The Weight of Blood
The carriage wheels ground to a halt against the gravel drive, and Elena sat for a moment in the sudden stillness, listening to the horses breathe steam into the cold autumn air. Beyond the window, the iron gates of Ravenscroft Academy rose like the ribs of some ancient beast, black and skeletal against a sky the color of a bruise. Rowan trees lined the approach in twisted rows, their branches heavy with red berries that the older students swore were poison to anyone with cursed blood. Elena had never tested the theory. She didn't need another reason for people to whisper.
She pushed open the carriage door before the driver could reach it, breathing deep the scent of wet stone and woodsmoke that always seemed to cling to the academy grounds. Three years she had made this same journey, and still her stomach twisted at the sight of those gates, at the crest carved into the arch above them—a raven with wings spread wide, clutching a crescent moon in its talons. Ravenscroft's motto curled beneath it in old script: *Truth Through Shadow.* Elena had come to think the words a lie the institution told about itself, a comfort for people who preferred not to look too closely at what…
