The sun never rose on Blackmoor Academy that morning.
A heavy fog smothered the school grounds, an unnatural veil so dense it seemed to possess a mind of its own, curling like ghostly fingers through shattered windows and down abandoned corridors. The academy—once a place of promise and strange beauty—now stood fractured and on the edge of something darker. Every wall groaned under the weight of secrets and scars. And at its heart, a battle loomed that would change everything.
Hope stood outside the grand hall, her breath forming pale wisps in the chilled morning air. Her hand hovered near London's, their fingers brushing in a silent promise neither had the courage yet to voice. They were no longer simply students—they were warriors, survivors, leaders. Around them stood Raphael, bristling with raw energy in his hybrid form, Jessa chanting softly under her breath with her wand at the ready, Celeste silent and withdrawn, Stephen adjusting his jacket dramatically, and Daemon, cold and focused like a blade drawn for war.
"Are we doing this?" Stephen asked, cracking his knuckles. "Because I look absolutely fantastic today and I'd hate to ruin the ensemble in a demonic mosh pit."
"Stephen," Daemon said, barely glancing at him.
"Right. Serious. I'm serious." He tried to stifle a grin. "Death and doom and all that."
The great doors creaked open before them as if acknowledging their arrival. Beyond lay the corrupted remains of the once-grand hall. Black vines throbbed like veins across the walls, the chandeliers now lit with a flickering purple flame. The floor glowed with runes, and at the center stood Trent.
But this was not the Trent they once knew.
He stood with unnatural stillness, eyes glowing like dying stars, skin marked by sigils that pulsed in time with the room's sinister heartbeat. He was power made flesh, warped by something ancient, something hungry.
"You came," Trent said, his voice deeper, distorted.
"We always would," Hope replied, stepping forward.
"You don't know what this school really is," Trent said, spreading his arms. "Blackmoor was never about learning. It was a vault. A prison. Richard knew that. He lied to us. He lied to all of you."
"You attacked your friends," Jessa said, her voice sharp.
"They weren't my friends," Trent spat. "I died here. I was forgotten. But not anymore."
Hope narrowed her eyes. "We'll stop you."
He smiled, a terrible, broken smile. "You can try."
The room exploded into chaos.
Hope launched herself forward, channeling all three aspects of her bloodline—witch spells glowing from her fingers, claws extending from her hands, and vampire speed blurring her form. London followed with fire streaming from his fists, the phoenix reborn in his eyes. Raphael roared and transformed mid-air, crashing into Trent with a fury that split the floor. Jessa's chants rang out, arcs of lightning dancing through the air. Celeste, quiet and focused, unleashed precise blasts of radiant energy, shielding her sister and watching Trent's every move.
Daemon and Stephen moved like twin shadows. Daemon, expressionless, parried Trent's dark magic with ancient runes etched into his blades. Stephen, ever the trickster, darted and weaved, throwing enchanted daggers and winking at death as if it were an old friend.
Trent countered each assault with devastating precision. He summoned waves of darkness, pulled shadows from the corners, and split the floor with a scream that cracked the stained-glass windows above. Tentacles of cursed roots emerged from beneath the runes, slithering toward the students like sentient nightmares.
"You don't understand!" Trent howled. "Richard isn't the man you think he is! You're fighting the wrong enemy!"
Hope hesitated for a split second.
"What do you mean?" she demanded.
Trent's eyes burned. "He made a deal with the thing beneath Blackmoor. He built this place on top of a nightmare."
Before they could respond, Celeste stepped through the flames. Her hair glowed with celestial energy. She walked straight toward Trent, unaffected by the chaos.
"I saw it too," she said. "I saw the thing in the dark. But you're wrong, Trent. We're not ready to face it. None of us are."
Trent turned toward her. "Then help me!"
She shook her head. "This isn't the way."
The moment froze. And then Hope was there—magic glowing, strength focused. She leapt, and her fist collided with Trent's chest in a blinding burst of tribrid power.
A shockwave leveled the room.
When the light faded, Trent lay crumpled at the center of a scorched crater. The vines receded. The flames died. The oppressive magic lifted.
It was over—or so they thought.
The students slumped where they stood. Some sobbed, some laughed. Raphael passed out in his half-transformed state, snoring loudly. Jessa crumpled to her knees, exhausted. Stephen, singed and limping, grinned as he leaned on Daemon.
"Remind me never to fight someone with a god complex again," he muttered.
Daemon simply nodded.
Hope sat beside London on the cracked marble floor. He was shirtless again—another side effect of being reborn in fire. She rested her head on his shoulder.
"We stopped him," she whispered.
"For now," London said.
She glanced at him. "You think this isn't over?"
He nodded toward the far end of the room. A massive fissure had opened in the ground where Trent had once stood. From within came a faint hum. Something moved below.
Hope's eyes widened. So did London's.
Celeste stared at the crack, lips pressed into a thin line. She knew. She had known something all along but had said nothing.
From that darkness, a pulse echoed—slow and deliberate.
Far below Blackmoor Academy, something ancient had stirred. Something patient. Something far worse than Trent.
They left the ruined hall together, walking in silence. The fog outside had not lifted, and the school looked colder than ever. But now, they were united. Scarred but not broken.
In the days that followed, they began rebuilding. Repairing the walls, the wards, and their hearts. But not everything could be healed. Some students left, terrified of what might come next. Others trained harder than ever.
And below it all, the heartbeat continued.
Hope stood at the balcony one evening, watching the stars reappear in the sky. London joined her.
"Do you think we'll be ready?" she asked.
"We'll have to be," he said, gently intertwining their fingers.
From the shadows, a pair of eyes watched patiently.
End of Volume One: The Fall of Trent.