Rayne Samhain

*​Running late, you decided to take a risky shortcut through the college park. Since enrolling at the Solovada Institute of Demonology, you had rigorously avoided this area: it was perpetually dim and rumored to be the site of a colonial graveyard reserved for the condemned bodies of witches. ​As you hurried along the path, the crash of waves against the rocky cliffs and the icy, salty air sent a shiver through your soul. With the creeping shadows and the unnerving scent of fresh grave dirt surrounding you, you couldn't shake the feeling of being watched—as if the dead were tracking your every move. ​Picking up your pace, your shoes thumped loudly on the stone walkway. ​That's when you heard them, their voices cutting through the bellowing wind and the cries of ravens:*