The new girl is a blood elf named Vermilla, and she’s obsessed with demons.

It’s all she sketches in her notebook. Images of summonings, exorcisms, violet stars. Rips in the universe that open up to darker realms. Sometimes it’s a creature void of shape. A hallowed sphere with slits for eyes. A clouded figure clad in red. Not just a singular red, but made up of hundreds of shades of red all blended together like a dying forest. Today, she’s spending our entire three-hour classroom lecture painting an image of Valgog, Lord of Blood, flaying a group of villagers against a threaded roof.

The scene takes place at sunset. She uses gold and red to show the last rays of sunlight on bare flesh and bone. A river flows in the distance, dark against a backdrop of mountains. There’s a storm and it's raining, but that only adds a glaze to the fires burning below the villagers. She uses a dark blue to show wisps of wind. A matte purple for lightning.

The most disturbing part isn’t the violence of the image itself, but rather, how carefully she draws the faces of the people. Tiny dots against a canvas that spreads across her entire table, yet intricately detailed with razor thin lines to show shadows. Splashes of ink to shape the most minute of facial expressions.

From one angle, everyone on the roof looks like they are suffering, faces contorted in anguish, bodies writhing. Valgog rises above them, a blood-stained slash for a mouth, a pitched trident for a tail, and then he lunges, teeth bare, ready to devour. From another angle, it looks like everyone on the roof is in utter euphoria, mouths slightly parted, ready to be swallowed whole to satisfy Valgog's divine appetite.

Oh, and sometimes, instead of demons, Vermilla sketches pictures of me.

She doesn’t hide it. She makes the sketches openly. I think she even wants me to see, but it feels more like a warning than a form of flattery. Humans are prey to blood elves, Master Roku once taught us. Not all of them are evil, and some, like Vermilla, are even allowed to study in the Cathedral with us, but their nature is always the same. Predators. 

I had been planning to confront her about it today. Or tonight, I should say. Had my whole speech practiced in front of a mirror. After this lecture, I’d find her in her room. I’d tell her, politely but firmly, that I didn’t appreciate the sketches and that if she didn’t stop, I’d tell the Masters about it. 

No no, telling the Masters sounds childish. I’ll be tough about it, though. Polite, but straight. She would listen. She had to.

She turns back in her seat and looks at me. She’s sitting three rows down. Her lips curl into a grin. I shiver a little bit, wondering if she could read my mind. Is that a blood elf power I didn’t know about? Her scent fills the air. No one else could smell it, just me. It’s mind-numbing. A blend of flower and spring rain, tailored to my own memories. This is a natural affinity of blood elves. An ability they use to lure their prey in. I imagine this is her way of playing with her food.

I look around. Shift in my seat uncomfortably. Think about how I’ll approach her tonight. I’ll tell her to stop using her scent on me. To stop sketching me in her notebook. I’d turn her down with my head held high. Luckily, the Cathedral has strict laws preventing blood elves from feeding on classmates, but then again, that’s not the only appetite they’re known for…

“You can smell her, can’t you?” Fellum asks.

I lean back in my seat. Nod slowly, then try to take in a deep breath without smelling the air. This is how I get through lectures where Vermilla is intent on distracting me. Deep breaths, one minute at a time.

I check my pocket watch. Cover my nose slightly with the palm of my hand.

Fellum shakes his head. “I’d kill to be in your position, you know?”

“I know…”

The lecture hall is packed with about two-hundred students. Tonight’s a full moon. Master Roku is doing his breakdown of how to fight werewolves. It’s not as simple as knowing that they’re weak in their snouts or that you have to avoid their bite. Werewolves are animal-human hybrids. They fight with the same bestial ferocity as a real wolf–but with all the focus and awareness of a person. It’s hard to explain unless you’ve fought a werewolf before. The style is inherently unique. You can’t train against it in normal circumstances. It’s a strange mix of untamed blows and calculated haymakers.

