it takes?" he murmured as they exited the ring.
She leaned in, lips barely parted. "No. I know it. And that terrifies you."
But even as she turned away, her stomach twisted. Not with fear. Not even with victory.
With something worse: wanting.
Because the way he looked at her then—like she was a storm wrapped in silk—wasn't hatred.
It was hunger.
And that scared her more than any crown ever could.
Raven barely made it back to her table before Elara grabbed her arm, eyes wide with both pride and panic.
"You just scorched Killian Vale in front of half the school. You realize that, right?"
Raven adjusted the crown on her head like it was second skin. "Good. Maybe next time he'll think twice before underestimating me."
Elara's smirk faltered. "He's not the type to back down, Rae. You just painted a target on yourself."
Raven took a sip of her champagne, eyes locked on Killian across the room. "Let him aim. I never miss."
But her words tasted like adrenaline—sharp and unstable. Because deep down, she knew the game had just changed. And not just the rules… the stakes.
The gala dimmed into its final act—an old Sinners Academy tradition called The Oath Waltz. Pairs from opposing Houses were chosen to share one last dance, supposedly to "symbolize unity."
A cruel joke.
The announcer's voice boomed again. "Killian Vale of House Vale… and Raven Moreau of House Ashmoor."
The ballroom froze.
Raven blinked. "What the actual—"
"Tradition," Elara muttered. "Of course they'd pull this."
Killian was already moving toward her, offering his hand like a prince with a poisoned apple.
Raven narrowed her eyes. "If you step on my foot, I'll cut you."
He smirked. "If you fall for me, I won't catch you."
She placed her hand in his, ignoring the way his touch sent a jolt up her spine. The crowd parted like nervous spectators at a duel. As the violins swelled, they began to dance—fluid, too smooth for enemies, too tense for lovers.
"Do you always burn so hot when someone challenges you?" Killian asked, spinning her.
"Do you always flirt like it's a blood sport?" she snapped, whirling back.
He leaned closer. "No. Only with you."
Their eyes locked—flames meeting ice. She wanted to hate the way he moved, the way he touched her waist like he owned it, the way his breath felt like a secret she wasn't supposed to hear.
But what scared her more… was how badly she didn't hate it.
The music slowed. The final notes hovered.
"You keep playing with fire, Moreau," Killian said, voice low. "Eventually, you'll get burned."
She stepped back. "Maybe I want to see if you melt first."
Then she turned and walked off the floor, leaving the ballroom echoing with whispers.
But she didn't make it far.
Just outside the great hall, in a corridor lined with velvet-draped windows, someone grabbed her arm and pulled her into the shadows.
She twisted, ready to fight—until she saw who it was.
Headmaster Vale.
Killian's father.
His expression was carved from ice.
"Raven Moreau," he said slowly, "you've made quite a show tonight. But make no mistake—Sinners Academy doesn't protect disruptors. It consumes them."
Raven's heart thudded.
"Is that a threat?" she asked.
"No," he said with a cold smile. "It's a warning."
And then he leaned down, voice venom-soft.
"You're not the first Ashmoor to wear a crown here. And if you're not careful, you'll fall just as hard."
He walked away, leaving her heart pounding in her ears.
But he wasn't the only one watching from the shadows.
Killian stepped out from the other end of the corridor, his face unreadable.
"Was that a warning?" he asked.
Raven's spine straightened. "I've had worse."
He stared at her for a long moment, then… he reached up. Brushed a stray curl from her cheek.
The moment hung like lightning in a glass bottle.
And then—footsteps. Fast. Urgent.
Elara skidded into view, breathless.
"Raven. Your room. It's been broken into."
The air snapped.
Raven's blood turned to fire.
Killian's jaw tightened. "By who?"
Elara shook her head. "No one knows. But they left something."
Raven bolted down the hallway, Elara and Killian on her heels. Her dorm door was already propped open—locks busted, the room a mess of overturned drawers and broken perfume bottles.
And in the center of her bed...
A knife.
Thin. Silver. Familiar.
Her mother's.
There was a note impaled under it.
Two words, scrawled in red:
Welcome back.
Raven's breath caught.
Killian stepped forward. His voice wasn't cold anymore.
It was furious.
"Someone just declared war."
She met his eyes—burning, defiant, afraid and unafraid all at once.
"They better pray I don't finish it."