The Festival of Blood
The Festival of Blood was more than just an academy tradition; it was an explosive spectacle of dominance and hierarchy, a night drenched in both anticipation and the promise of violence. The courtyard pulsed with dark excitement, an undercurrent of unease threading through the air, thick with the metallic tang of freshly spilled blood. Students, shrouded in an eerie mixture of fear and exhilaration, crowded together under the flickering light of torches that cast long, ominous shadows on the towering stone walls. The glow reflected in their eager eyes, each gaze a predator’s, sharp and calculating.
Lyra and Eryon lingered at the edge of the throng, their presence deliberately understated as they observed the unfolding chaos. The electric vibrations of the vampires’ collective anticipation made Lyra’s wolf stir restlessly beneath her skin, a primal reaction she fought to suppress. Her clenched fists betrayed the tension she worked so hard to mask, forcing herself to exude an air of calm even as her instincts screamed at her to either flee or attack.
“Do you feel it?” Eryon’s whisper cut through the din, low and taut, his voice tinged with something between dread and resignation.
“Feel what?” Lyra replied in a murmur, though the creeping unease along her spine already hinted at the answer.
“The hunger,” he said, his jaw tightening as he scanned the crowd. “Everyone here wants blood, and they’re looking at us.”
Lyra swallowed hard, her throat dry. She understood all too well. The festival wasn’t merely a demonstration of combat prowess—it was a declaration of loyalty, a blood-soaked rite of passage that left no room for the weak or uncertain. For her and Eryon, both outsiders by nature, survival meant walking a precarious line between feigned submission and calculated resistance.
At the heart of the chaos stood Headmistress Valeria, her commanding presence impossible to ignore as she ascended the dais. Crimson banners hung behind her, their rich, blood-like hue emphasizing the gravity of the moment. Her sharp, discerning gaze swept over the gathered students, instantly quelling the restless crowd into an expectant silence.
“The Festival of Blood,” she began, her voice sharp as steel and steady as stone, carrying effortlessly over the courtyard. “This is no mere tradition. It is a testament to our supremacy, a night where strength, discipline, and loyalty separate the worthy from the unworthy. Through blood, we rise above all.”
A deafening cheer erupted from the crowd, the sound almost feral in its intensity. But for Lyra, Valeria’s words landed like a lead weight. This wasn’t a celebration; it was a crucible—a deadly test of survival disguised as a ceremony.
Valeria raised her hand, silencing the uproar as swiftly as it had begun. Her gaze pierced through the crowd, unyielding. “Each of you will face an opponent. The victor earns honor and respect. The defeated…” Her voice dropped, heavy with unspoken consequences. “…learn their place.”
Lyra felt the pit of her stomach twist, her pulse hammering against her ribs. She glanced at Eryon, who caught her eye and gave her a subtle nod. His look spoke volumes: Stay calm. Stay hidden. Survive.
The names were called, and pairs were chosen with ruthless efficiency. In the center of the courtyard, the matches commenced, each one a brutal and unrelenting showcase of ferocity and skill. Blades flashed, blood spilled, and the night filled with the raw sounds of combat.
“Lyra.”
Her name rang out, clear and sharp, sending a ripple of murmurs through the crowd. With measured steps, she moved forward, her heart pounding as if it were trying to escape her chest. Her opponent emerged from the throng—a wiry vampire with angular features, his predatory confidence radiating like a tangible force.
The match began in a blur of motion. Her opponent lunged, his strikes precise and relentless, each one designed to overwhelm and disorient. Lyra moved instinctively, her wolf guiding her reflexes as she dodged, countered, and pivoted with a fluidity that felt as innate as it was unrefined.
“You fight strangely,” her opponent sneered, their blades colliding in a shower of sparks. “Too wild. Too unpredictable.”
Lyra didn’t respond, focusing instead on the rhythm of the fight. Each clash of steel sent vibrations up her arms, each dodge a reminder of how thin the line was between survival and defeat. But her opponent wasn’t done. His nostrils flared as he circled her, a sinister grin creeping across his face.
“You reek of wolf,” he growled, his voice dripping with contempt and discovery.
The words hit her like a thunderclap, and the weight of the crowd’s stares seemed to double. This was more than a fight now—it was a revelation.