We’ve had werewolf attacks in just about every other full moon, so the Masters have been preparing the more senior students to fight back. Support the guards if we needed to. I don’t think the Cathedral is truly in danger of falling (hasn’t happened in more than a thousand years), but I wouldn’t mind jumping in to prevent more harm done to the guards, or other students. 

It’s just that I can’t join early. I’m an arcanist, you see. I’m not the best in up close combat. My strength is average, at most, and I wouldn’t know what to do closer than a few feet to a real threat. I’m typically called in for sieges, or as the ultimate line of defense behind shield-bearers.

“You’ve got to tell her to stop,” Sarya whispers. Sarya, Fellum, and Luri have been my best friends since my first year at the Cathedral. That must have been when we were ten. Nearly nine years later, we’re still going strong.

“He’s not going to tell her to stop,” Luri says. “He likes the attention.” Luri is a silver-haired mage. She comes from a wealthy family. One of many heirs to a shipping empire that specializes in moving occult artifacts between the kingdoms of Hinterland and the underworld.

I roll my eyes, but I can’t deny it. Luri is half-right. I would tell Vermilla to stop, but I also did like the attention.

Luri and I dated for a while. I broke it off because…well…I’m a light arcanist. A holy warrior. I’m an orphan, but I inherit the trait from both sides of my family, and I take my vows seriously. I can’t give girls what they want, or relationships what they need.

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Despite this, I want to be wanted. It’s why I dated Luri, and a number of other girls around the Cathedral. I like being able to say no. I love the sense of control it comes with. A feeling of satisfaction. Of discipline. I know it’s twisted. Probably a result of some complex I have deep down inside related to righteous entitlement. Or maybe something to do with wanting attention because I never had parents. I don’t know, but it’s something I’ve been trying to work on. No more dating girls just to say no. No more stringing them along. I need to be more honest.

After just…this one last time. After I go up to Vermilla, look her in the eye, and tell her I’m not interested. It would be an affirmation of my strength. A way for me to validate my discipline.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s why she has her eyes on me. A kind of morbid fascination with being able to corrupt the light. She wouldn’t succeed, I tell myself. I’m too disciplined. I have too much self-control. She would see that tonight.

Sarya leans forward to whisper between me and Fellum. “Whatever the case, I’d be terrified if a creature like that sketched me in a notebook. And multiple times, at that. You should at least tell one of the Masters. Weren’t you planning on talking to her today?”

“No way,” Fellum says. “What you should do is give up on those stupid vows and spend a night in her room. Can you imagine what it would be like to be with a blood elf?” He throws an arm around the wooden rim of his chair. “The scent they release is supposed to be like a drug for the prey they choose. Imagine getting lost in that during…”

Luri shakes her head. “Yeah, that’s why Leon looks like he’s in a coma right now.”

I blink. Swallow to try and fix my dry mouth. Sit up and straighten my posture. 

It’s true. Despite holding my breath, I’m dazed by Vermilla’s scent. It’s like a sweet flower mixed with berries in a rainstorm–that with an undercurrent of vanilla incense. It’s familiar. Made for me. The idea of that bothers me so much. Another creature able to manufacture exactly what my body wants. Not just a variation of it, but exactly the most arousing smell possible for my brain. Blend it together from fragments of different memories to form a drug for my senses.

I can’t even remember the memories myself, but I imagine they’re there, buried somewhere deep in my subconscious. Maybe from when I was two or three. Riding in a wagon through a rainstorm. A family huddled together, vanilla incense burning at the front. A trail through a forest filled with flowers and berries. 

Sometimes in class, I don’t even try to resist it. I let myself get lost in it. The smell penetrates so deep I feel like I’m drinking honey after a few minutes. I can choke on it. Drown in it. Time flows slower. Even if I snap out of it by the end of the lecture, I’m not the same after. I can’t sleep in the nights that follow. I end up lying in bed, drunk, feeling like there’s a better reality waiting for me beyond the veil of this one. I count stars. Look for constellations. Try and remember the smell. Convince myself not to go looking for Vermilla.

