The morning bell rang across Greenwalls High like a dull iron cry, echoing against ancient stone walls powdered with fresh snow. Winter clung stubbornly to the city, frosting rooftops and freezing breath in the air. Students poured through the gates in restless clusters, boots crunching against ice, voices overlapping in careless laughter that vanished as quickly as it formed. Steam rose from mouths and scarves alike, a fleeting proof of life in the cold.
Inside Classroom , the warmth felt artificial—radiators humming faintly, windows fogged from too many bodies packed too closely together. Nyx Gald sat at his desk with his usual rigid posture, back straight, expression unreadable. His storm-grey eyes were fixed forward, though they saw nothing written on the board.
Joey leaned against Nyx's desk as if gravity itself bent around him. His fingers drummed restlessly against the wood, impatience vibrating through every movement. He lowered his voice, eyes flicking briefly toward the teacher before locking onto Nyx again.
"So?" Joey whispered. "Did you open it? What's inside?"
Nyx didn't look at him. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Useless," he muttered. "Just a collection of hypocritical stories written to sound mysterious."
Joey frowned. He had known Nyx long enough to recognize a lie not by what was said, but by how carefully it was delivered. Nyx's voice was too flat. Too controlled.
"Right," Joey said slowly, unconvinced. "Because you don't lie."
Nyx's gaze flicked toward him—brief, sharp, warning. Joey raised his hands in surrender and stepped back just as the teacher cleared her throat loudly.
"Mr. Harper," she snapped, tapping chalk against the board, "unless you'd like to continue this conversation in detention, take your seat."
Joey grinned, unbothered, and slid back into his chair. But even as the lecture resumed—something about literature shaping perception—his eyes kept drifting to Nyx. There was something wrong. Something coiled beneath the calm surface.
Nyx pulled out his notebook, pen moving mechanically across the page. But the words he wrote were meaningless lines, broken thoughts. His mind was elsewhere—back in his room, under moonlight, with glowing words floating through the air and a mirror whispering truths that should not exist.
The clock ticked loudly. Each second scraped against his nerves.
Halfway through the period, Nyx twisted slightly in his seat and glanced over his shoulder. "Ralph," he said quietly.
Ralph Lauren looked up, annoyance flashing across his face. "What?"
"Where's your sister?"
The question caught Ralph off guard. His eyes narrowed immediately, suspicion hardening his features. "At home," he said sharply. "Working on that stupid story assignment. Won't even eat—she's obsessed."
Nyx nodded once, filing the information away.
Ralph leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Why? Planning to mock her again?"
Nyx's eyes cut toward him—cold, precise, sharp enough to draw blood. Ralph froze mid-sentence, something primal in him recognizing danger. He scoffed and turned back around without another word.
Joey leaned over again. "You're definitely not telling me something."
Nyx didn't respond. The ticking clock seemed louder than the teacher's voice now, each second tightening around his chest. His decision had already been made.
By late afternoon, snow drifted lazily through the air as Nyx stood across the street from the Laurens' house. It was modest, ivy crawling along red brick walls, tall pine trees looming protectively around it like silent sentinels. Warm yellow light glowed from the windows, an ordinary, peaceful scene that felt strangely foreign to him.
Instead of walking through the front gate like a normal visitor, Nyx circled the house and stopped beneath a massive oak tree whose branches brushed dangerously close to the second-floor window.
He climbed without hesitation.
Snow dusted his coat as the branches bent under his weight. He moved with calculated precision, boots finding holds instinctively, body fluid and controlled. When he reached the window, he pressed his palm lightly against the cold glass.
Inside, Stacy Lauren sat cross-legged on her bed, papers scattered around her, pen clenched between her fingers. She looked exhausted—dark circles under her eyes, hair tied messily back—but focused, completely lost in thought.
Nyx tapped once.
She spun around, startled, and screamed.
In a single smooth motion, Nyx pushed the window open and slipped inside, landing silently on the floor. He pressed a finger to his lips. "It's me."
Before she could react, heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs.
Nyx didn't hesitate. He grabbed Stacy by the wrist and pulled her toward the closet, slipping inside just as the bedroom door flew open.
Her parents rushed in, faces pale. "Stacy? What happened?" her mother asked breathlessly.
Stacy's heart slammed against her ribs. She forced a shaky laugh. "Nothing. Just a rat. It ran out."
Her father frowned, scanning the room, but after a tense moment, they retreated, closing the door behind them.
Silence returned—thick and electric.
Nyx stepped out of the closet slowly, brushing snow from his shoulders as if he had merely stepped in from the hallway. Stacy stared at him, anger and awe warring in her expression.
"What is wrong with you?" she hissed. "Why didn't you just come by the door like a normal person?"
Nyx hesitated. Then, unexpectedly, he lowered himself onto one knee.
"I came to apologize," he said quietly.
The words landed heavier than any insult he had ever thrown at her.
"For being cruel," he continued. "You didn't deserve that."
Stacy blinked, stunned. The sharp retorts she had prepared dissolved on her tongue. "I… forgive you," she whispered.
Nyx leaned forward suddenly and brushed a brief kiss against her cheek. "Thank you."
Then he was gone—back through the window, vanishing into falling snow like a phantom.
Stacy stood frozen long after, fingers pressed against her cheek, heart racing wildly.
Back in his room, the Book of Blood waited.
Nyx opened it, and the air changed instantly.
The pages glowed faintly, words lifting like smoke. They spoke of vampires—pale, towering creatures with fangs that gleamed like glass and movements faster than sight. They were sterile beings, unable to reproduce, building families through blood and choice. Water burned them. Sunlight reduced them to ash.
Nyx read of fractured clans ruled by dominance, of loyalty enforced through fear.
He read of werewolves—cursed beasts trapped in monstrous forms after the death of their goddess.
Of witches who crossed worlds and carved spells in blood.
Of jugglers—silent, hunted, and never caught.
The knowledge burrowed deep into him, awakening something ancient and restless.
When the book closed, his hands trembled.
At dinner, Raym spoke calmly. "We're leaving tomorrow. You'll stay with the Lorys."
Nyx said nothing, but rebellion sparked behind his eyes.
The next morning, the house emptied.
Nyx skipped school.
Wrapped in a heavy coat, the Book of Blood hidden beneath his arm, he walked into the mountains, snow crunching beneath his boots. Pine trees closed in around him as silence swallowed the world.
He stopped at a stone ledge and opened the book.
The words rose again—closer this time. Louder.
The forest wind seemed to whisper in response.
Nyx felt it then.
The Mirror World was no longer distant.
It was watching.
Waiting.
And as the snow thickened and the air grew heavy, the words on the page began to shift, bending not toward the mirror this time—but toward him.