Melissa de la Cruz needs no introduction at this point. The author has created an empire based off her beloved books series that span from the iconic vampire Blue Bloods series to her YA romantasy debut, The Queen's Assassin. And now she's back again with another magical series that transports us to a magical school where they discover something darker has hidden itself within the walls.
Cosmopolitan has an exclusive look at Sibylline by Melissa de la Cruz, which is set to be released on February 3, 2026. The book follows a trio of friends who will stop at nothing to get to attend their dream school, even if it means finding alternate ways to make their own magic to make it happen. For Melissa, the story is a bit personal as she remembers her daughter's time applying to schools.
"My daughter was applying to college and I just remember what a grueling journey it was and all the pressure she and her friends felt. It was so life-or-death for them, in a way that it wasn’t when I was that age," she said. "But now it feels like it’s impossible to get into an Ivy League school. (Full disclosure I went to Columbia and my daughter got into her first choice – my alma mater! We are so proud! But also exhausted after that process.) And it made me think – what if there was a magical Ivy League and there are these awesome kids – and they don’t get in. What then?"
Here's some more info from our friends at G.P. Putnam’s Sons Books for Young Readers:
Three teens infiltrate the magical ivy league in this heart-stopping dark academia romantasy from #1 New York Times bestselling author Melissa de la Cruz.
The special first edition of the hardcover edition features stunning stenciled edges and designed endpapers!
Raven, Atticus, and Dorian have dreamed of attending Sibylline for as long as they can remember. But when the magical university rejects them, the friends’ plans for a future studying the arcane together begin crashing down.
Until they decide to steal an education.
Getting jobs on campus, they sneak into lectures and swipe forbidden texts, dodging the administration’s watchful eye. In the quiet of night, in the thrill of secrecy, their magic awakens. And so do long-buried attractions that turn their friendship into something more.
But like magic, love can create, and it can destroy. As unrequited feelings and resentment threaten to fracture their bond, the trio discovers an insidious magic that has sunk its claws into Sibylline, killing students and corroding the very bones of the university. Now the three intruders may be the key to saving the institution from wreckage . . . if they don’t wreck one another first.
Ready to meet this magical new trio? Check out an exclusive excerpt below! Just make sure to pre-order Sibylline so you don't miss it when it releases and even check out some of Melissa's previous reads!
An Excerpt From Sibylline
By Melissa de la Cruz
1
Raven
It’s a terrible thing: wanting.
The envelope sits unopened in my hands. It’s heavy, not with the weight of its contents but with its purpose. Acceptance or rejection? The letter will dictate my fate. My name glitters in sil- very ink on the envelope, the wax seal for Sibylline College of Magical Arts still intact and tempting me to break it. It should be easy, like ripping off a Band-Aid. But I can’t bring myself to do it. I’ve been waiting for this letter for what feels like my whole life, and now I’m not sure what to do with it. I both want and don’t want to know what’s inside. A purgatory of my own creation, and I’ve been trapped in it since the letter’s unexpected arrival.
It appeared in between the pages of a library book I had checked out. Sibylline has no need for the postal service, of course.
I texted the group chat right away, sending a single exclamation point. I didn’t have to say anything more than that. We all know when and where to meet. I’m still holding the letter tightly when I claim our bench on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, with its picturesque view of the Manhattan skyline in the umber summer evening. People trying to capture the fading summer light with their phones walk past me, but all I can do is look at the letter in my hand.
A figure approaches. A dark-haired boy in a shabby but elegant tweed coat, hems and cuffs frayed from wear. A rare vintage find, like the wearer.
“Got yours, huh?” Atticus asks, flashing an envelope. It’s identical to mine, save for his name: Atticus Edward Garcia. My relief upon seeing my friend is only a brief respite from the anxiety churning in my gut.
“I didn’t want to open it alone,” I say as he takes a seat next to me. “Me neither,” he says. A paper tray sits on his lap with three
iced coffees from the nearby cafe.
“I don’t think I should have any caffeine. I’m shaking already,” I say.
“That’s why I got you an herbal iced tea.”
He knows me so well, even without his gift for reading people. He hands me my drink and a straw, and I accept it gratefully, though I don’t take a sip. My stomach might just hurl it back up.
“Dorian?” I ask.
