#vampire lesso

Leonora Lesso has been the Dean of the School for Evil for hundreds of years—and she's been alive for hundreds more. Some question the decision to keep a potentially dangerous creature such as a vampire in charge of younger students, but the school master knew what he was doing. She wasn't just disciplined—centuries of existence had carved her into something colder, sharper, empty hearted. Her presence commanded attention—obedience. She didn't need to raise her voice to silence a room.

But it hadn't always been this way.

Once upon a time, she believed in all the principles she now despised: love, soulmates, happily ever after—the idea that love could endure anything, even death. Her heart was softer then, warmer—the fire stoked by someone she thought would never leave… until they were gone.

She begged, pleaded, cursed every God, every force of power she knew, but nothing could bring them back. It was made plainly clear to her that no fairytale magic would save her, save them.

No, happily ever after was not possible–love could not endure everything, especially death.

But some souls never truly die.

Some part of her, buried deep beneath centuries of discipline, still held onto a fragile hope: that the soul she had lost might one day return. Each year, she searched the faces of students–hoping, looking, waiting–for a familiar feeling. This year was no different.

Lesso’s eyes swept across the hall, new students pouring in from the lake. The great hall was enormous, with high vaulted ceilings that disappeared into shadow. The walls were dark and cold, decorated with faded banners bearing symbols. At the front of the hall, the schedule boards loomed tall—black slates inscribed with glowing runes that shifted and shimmered as if alive.

A sense of anxiety wrapped around her like a thick fog. It had been years since she’d felt this much anticipation at the arrival of new students. Usually, it was nothing. Usually, it was just a false alarm. But maybe this time, it would be something.

Her stomach tugged faintly—like a quiet voice trying to point out something she couldn’t see but could feel. If her heart could beat, it’d be racing. She scanned the sea of dripping cloaks and nervous faces, searching for a spark of recognition she’d been waiting for all these years.

But there was nothing. No flicker of the soul she longed to find. No sign, no pull, no familiar voice in the air that whispered her name.

She let out a long, bitter sigh.

“All that, just another false alarm”, she thought, irritation pricking under her skin. And yet, something felt… off.

You continue to frantically wring the water out of your hair and clothes. Wet hair and clothes meant you'd get cold, and you did not want to be cold. Out of all your triggers, the cold was one of the worst. You had sickle cell anemia, and you knew exactly what came next if your body temperature dropped too far. You’d already been kidnapped by a giant bird, which you were pretty sure counted as both physical and mental stress. Your arm and lower back already hurt, the sharp, stabbing pain a clear warning sign that your body was nearing its limit—and if you weren’t careful, it would only get worse.

You tried to slow your breathing, attempting to ground yourself like you'd been taught to. The hall was full of noise, footsteps, and voices, but it all felt far away, like you were underwater again. Everything was muffled and blurry. You couldn’t let yourself pass out. Not here. Not in front of all these strangers.

You looked around, trying to spot someone in charge—or at least someone who looked friendly. Most of the students seemed just as confused as you, but they looked like they fit here, like they belonged in a place with magic castles and creepy lakes. You didn’t.

You suppose this was your fault. You’d spent your whole life being treated like a fragile thing—wrapped in blankets, warned to stay inside, told not to push yourself too far. Everyone acted like you might shatter if the wind blew the wrong way—and honestly, you might. You couldn’t help but wish for a better life, a normal life. And now that you were here—wherever here was—you couldn’t help but wish you could take it all back.

You shifted your weight, wincing as pain shot down your spine. Everything was beginning to add up, taking its toll on your body. The cold, the physical exertion, the stress. You needed warmth, rest, and answers.

Your eyes swept the room again—this time more urgent. Time was ticking. That's when you saw her. A woman with bright red hair stood tall in the middle of the hall, her cold gaze sweeping over groups of students.

She wore a long dark grey coat, buttoned high at the waist. The front had two rows of buttons and wide lapels that framed her chest and shoulders. A silver chain hung neatly from her waist. Under the coat, she wore a crisp white shirt and a black tie, with white cuffs peeking out from beneath the tight sleeves. The bottom of the coat flared out slightly as she moved, almost like a skirt.

She held a cane more like a scepter than a tool, a quiet symbol of control. The cane had a curved, ivory-colored handle with a silver base and a smooth, dark wooden shaft.

Her eyes met yours. A beat passed. Just long enough to feel it—a faint tightening in your chest, like a memory trying to surface. You looked down, heart hammering, unsure why your stomach turned over like that. You told yourself it was just the stress. The cold. The pain.

But when you looked up again, she was already walking toward you, the steady tap of her cane echoing lightly against the stone floor. Her expression didn’t change—still composed, cool—but there was something behind her eyes, only you couldn't tell what.

You shifted your weight again, another sharp pain shooting down your spine. It slowed into a dull ache, a cruel reminder of the potentially harmful situation you were in.

She stopped just in front of you, and up close, there was something oddly familiar about the scent of her perfume. You tried to focus on anything but the pain wracking through your body, and the scent of amber and black berries coming off of her as she looked you up and down. She scowled as if she’d expect more.

"You're not well,” she stated firmly, not a question but an observation.

You nod.

Her eyes scanned your face again, but there was hesitation behind it. There was a flicker of something aside from the usual indifference in her eyes, like she wasn’t just checking for signs of illness. Like she was searching for something.

"Come,” she said, turning with a rustle of fabric.

She didn't check to see if you were following her as she walked, but her pace was slow so you could keep up, even with the pain. Her cane struck the ground in a measured rhythm as she moved. You followed, each step jarring but manageable.

Eventually, the two of you came to a room with soft beds, curtains drawn around them for privacy. A thin woman in moss-colored robes leaned against the counter, looking vaguely bored, as there were no other patients to keep her busy.

You'd been silent the whole way there, the woman's intimidating presence making you second guess yourself every time you opened your mouth to speak. But, you'd finally worked up the courage to speak.

“Where am I?” you asked, voice timid and unsure.

She glanced over her shoulder, one brow raised, giving you a look like you’d just asked the most obvious question in the world.

“The Infirmary,” she said flatly, then turned away again.

You blinked. That… wasn’t what you meant. A beat passed before you tried again.

“That’s not—”

She turned back to face you fully, cutting you off before you could finish.

“You’re the Reader,” she said, like it was a diagnosis.

“I read, if that’s what you—”

“Shh.” The sound was soft but sharp, a condescending hush like you were interrupting something important. Her expression didn’t change.

“It’s not,” Her voice was just a tad softer now. “Every so often, a lucky candidate from the outside gets selected for admission to this hallowed institution.”

She paused, scrutinizing you for a moment before resuming her explanation.

"We call them Readers because they only get to read about the amazing adventures that originate here.”

“Adventures?” You question lightly.“

Fairytales,” she replied. “Now sit,” she added, brandishing her cane toward a bed. “If you don't feel better by orientation, I'll have someone bring you your things and brief you on the handbook.”

And with that, she was gone.

Lesso's footsteps echoed on the stone floor, the tap of her cane loud in the otherwise quiet corridors. Hundreds of students passed through those halls every year, most ending up as insignificant shrubbery in the top percentile’s story. There was no reason this one should’ve stayed in her mind—especially a Reader, known for being underachievers who had wormed their way into a world they neither understood nor belonged in.