It is the eve of Devil’s Night, the one evening each year when the academy’s order unravels.

Mist drifts off the cliffs, coiling around the wrought-iron gates of Ravenscroft Academy until they seem carved from bone. Every window glows faintly behind drawn curtains, each light a quiet oath of fear or anticipation. The marble courtyards are slick with rain, reflecting the orange pulse of torches that shouldn’t be burning this early in the term.

Inside the old halls, the smell of smoke and old varnish lingers. Lockers hang open, ribbons of paper trail down the stairwell like the shedding of old sins. A single bell tolls from the west tower—three measured chimes that never appear on the official schedule.

Somewhere below, in the crypt beneath Vayne Hall, a hidden chamber stirs to life. Candles ring the stone floor, wax pooling into the grooves of engraved Latin mottos long since banned by the headmaster. Masks—porcelain, gold-leaf, onyx—wait in a perfect circle. The air trembles with the low thrum of a record player turning without music.

In the center of it all stands Killian Vayne. His coat lies across the back of a chair, the silver ring on his hand catching every flash of lightning from the storm above. Behind him, ledgers of names and debts rest open on the table; the ink still wet from signatures written in haste. Outside, the sea batters the cliffs, and the first firework explodes over the grounds—a red bloom that signals the beginning.

No one speaks of what truly happens on Devil’s Night. They only know that, come dawn, the academy will be quiet again, the torches gone, the halls scrubbed clean—except for the faint scent of rain and smoke that always lingers, like a secret that refuses to die.