“On his way.” Atticus sets down the tray with Dorian’s drink on the bench.
“Where’d you get the letter?” I ask.
He takes a long sip and sighs. “I was doing line work in my sketchbook, and poof”—he flicks his free hand, mimicking a firework—“there it was, replacing the pen in my hand.”
I nod, my insides still twisting with anticipation. I take a deep breath and set both the drink and my decision letter down to rub my throbbing temples. Meanwhile, Atticus at my side has one arm thrown over the back of the bench casually.
“How do you always seem so calm?” I ask. “Weeks of waiting, and you’re just . . . fine?”
Atticus watches joggers passing by on the promenade, appreciating the last vestiges of summer. “Don’t let appearances fool you.” He talks around the straw in his mouth, lazily resting the tip of it against his teeth as he says, “Life’s a façade.” He swivels his head and looks at me with his deep brown eyes. “I read that on a fortune cookie somewhere.”
He manages to get a smile out of me, which is exactly what he wanted. It does make me feel a little bit better now that he’s here. When Atticus isn’t drawing for the architecture firm where his mom works as a clerk, he scribbles in his notebooks and on tabletops, and sometimes, when there is no other surface available, he makes do. Ink covers his jeans. I can tell he’s nervous now, especially since he’s whipped out one of his fancy pens and started drawing crosshatches on his denim-covered thigh.
“If you must know, I’m terrified,” he says, not looking up from his work. Each stroke of the pen is a delicate, practiced flick, each line perfectly spaced.
I like watching him work. I like watching him most of the time, but especially now. I love the way the sunset makes his brown skin glow. His full lips part as he sighs, his eyes dancing over his work, as if he’s memorizing each line and shape he creates.
“If any of us gets in,” he says, glancing at me from behind his shaggy bangs, “it’ll definitely be you. You’re the best of us. Plus, you’re the only one of us who can afford it.”
“Money doesn’t matter,” I say, trying to downplay it.
“Raven, I love you with all my heart, but people with money always say money doesn’t matter. It also doesn’t take away from the fact that you’re a natural magician.”
A hot blush rises on my face. My parents would say we’re “comfortable,” which Atticus has pointed out is code to mean haven’t a care in the world, along with the “cottage” in the Hamptons (a ten-bedroom estate) and the London “attic” (a penthouse with river views). Dorian and Atticus don’t have the same luxuries, and despite what many “comfortable” people want to believe, innate magical ability cannot be bought. A small percentage of the population has innate magical ability, people like us. Different. Special. Gifted. Everyone else can learn magic from spell books if they’re accepted into a magical college, but for us, magic is like breathing.
I sigh, knowing it’s best to drop the line of conversation, and notice a group of older tourists wearing matching backpacks, their expressions confused as they look around. Their rapid-fire German makes my ears perk. At first, I don’t understand what they’re saying. Then something clicks, like a camera lens focusing, and all at once, I do.
The leader of the pack is staring at a map and shaking his head. “Ich—don’t know which way to go. Maybe we missed a turn?”
“Excuse me, do you need help?” I say in flawless German.
The tourists turn in my direction, then eyebrows shoot up. The man with the map stares at me, hopeful. “Oh! You speak German?” I don’t have to look directly at Atticus to know he’s smiling.
This is business as usual, even if he doesn’t understand a word we’re saying.
I answer them, providing the directions they need.
When I sit back down on the bench, Atticus is still smiling. “Seeing you use your magic never gets old,” he says, chewing on the straw from his iced coffee. He waves his hand over my head, passing his fingers through the aura only he can see. It’s like he’s trying to touch an invisible cloud. “You’re shining.”
I’m what’s called a “situational polyglot,” confirmed when I was eight by a specialist who studies magical skills in children. Our high school, Wellington Prep, had a dedicated track for kids like us. That’s how I met Atticus and Dorian. We were the only kids in the program.
My whole life has been working toward this moment. The instant I heard about Sibylline’s existence, my entire universe shifted. Nonmagical nerds can have Harvard and Yale. There’s only one Ivy that counts for the magically inclined, and that’s Sibylline.
It’s not the only school in North America dedicated to the study of magic, but it is by far the oldest and best. Other magical schools teach rudimentary magic, or magic history. They’ll help you pick up a minor spell here and there, but there is only one that instructs students in the mastery of the supernatural arts, one school with access to the oldest grimoires and the ancient wisdom they contain. In magic, knowledge is everything, and Sibylline guards its secrets closely. I want to know it all.
