“Long before the gates of Valerius Academy ever opened, before its halls echoed with laughter and arguments, and before students hurried between lectures carrying books heavier than their own ambitions, the world knew only one lesson: division.
The six great kin inherited the same moon and the same sky, yet none believed they belonged beneath it together.
In their respective corners of the world, each faction built a culture rooted in its own perceived supremacy.
The vampires erected kingdoms of marble and moonlight, believing discipline and noble blood to be the sole measures of true civilization.
Beneath ancient forests, the lycans raised their packs on a philosophy where loyalty was worth more than crowns, and strength was measured by one’s willingness to protect those who ran beside them.
Witches wandered between mountains and valleys, preserving knowledge that existed long before kingdoms learned to call themselves kingdoms.
Meanwhile, the fae danced through enchanted woods where promises carried more weight than steel, the sirens ruled the endless waters singing histories no written language could fully preserve, and the reapers walked quietly between life and death, feared by all but understood by none.
Each kin flourished, each prospered, and each believed itself superior.
Every generation inherited the same dangerous certainty that the others were fundamentally wrong.
History faithfully remembers wars by their victors.
It remembers the kings, queens, heroes, and conquerors; it remembers the cities that burned and the treaties that were signed.
What history rarely remembers, however, are the children left to inherit the hatred.
A vampire child was taught never to trust a lycan; a young Alpha was raised to believe witches were cunning deceivers; a witch was warned that vampire nobility valued blood over compassion.
None of them had ever met.
None of them needed to.
Prejudice had already introduced them.
As centuries passed, borders rose higher, kingdoms grew stronger, and resentment deepened.
Every peace lasted only until another generation forgot the cost of war.
Then came the conflict that nearly ended them all.
No single kin could claim victory, and no throne remained untouched.
Forests were reduced to ash, ancient libraries became smoke upon the wind, and rivers carried far more sorrow than water.
Even the oldest bloodlines, whose names had endured for millennia, discovered that pride was a poor shield against loss.
When the violence finally ground to a halt, no one celebrated; there were simply too few survivors left who remembered how.
Among those who crawled out from the wreckage was a scholar known only as Valerius.
To this day, no record agrees on what kind of being he truly was.
The vampires claimed he descended from one of their oldest bloodlines, while the witches insisted no vampire could possess such an intricate understanding of magic.
The fae believed he belonged to no kin at all, and the lycans argued that his species did not matter.
History never answered the question, but perhaps that was always the point.
Valerius looked upon a broken world and understood something every ruler before him had failed to see: wars were not born upon battlefields.
They were born inside homes, inside classrooms, inside bedtime stories, and inside children who learned to hate long before they learned to understand.
So, he proposed something no kingdom had ever dared imagine.
If hatred could be taught, then perhaps harmony could be taught as well.
It would not be achieved through fragile treaties or deep-seated fear, but through ordinary days shared beneath the same roof.
It would happen through classrooms, through arguments, through failures, and through friendships.
He gambled on the quiet realization that the stranger a child was taught to fear actually laughed at the same jokes, worried over the same examinations, and dreamed beneath the very same stars.
Many called him a fool.
Others called him a dreamer, and a dangerous one at that.
Yet when the foundations of the academy were laid, every great kin, whether out of a flickering hope or sheer desperation agreed to send their heirs.
They did it not because they believed peace had finally arrived, but because they terrified of what would happen if it never did.
Thus, the gates of Valerius Academy were opened.
Its purpose was deceptively simple, which is to educate the future leaders of every kin beneath one roof, to ensure the next generation inherited knowledge before hatred, and to remind every student who walked its halls that blood may shape where one begins, but never where one must end.
Centuries have passed since those gates first swung wide.
Thousands of students have crossed their threshold; some became rulers, some became scholars, and some became legends, while others became little more than names forgotten by time.
But every year, as a new generation steps through those ancient gates, the same question lingers quietly within the academy’s stone walls: can centuries of prejudice truly be undone, or are some sins simply inherited?
Perhaps that answer has always belonged to the students…”
CLACK.
Lillian Shaw shut the heavy tome with a quiet sigh before taking another bite of the butter cookie balanced between her fingers.
Foundations of Harmony: A Historical Account of Valerius Academy.
Every first-year student received a copy during orientation, and every first-year complained bitterly about having to read it.
Lillian, however, had already finished it twice.
Once because Professor Alder had assigned it, and the second time simply because she genuinely liked it.
She brushed a few stray cookie crumbs from the worn leather cover and smiled to herself.
“Maybe third time’s the charm,” she murmured.
Not that she actually needed to read it again.
Because today marked the beginning of her second year at Valerius Academy, and by now, she knew the campus like the back of her hand.
