I swallowed hard, a cold knot forming in my stomach.

  So apparently, in this delightful little academic wonderland, someone can try to skin you alive and get away with it.

  And it’s all considered part of the educational experience.

  Lovely.

  “Where the hell am I?” I whispered, panic quietly wrapping its fingers around my throat. “God, I just want to go home…”

  Finn gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

  “Get used to it, freshblood,” he said. “Come on. Let’s get you to the faculty office — sounds like you need a word with the dean.”

  I nodded, still half-convinced this was just a stress dream with excellent special effects, and followed him down the corridor, clutching his cloak like it was a security blanket. It was slightly too long for me, but it did the job — shielding me from the lingering stares of students clearly disappointed that today’s public humiliation had ended prematurely.

  We walked through shadowy hallways where the stone walls practically radiated cold, and my brain refused to focus on anything but the thoughts spiralling in my head.

  “You really should join some kind of group,” Finn remarked casually. “Or find a patron.”

  Before I could decide whether to groan or agree, someone stepped out of a side corridor.

  A woman.

  She wore a fitted, formal-looking cloak with the kind of severe tailoring that practically screamed disciplinary action pending. Her dark hair flowed down in elegant waves, framing a face that hadn’t smiled since the last solar eclipse.

  There was a chill in her stare that could've flash-frozen a small pond. And her voice?

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  Polished, sharp, and clearly used to reducing people to ash with minimal syllables.

  “Finnberg,” the woman said — in the kind of voice that suggested she’d rather communicate exclusively in grunts and disapproving glares.

  “And who exactly are you shielding with your cloak?”

  I felt her eyes slide over to me, pausing on my taffy hair, my trembling fingers gripping the cloak, and — judging by the sharp flick of her eyebrow — immediately filing me under 'problematic'.

  She wasn’t just looking. She was evaluating. Like an examiner spotting a spelling mistake on the first line of an essay.

  “A succubus, is it?” she said, raising a brow as if inspecting a mouldy sandwich.

  “Bright hair, not a hint of dignity, and reeking of Dean Grey’s signature magic. Has he really lowered his standards that far? Disgraceful.”

  Her lips twisted into something that technically counted as a smile, though it looked like it physically pained her to produce.

  “We don’t keep your kind around here, sweetheart. No room for Academy call girls.”

  My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. For a moment, I couldn’t speak — too stunned by the sheer gall of it. Finn shifted beside me like he wanted to say something, then clearly thought better of it. Coward.

  “And who are you, exactly?” I managed to croak, barely containing the wobble in my voice.

  “Anastasia Weil,” she said, as if announcing a death sentence. “Curse Instructor. And I happen to know every student in this Academy.”

  She tilted her head.

  “And you, darling, are not on any list.”

  She flicked her wrist, and a tear in the air opened — a swirling black portal, looking like the universe had decided to delete me.

  “You’re here illegally,” she sneered. “So get out. And for the record — I don’t give a damn who you’re sleeping with.”

  Then she shoved me.

  And I flew straight into the magical abyss.

  The last thing I saw was her smirk, like she’d just thrown out particularly offensive rubbish.

  Cold wrapped around me as I tumbled through the darkness.

  Then — impact.

  I hit the ground hard, landing against the massive Academy gates — sealed and impenetrable like a wall.

  For a moment, all I felt was dizziness. Then came the pain.

  Sharp. Blinding. Like someone had rolled a molten steamroller over my entire nervous system.

  I gasped for air, my body twisting in agony, my hands barely clinging to the icy metal as if it might somehow save me.

  Through the haze of pain, Grey’s words came back to me:

  “You can’t go beyond the Academy gates. If you do, you’ll die.”

  Well.

  The pain surged, swallowing everything, and I realised I was dying — not in theory, but right now.

  At the very least, I deserve a Darwin Award.

  I’m pretty sure no one before me has ever died purely as a direct consequence of being expelled from university.