The envelope tempts me from the bench, so I slide it under my book.
“You’re gifted,” he says when he sees me hide the envelope. “They’d be absolute idiots not to let you in.”
“Not really in my control, is it?”
The only problem is that getting into the most prestigious magical university in the country is one of the hardest things anyone can do. The odds are not in my favor, with only a one-in- three-thousand chance, they say, 0.03 percent. Might as well buy a lottery ticket while getting struck by lightning in the midst of a plane crash. And it’s even worse for the three of us, not being the children of alumni. There’s a rumor that Sibylline hasn’t accepted nonlegacy admissions in generations, but the Supreme Court of Magicians ruled that there was nothing discriminatory in Sibylline’s policies.
“I’m not special in the ways that seem to matter,” I say. Even in the magical world, pedigree means everything.
“Well, you’re special to me, so that matters,” says Atticus.
There’s that heavy-lidded smile again.
My chest swells so much it aches. Having a crush on one of your best friends is a unique kind of agony that makes every atom of your being feel like screaming.
Atticus lifts his head, as if called to attention, and his gaze snags on something in the distance. He takes in the slightest breath. “He’s here,” he says.
I turn to see Dorian coming toward us on the promenade, wearing his signature navy wool peacoat despite the summer evening. Blond-haired, green-eyed, and straight-browed, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders.
When he spots us, he holds up his own envelope with a gloved hand. My stomach swoons at the sight of it, the anticipation before the drop on a roller coaster.
Atticus’s eyes light up when he sees him, and his smile widens. “You open it yet?”
“Didn’t even think to do it alone, Finch,” he says, calling Atticus by his nickname, as in the hero from To Kill a Mockingbird. Dorian’s voice is as buttery as the sunset sky. “I haven’t been this afraid to touch something in a long time.”
“If you touched it with a bare hand, could you intuit what’s inside?” I ask.
“With something this magical, most definitely.” Dorian drags his gloved hand through his hair, making it flop endearingly back into place, then he tugs at his kid leather gloves, making sure they’re up to his wrists. It’s a nervous habit. We’re all twitchy.
Our lives are already defined by Sibylline, whether we want to admit it or not. It’s the one chance we have of becoming real wizards. Otherwise kids like us get shuffled to basic magic programs and end up at some bank or accounting firm, using magic to sniff out whether people are lying on their loan applications. Boring and tedious work.
Atticus gets to his feet, replacing his pen and withdrawing his letter. “No matter what happens, I’m proud of us,” he says, looking at me and then at Dorian, his smile for him even more radiant, so that I get a tiny twinge of jealousy.
“Together?” Dorian asks, holding up his envelope, glancing at the both of us.
“Nil sine magno labore,” Atticus says. Nothing without great effort. It’s our motto for the Oneiric Society, the geeky name of our little club of strivers. You have to earn your keep, nothing is given for free, something we know all too well.
Dorian’s eyes linger on mine, sparkling in the setting sun like the flickering lights of the city. He looks at me like I look at Atticus. But that’s not what I’m worried about now. I nod as I stand, repeating, “Nil sine magno labore!”
Dorian says it back, completing the circle. I’m a lot braver when I’m with my friends, but my hands shake as I wedge my finger under the envelope’s flap.
“Three, two, one,” says Atticus, and we all open our letters. “Here goes nothing.”
None of us speak—I’m not sure we even breathe—as we read. The letter is written in a fine, looping script, and the sheet is made of yellowed parchment, the ink silver and glittering.
Miss Raven Chen,
Thank you for your application to Sibylline College of Magical Arts. Unfortunately—
Unfortunately.
One word.
It crushes my dream as easily as shattering glass.
I look up at Dorian and Atticus. They’re both stock-still, staring at their letters. Dorian’s face is white. Atticus blinks a few times, then finally he says, “Oh.”
I don’t have to be a psychic like Atticus to know what happened. Atticus gently refolds the letter and slides it neatly back in the envelope, his mouth set into a grim line. Dorian crumples his up and throws it in the nearest trash can with a huff.
My knees give out, and I collapse back down on the bench.