She knew which professors gave surprise quizzes, which corridors became hopelessly bottlenecked between lectures, and exactly which hidden corner of the library remained empty even during examination week.
But most importantly, she had survived her entire first year without anyone discovering her secret.
That alone meant this year would surely be easier.
“Lillian!” A voice called from outside, snapping her out of her thoughts.
It was Mrs. Pugh, her caretaker since she was an infant.
“The train won’t wait for you, sweetheart!”
Lillian’s eyes widened.
“Oh no!” Hurriedly stuffing the remaining cookie into her mouth, she hugged the thick history book tightly against her chest and rushed out of her small room and into the orphanage courtyard.
The crisp morning air greeted Lillian the moment she stepped outside, brushing coolly against her cheeks and carrying with it the comforting scent of fresh bread and blooming lavender.
She instinctively drew a deeper breath, letting the familiar fragrance settle her racing thoughts.
Her dark brunette hair had been carefully gathered into a low twisted bun at the nape of her neck, leaving a few wisps framing her face after her hurried escape from her room.
She wore the dark-and-silver uniform of Valerius Academy beneath a neatly buttoned charcoal coat, the academy crest embroidered over her heart.
A weathered leather satchel rested against her hip, already heavy with books, while a modest brown suitcase sat beside the front steps, its brass corners dulled from years of use.
It was not much, but it held everything she owned that she could take with her.
“There she is!” Mrs. Llewellyn laughed, gesturing toward her.
“I told you she’d have her nose buried in a book until the very last second.”
Lillian swallowed her cookie a little too quickly, coughing slightly.
“I wasn’t buried.”
“You were reading while eating, dear.”
“…I can multitask,” Lillian offered weakly.
The two women exchanged knowing smiles.
“Listen to her,” Mrs. Llewellyn teased gently, nudging the other women’s shoulder.
Mrs. Pugh’s eyes softened with affection.
Stepping forward, she smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from the shoulder of Lillian’s academy uniform.
“Are you absolutely sure you’ve packed everything?”
“Yes.”
“Extra quills?”
“Yes.”
“Winter cloak?”
“Yes.”
“Emergency snacks?”
Lillian blinked, then sheepishly shrank back.
“…No.”
“I knew it!” Mrs. Llewellyn cried triumphantly.
Before Lillian could protest, a small cloth bag was gently but firmly pressed into her hands.
“Apple tarts and blueberry muffins,” she cooed, patting Lillian’s cheek.
“You always forget to eat whenever you’re studying.”
“I do not,” Lillian protested, though she was met with two pairs of highly skeptical eyes.
She cleared her throat, looking away.
“…Sometimes.”
The women laughed.
They were always so worried about her, treating her like a fragile glass doll despite everything.
Mrs. Pugh tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind Lillian’s ear.
“Don’t study too hard this term,” she reminded her gently.
“And don’t skip meals,” Mrs. Llewellyn added.
“And please, try making some actual friends this year.”
Lillian’s smile turned a bit sheepish.
“I’ll try.”
Mrs. Llewellyn raised an eyebrow, pressing further.
“Really try. You said that exact same thing last year.”
Lillian thought about the lonely corners of the library she had frequented, then nodded more convincingly.
“I promise I’ll try harder.”
Suddenly, a sharp, distant whistle echoed across the cobblestone streets from the station.
Lillian gasped, her heart jumping into her throat.
“The train! Oh no, oh no, oh no!”
Abandoning all decorum, she quickly threw her arms around each caretaker, hugging them tightly one by one.
“Thank you for everything! I’ll miss you!”
“Write to us as soon as you arrive!” Mrs. Pugh called out as Lillian pulled away.
“I will!”
“No reading while walking!” Mrs. Llewellyn shouted over the distance.
“I’ll think about it!” Lillian yelled back, already retreating down the path.
“Lillian!”
“I’m kidding! Goodbye!” she called back, though she was mostly lying.
Laughing, Lillian hurriedly tucked the history book into her satchel, snatched up her modest brown suitcase, and set off at a run toward the station.
The wheels rattled noisily over the uneven cobblestones, forcing her to half-pull, half-drag it as the cloth bag of freshly baked treats swung wildly from her wrist.
Behind her, the two women remained by the orphanage gate, waving until her small figure, suitcase bumping over the cobblestones behind her, disappeared into the bustling morning crowd.
“Our little Lillian…” Mrs. Pugh murmured, a warm, bittersweet smile on her face.
“Second year already.”
Mrs. Llewellyn watched the direction the girl had gone, her expression shifting into a mixture of fierce pride and deep, quiet worry.
“May this year be kind to her,” she whispered to the empty street.
Neither of them knew that Lillian’s carefully crafted second year would begin unraveling the moment a certain partnership list appeared on the academy notice board.