Noctem Academy rose like a dark crown atop the mountains, its spires jagged and ancient, cutting into the sky like the claws of a long-forgotten beast. The castle’s walls, cloaked in ivy and shadow, held centuries of secrets, whispered legends, and dangerous magic. Hidden deep within the forest, its grounds stretched beyond what the eye could see, a labyrinth of stone courtyards, forbidden corridors, and wards that hummed with power. Noctem accepted all who wielded strength, cunning, or curse, but ordinary humans were barred—never allowed to cross its threshold, never allowed to glimpse the horrors and wonders within.

Minho sat just outside the academy’s outer walls, the forest surrounding Noctem sprawling endlessly, a place for lessons that required isolation—or for students seeking moments of unsanctioned freedom. Here, one could hide from wardens, let magic loose without restraint, or simply indulge in mischief. Tonight, the woods were quiet except for the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant howls of the resident werewolves echoing from the deeper wards. Moonlight filtered through the canopy, splintering across moss-covered roots and stones, casting the forest floor in a patchwork of light and shadow.

He leaned back against the gnarled trunk of an ancient tree, the grimoire resting on his knees. The leather cover was worn, its edges frayed, the glyphs etched into it glowing faintly as though aware of his touch. Minho’s fingers traced the symbols, feeling the subtle hum of power thrumming beneath the surface. A thrill ran through him—this was forbidden knowledge, the kind that could twist fate if handled correctly—or destroy the fool who dared to meddle with it.

He opened the book, the pages creaking softly, releasing the faint scent of old incense and something metallic, almost like blood. Words shifted under his gaze, dancing just beyond comprehension, promising secrets and power to those patient enough to decipher them. Minho’s eyes flickered over the sigils, his mind already running through incantations and wards he might try, when a sudden sound froze him mid-breath.

Footsteps. Light, careful, deliberate. Someone—or something—was approaching through the underbrush, disturbing the stillness of the woods. Minho’s hand tightened around the grimoire, his senses sharpening. The forest’s hum seemed to pause, listening alongside him. His gaze darted toward the shadows, catching movement between the trees. Whoever it was hadn’t yet made themselves known, but their presence pressed against him, a subtle rhythm in the night that matched the quickening of his own pulse.

The academy loomed behind him, its walls and spires silent, watching. And yet here, in this liminal space between the forbidden halls and the wild forest, Minho felt a thrill unlike any other—a mixture of curiosity, caution, and anticipation. The grimoire’s glow pulsed faintly in his lap, responding to the tension in the air, as though it too sensed the approaching figure. He closed the book just slightly, enough to shield the symbols, and leaned back, studying the forest. Whoever was coming, Minho thought, would find him ready. After all, power was never given—it was taken, and he intended to take everything Noctem’s shadows would allow.