I check and recheck the letter, hoping the words are different, that maybe my mind misread it. But no, it’s real. I didn’t get in. I won’t be attending Sibylline. I won’t achieve my dream. I might as well die. Right here and now. I don’t even want to think about what I did wrong. I performed well on the written exams, scoring high marks in history and lore, and in the interview, I displayed my talents, transcribing in real time the text the assessor offered to me, a piece apparently written by an eighteenth-century monk in his own private dialect. I’d done well, but it hadn’t mattered.
I want to leap off the pier or tear the letter into a thousand little pieces. I need to scream, but I choke down the urge. How can I not be good enough? Me? I worked so hard for this! How many sleepless nights did I spend studying for the MSAT, the arcane college admissions test? Was being the president of Manhattan’s Youth Magicians Club not enough? What about my national award for excellence in sorcery? Did none of it even matter? My application was perfect, perfect.
The disappointment is numbing.
Atticus clicks his tongue. “Maybe it’s for the better. It’s just a school for a bunch of magic snobs and elitist wizards and rich enchanters. So what’s even the point?”
“An education,” says Dorian dryly, masking his hurt with humor. “And I think you need all the help you can get.”
Atticus lets out a laugh. Dorian smiles back. That’s what comes with being friends. Best friends. All of us. No matter what, we’re together. We’d planned on attending Sibylline—so now what? Will we have to separate? My mouth feels dry at the thought.
“Well, there goes my one chance,” says Atticus. “You didn’t apply anywhere else?” Dorian asks. “It was either Sibylline or nothing,” he says.
“Me too,” I say, and Dorian nods. We all did the same.
I won’t let this happen to us. I refuse. I can’t give up. Not now, not ever. “What if we don’t take no for an answer?”
Dorian’s eyebrows rise, and he looks at me, as if trying to read my expression.
“What are you saying? Reject their rejection? We can’t make them accept us,” Atticus says. “Can we?”
I picture Sibylline’s students on their first day of class: groups of eager young magicians walking the cobblestone streets, studying in the grand halls, and learning all that is worth knowing from masters of the craft. Everything that matters is there, nestled in the ivy-covered arches and the ancient tomes. I’d give anything to be there, at the center of it all. I’d do anything, any job . . .
It’s then that an idea starts to form.
My entire world is books, old histories and tragic tales alike. Since freshman year, I’ve worked in the school library as an assistant. When I walk into it, I feel at home. But home isn’t the same without my friends.
I can’t say goodbye to Atticus. Or Dorian. Not yet.
“Maybe . . .” I say slowly, still forming the thought, “if we can’t attend Sibylline as students, we can find work there instead.”
“Work, you mean, like, get a job on campus?” Dorian asks. “Oh, Raven. You genius,” Atticus says. “Exactly! If the school won’t teach us, we’ll work in the libraries, museums, and anywhere else. The next best thing.”
Dorian unfolds his arms and shrugs. “Sibylline adjacent. Huh.” He glances at me, seeing how I’m feeling, his eyes hopeful. “It could work. If we’re there, we’ll have access to all the same materials as the students. Maybe we can teach ourselves.”
“Get our hands on some books, eavesdrop on lectures, copy lesson plans. I’d even pay a student to do their homework for them, instead of the other way around.” I laugh. “Maybe trick a wizard or two into meeting us for office hours. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll let us in after they get to know us. Can’t hurt to try, can it?”
I admit, my heart’s racing. It sounds risky. It sounds hard, but it’s a chance.
“We’ll need to update our résumés, get references, write some letters . . .” Atticus says.
“Sacrifice a virgin under the full moon,” jokes Dorian.
“So we’re doing this?” Atticus asks. He looks at me and Dorian, his dark eyes glittering.
“We’re going to learn magic,” I say. “One way or another, at any cost. Agreed?”
Dorian’s smile splits. “Nil sine magno labore, right?”
“Nil sine magno labore,” Atticus echoes.
Text copyright © 2026 by Melissa de la Cruz. Reprinted by permission of G.P. Putnam’s Sons Books for Young Readers, an imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group, a division of Penguin Random House. All Rights Reserved.
Sibylline, by Melissa de la Cruz will be released on February 3, 2026 from G.P. Putnam’s Sons Books for Young Readers. To preorder the book, click on the retailer of your choice:
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