Page 11 of Burning Heir

Archer crossed his arms. “If you send them to Malvoria, they’ll be executed on arrival, just like that student was. The mark of the Unknown shows in many forms.”

Could Charles kill me? I wanted to believe his loyalties lay with family, but the way he spoke of the Continent’s enemies made me doubt it.

“Let us live,” I said, my voice shaking. “Put us through whatever trial you have, but don’t send me to Malvoria.” I was the only one left.

Malachi scoffed loudly. “Good luck executing the king’s granddaughter,” she drawled, dragging a finger down Archer’s shirt. “Although I’m sure Archer would appreciate it. One step closer to stealing my grandfather’s crown.”

The headmaster’s yellow eyes flicked between us. If it were just me, I’d have been thrown out by now. But Malachi’s name held too much power to ignore.

The headmaster clamped my fingers shut. “You don’t speak a word about this. Not to anyone. Blanche, you will stay in Winter. Herring, I will send you to Autumn. Perhaps your quells will manifest into something tamable in a familiar environment.”

Archer finally shifted his gaze toward me, his expression tightening, like he recognized my name but couldn’t place it. His eyes lingered briefly before turning away, leaving me no choice but to remain silent.

I kept my head low, flexing my fingers as pain flared across my knuckles. The skin between them bled, sharp as a needle dragging along bone, carving the faint shape of a snowflake. Phantom shudders rippled down my spine, too cold to ignore.

I exhaled slowly, relief threading through me. My father’s title was safe—for now. But questions swirled like smoke. Was Day the realm where my mother had grown? Why would the academy place Knox somewhere foreign to us, a realm that offered no comfort, no familiarity? Knox would be sheltered in light, while North Colindale—our home—desperately needed that.

The students were divided into six realms: Night, Day, Summer, Winter, Autumn, and Spring. Knox’s group departed first, led by a tall brunette I’d overheard named Everett Kilian. His strides were confident, and his sharp jawline radiated authority, drawing glances from the crowd.

Malachi darted toward the Autumn section, her cloak billowing behind her like a storm cloud. She snapped it closed, golden stars embroidered on the fabric gleaming under the light.Slowly, I stepped toward the Winter section, where thirty-one first-year students waited. The air here felt colder, almost biting against my skin, as though the ward separating the realms had seeped through.

Some students were pale and gaunt, with hollow cheeks and darting eyes betraying sleepless nights and meager meals. Others—the Winborrow natives Lorna had warned me about—stood out easily, clean-cut, their thick muscles rippling beneath fur-lined cuffs.

Thirty-one students. All competing for my father’s title. And that didn’t even account for the second and third-years already far ahead in their training. It all came down to me now.

Knox, I knew, would abandon me as the days wore on. He was Day, and ice never dared to touch the golden light. The weight of our hundred-year legacy was all on my shoulders.

As I joined the group, a curly-haired woman caught my eye. Her dark locks were gathered into a chunky braid, tied at the end with a silver bead. She nervously bit her nails, her deep-brown skin framed by a pale wool cloak. For a moment, her gaze locked with mine.

“I’ve heard our student leader is ruthless,” she whispered. “Bridger Thorne. Just be prepared for three days of hell.” She let out an exasperated breath as she glanced around.

“Thanks for the warning,” I whispered back.

Frost peeled the onyx stone, spiraling like spider’s webs. Swallowing my hesitation, I shifted my weight as a white-haired man stalked through the grand hall’s double doors and took his place before our group. His cloak dragged beneath his slender frame, the same shade as obsidian.

“Disappointing,” he muttered, his gaze sweeping over each of us before lacing his iced palms behind him.

Thorne. It was a Colindale surname—I knew him.

His parents were the same age as mine, and had lived under my father’s reign as civilians. He was one of the few children born and raised in our village. His father was a farmer, and his mother—a teacher—had come to our home every Tuesday. Ordinary. But he sought something that didn’t belong to him.

I held my breath as his eyes swayed to meet mine. It had been years since I’d seen him. Most Colindale males had the same golden hair and plain features that never turned heads twice. His mother had fallen ill when I was eight, and after she stopped her visits, she was replaced in a day—another faceless servant to my family.

Shit. He’d kill me if he recognized me.

I tightened my cloak around my shoulders as we followed silently behind him toward the main courtyard.

He arched his neck, walking backward. A green-handled sword was sheathed tight against his spine, and several daggers were strapped to his limbs.

“Come along,” he said. “My name is Bridger. Third-year and I will be your Winter student leader. Once a year, the Serpents choose their lead for the potential crown, and I’ve yet to have that title stolen. Jenessa graciously left the Rite up to me, meaning I’ll be the one who tells you if you stay or leave.”

He flashed a grin that lasted longer than the cold it took to bite my exposed knuckles as we neared the frozen trails.

“Malvoria will be a kinder sentence than pissing me off. If you cry, your face will freeze. The forests harbor deadly beasts, so stay on the trails unless you wish to die. Any questions?” He paused, clapping his gloved fingers. “Great.”

“My name is Myla,” the curly-haired girl whispered to me. “Myla Reinhart. I’m from Ravensla.”

He was too close. I couldn’t risk saying my name.

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