At Blackmoor University, the ivy climbs like veins, the bell towers toll like warnings, and the night carries whispers that do not fade with dawn. Octavia Hartwell came here chasing words-words that might finally belong to her, words that might carve out more than the hollow her past left behind. But the stories she writes no longer feel safe. They bleed. They bruise. They echo too closely the bodies found in town-women with chestnut hair kissed by auburn, green eyes that catch the light like hers. Women who could be her reflection, laid out in ruin. And then there is Dr. Adrian Marlowe-her professor, her tormentor, her fascination. His critiques cut deeper than they should. His praise feels like a blade pressed to her throat. His eyes, green laced with gold, see too much-like he knows the shape of blood when it leaves a body, like he's been waiting for her story all along. She should fear him. Perhaps she does. But fear and desire drink from the same glass. And with every glance, every word, she feels herself pulled closer to the edge of something vast, ancient, and inescapable. Some lessons demand sacrifice. Some secrets demand silence. And some stories-are written in blood.