All this without us ever exchanging words directly to each other.

On those days, when I’d let myself get lost in her smell, she’d always turn around at the end of class with a mischievous grin and stare directly at me. Her way of letting me know she had won. I’d look at her for a second, then look away, always promising I’d be more disciplined next time, always failing.

I’m the most powerful arcanist in our class, and as a result, arguably the most important person in any future battle. You protected your arcanists, even with your own life. They healed the injured. Broke enemy lines. Tore down walls.

I have to be disciplined, I tell myself. Mental strength is the foundation of being a good arcanist, and the reason why I’m the best in our class. This is how I built mental strength. Fortitude. Faith. Resisting temptation. This is just practice.

I’m not interested in you. I repeat the words a few times to myself. I imagine my tone as I say them to her. Soft but firm. Confident. She’ll be devastated. I’d hold myself high. Hold myself above her. A holy arcanist. Righteous. I represent the best of humanity.

I look down three rows. Vermilla stops sketching and her ears twitch. I wonder if she can hear us. Hear the challenge roaring in my head.

I’m not going to deny that she’s gorgeous, and if I let my thoughts stray, it doesn’t end up with me saying no. Doe eyes, a peach color in the light. Red curls that fall unevenly around her ears. A perfectly symmetrical face and shoulder blades that line the curve of her neck in sharp ridges. She’s showing off her shoulders right now, wearing a black dress that barely covers her chest. I stare at her neckline. Then below. Take a breath without thinking and suddenly I’m lost in spring rain and the smell of sweet-something flowers again. I feel a bulge in my pants. Cough from the dryness in my throat. It feels like I’m inhaling vanilla smoke.

I bite down on my tongue to make myself stop. I focus on my plan. Imagine myself knocking on her door. Turning her down. Tonight would be the night. Nothing would be better than that feeling, I tell myself. Overcoming my own temptations. Letting her down hard and showing her I had the power to say no.

“Who knows what’s special about today’s full moon?” Master Roku asks.

The class is quiet at first. A rustle of pages as people turn their books. Look over their notes.

“It’s a blood moon,” Vermilla says. Her voice is smooth, easy, but confident. A hint of arrogance, even. I don’t know if it’s because I’m already half lost in her scent, but it sounds like her voice is coming from right next to me.

Master Roku clears his throat. “Correct, and what does a blood moon entail? Someone else, besides Vermilla.” 

Vermilla doesn’t talk in every class, but in ones related to demonology, she can answer pretty much everything. It’s the first time that someone has outdone me in class. It’s a bit intimidating, really. I study a lot but even I can’t come close to her knowledge of the dark arts.

Blood moon, I think to myself. Something vague about the walls between realms being thinner pops into my head. Werewolves being able to access more demonic forms along the lycanthropy tree.

Luri flips through her book. Points to something then tilts the page toward me and Fellum.

Fellum’s eyes light up.

“What?” I ask without looking. I’m still trying to jog my memory for an answer. I hate feeling unprepared in class.

“The affinities of blood elves are more powerful during a blood moon,” Fellum says. “And their appetites are much larger. Not exactly a surprise but maybe you want to avoid talking to Vermilla tonight.”

“No,” I say adamantly. That makes me even more determined. If I say no to her tonight, she’ll know I’m better than her temptations. I’ll breathe freely as I say it too. Lost in her scent, I’ll find myself. Make it clear that I can’t be won over. I’m going to be the strongest light arcanist in Hinterland, I tell myself. Beyond temptation. This is practice.

The classroom’s grand clock chimes to indicate sunset is an hour away. As students shuffle around the lecture hall, packing their things, I see Vermilla eyeing me. A half-smile, the corner of it promising canines.