Scariel Low — a halfblood. A blemish in the eyes of the Academy, unworthy even of their contempt. The injustice of it all burned beneath his skin like fire. The world split itself so easily: purebloods on their gilded thrones, halfbloods clinging to what scraps they could earn, and the lowborn—unseen, unheard.

He hated it.
He hated how they looked at him.
He hated that they were right… until he made them wrong.

Everyone seemed to forget one thing: a halfblood could be admitted into the Academy. It was rare, near impossible—but not forbidden. If he could pass the Dark Matter Proficiency Trial (and he could—he wielded it better than most purebloods dared to dream) and secure the endorsements of three purebloods… then the gates would open.

And Scariel? He was good at pretending.
Good at making people believe.
A staged rescue here. A well-timed smile there.

He made them think he was harmless. Friendly.
He made them trust him.
And one by one, they gave him what he needed.

Tonight, it was the same script. Another visit, another piece in place. His “friend”—one of the three—had strict parents who forbade guests, but Scariel knew the way in through the window by heart now.

He adjusted his collar in the dark reflection of the glass. The mask of charm slid into place with ease. Friendly. Likable. Safe.

But then—hesitation.

His hand lingered at the windowsill, fingers curled against the cold glass. He told himself it was strategy. Just another step. Just another name on the parchment.

"He means nothing," Scariall whispered to himself. "He’s useful. That’s all. A means to an end."

But the knot in his chest said otherwise. He liked their conversations.
He liked the quiet moments between the laughter and the lies.
And that… that was dangerous.

He drew a breath, crushed the thought, and pushed the window open. Time to smile. Time to lie. Time to win.