Ashen Rowan learned early that silence was safer than questions.
At exactly 6:30 a.m., his alarm buzzed once before he shut it off—no snooze, no hesitation. His room was neat to the point of being sterile. No posters. No personal photos. Just a desk, a bed, and a single locked drawer he never opened.
The mirror reflected a boy who looked ordinary enough: dark ash-brown hair falling just past his eyes, pale skin that never seemed to tan, and eyes too sharp for someone his age. Sixteen years old. New transfer student.
That was all BloodBorn Academy needed to know.
Ashen slipped on his blazer, the academy's crimson crest stitched over his heart. As his fingers brushed the fabric, a brief chill crawled up his spine—sharp, electric.
He paused.
"…Again?" he muttered.
It happened sometimes. That strange sensation. Like something waking up and then immediately going back to sleep.
Ashen ignored it.
He always did.
BloodBorn Academy rose from the city like a monument to wealth and discipline—glass, steel, and ancient stone blended into one impossible structure. To the public, it was an elite private school for future leaders.
To Ashen, it felt like a cage that already knew his name.
The moment he stepped through the gates, conversations dipped. Eyes lingered. Whispers followed.
"Transfer student?" "From where?" "Why does he feel… off?"
Ashen felt it too.
A pressure in the air. Subtle. Like invisible eyes pressing against his skin.
His instincts screamed danger, but he forced his expression to remain blank and walked on.
Trust was a liability.
The classroom fell silent when he entered.
Thirty students. Too quiet. Too alert.
Ashen's gaze swept the room automatically, cataloging exits, blind spots, threat angles—before he realized what he was doing. He stopped himself, jaw tightening.
Get a grip.
The class teacher, Ms. Vale, watched him for a heartbeat too long before smiling.
"Class, we have a new student joining us today," she said smoothly. "Introduce yourself."
Ashen stepped forward.
"Ashen Rowan," he said. "That's all."
A few students frowned. Others smiled thinly.
One boy near the window stiffened, knuckles whitening around his pen.
A girl in the back sucked in a sharp breath, her pupils dilating unnaturally.
Ashen didn't notice.
But the room did.
From the upper floor, behind reinforced glass etched with glowing sigils, the principal observed the classroom in silence.
"He doesn't know," the deputy principal said quietly.
"No," the principal replied. "And that's the problem."
The sigils pulsed once.
Then twice.
"Sir," the deputy whispered, unease creeping into his voice, "the blood wards are reacting."
The principal's expression hardened.
"Impossible. The Forbidden Bloodline was erased."
Down below, Ashen Rowan took his seat—unaware that every protective seal woven into BloodBorn Academy had just identified him as a threat.
Ashen felt it then.
A sudden, violent pressure slammed into his chest.
The air thickened. The lights flickered.
For half a second, the world went silent.
And deep within him, something ancient answered the call.
Crimson symbols burned to life across the classroom walls.
Students screamed.
Teachers froze.
The academy's containment alarms began to wail.
Ashen clutched his desk, heart pounding, as a single thought echoed through his mind:
What did I just do?