The Medusa's Honey Trap

The spring semester at the Academy had barely begun when Mother's enchanted letter burst into flames on my desk, that familiar acrid smoke already filling the air.

The smoke swirled and her voice emerged, sharp with anxiety:

"Cecilia, have you found a human man yet?"

"Less than a month left before we must present our tribute to the tribe. Noah is your own brother—can you really stand by and watch him die?"

Surrendering Noah meant certain death.

Over eighty Medusa females in the tribe were of breeding age. Noah had been frail since birth, his scales pale as paper.

If he were dragged onto that cold stone altar to serve as a breeding tool, he wouldn't survive the first night.

But where the hell was I supposed to find a human man?

Our Medusa clan's territory lay deep within the Mistwood Canyon, beyond the prosperous borders of the human Empire, shrouded in perpetual fog and saturated with damp, decaying shadow magic.

As if some ancient curse flowed through our bloodline, the tribe had suffered for centuries from an irreversible gender imbalance.

Female Medusas were born with breathtaking beauty and seductive forms, apex magical predators on this continent.

But males were desperately frail—most died before reaching adulthood, slipping away without a sound.

Because males had become so scarce, the tribal priestess had established that brutal law:

Every ten years, all thirty-three families participated in the black stone drawing.

The chosen family had a decade to produce an adult male for the temple, to contribute his magic and bloodline for procreation, lest the clan face extinction.

Three years ago, my mother's trembling hand had drawn that black stone from the bone urn.

And our family's only male was my brother Noah, only fifteen years old.

Even though Mother had exhausted every resource, keeping him alive with black market potions, the deadline had finally arrived.

Hand him over to be drained by the clan's females, and he would die from magical depletion and vital essence exhaustion. Guaranteed.

Lately, Mother's enchanted messages came almost daily. She constantly urged me to use this face, this body, to capture a man from the human world and bring him back to the canyon.

A mage with abundant magic and robust constitution. A sacrifice. A scapegoat.

But I knew better than anyone what fate awaited any human brought to Mistwood Canyon—certain death. No exceptions. Not in all of history.

I couldn't bring myself to murder an innocent person just to prolong our dying bloodline.

I'd just waved away the lingering smoke when my dorm door burst open.

"Cecilia! Stop hiding in here like a hermit!"

My roommate Elara rushed in, bringing early spring's chill and a face full of excitement.

"The Dueling Club just won the Spring League championship tonight! The whole Academy's going crazy! They've rented out the Golden Griffin Tavern for everyone—come with me, please!"

As a scholarship student from the remote borderlands, I had no desire to join such revelry.

But the crushing despair in my chest made facing an empty room unbearable. I finally sighed and nodded.

The moment I pushed open the Golden Griffin's doors, the heat of ale and the thunder of magical fireworks hit me.

Nearly half the Academy had crammed inside, and at the center of that celebrating crowd stood Bradley.

The Dueling Club's captain, the absolute core who'd led the team to victory, the most dazzling figure in the entire Imperial Academy of Magic.

He was blessed by the gods themselves. His magical power was unfathomable, his features sculpted and striking. Half the girls at the Academy longed for just one glance from him.

Including me, of course.

Males from Mistwood Canyon were always cold-blooded and sickly, reeking of death.

But Bradley was different. When he unleashed fire magic across the dueling arena's sand, he was like a sun capable of dispelling all shadows.

But I'd never confessed to him. Never could.

Because as the next matriarch of the Medusa tribe, I would eventually return to that swamp.

Once away from that shadow-magic-saturated mist for too long, my scales would dry out, my organs would gradually fail.

And Bradley was destined for the Empire's most glorious halls.

In the tavern's pushing crowd, I was accidentally shoved to the long table, landing in the seat right beside him.

He was impossibly thoughtful. Whenever he noticed my gaze lingering for even a second on some magically roasted meat, he'd quietly cast a levitation charm, sliding the plate before me.

When several drunk senior team members started jeering, insisting I down a dwarven liquor that could burn through throat glands, Bradley merely gave them a cool glance and smoothly took the cup from my hand, tilting his head back to drain it himself.

At some point, the tavern's revelry became stifling.

A group, emboldened by alcohol, snuck into the Observatory Tower—strictly forbidden by the Academy.

In the night wind and the cold radiance of the twin moons, Bradley stood at the tower's edge. Before everyone, he snapped his fingers.

Overwhelming magic surged forth as he conjured a boundless golden meteor shower.

Then, on this championship night that belonged to him, before all those watching eyes, amid the cascading golden light, he walked straight toward me.

He looked at me intently, those sapphire eyes reflecting starlight and warmth:

"Cecilia, I like you. Will you be my girlfriend?"

Gasps erupted around us.

The Observatory's corners were dark enough that no one could see the despair and tears suddenly flooding my eyes.

Was this some incredibly realistic illusion spell?

If so, I prayed to the gods to let this spell last forever, to let me die in this brilliant dream and never wake up.

But unfortunately...

The dry, cracking scales on my neck pulsed with sharp pain, cruelly reminding me—

I was ultimately a monster destined to die alone in a dark canyon. I didn't deserve to embrace the sun, much less drag it into the abyss.

In the breathless silence, I forced down the blood and bitterness rising in my throat.

Then I heard my own voice, calm to the point of cruelty:

"I'm sorry, Bradley. I... I don't like you."