Page 103 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

"She's changed things," I say finally, breaking the contemplative silence. "Whether we intended it or not, her presence has shifted the balance here."

"The question is," Mortimer closes his book with a soft thump, "will that shift be welcomed or perceived as a threat?"

Before anyone can respond, the air in the chamber grows heavier. The magical pressure increases until it feels like we are underwater, the very atmosphere seeming to condense around us.

Gwenivere stirs in her sleep, a small frown creasing her brow, but doesn't wake. Grim moves closer, his form flickering like a candle in the wind, while Cassius's shadows writhe with increased agitation.

"I suppose we're about to find out," I murmur, straightening as the chamber's massive doors begin to open.

The Headmaster awaits, and with them, perhaps, answers to questions we hadn't even known to ask.

Though whether those answers will bring clarity or chaos remains to be seen.

The air shifts, reality-bending as the figure enters.

Their presence alone commands attention, the sheer magnitude of power rolling off them in waves that make the chamber's ancient stones groan.

Standing at least seven feet tall, they move with an otherworldly grace that defies their imposing stature. Each steptriggers a cascade of magic —— runes and incantations blooming beneath their feet like dark flowers opening to moonlight.

The patterns spread outward, perfect five-inch diameter circles of ancient power that pulse with a rhythm that feels older than time itself. Their heavy cloak seems to absorb light rather than reflect it, the fabric moving in ways that suggest it's more alive than inanimate.

The hood obscures their features completely, but the weight of their gaze is palpable —— a force that turns the very air to lead.

In an instant, the room freezes.

Not metaphorically, but literally —— every occupant caught mid-motion like insects in amber. The sudden stillness is absolute and unnatural, and my heart pounds against my ribs as I realize I'm one of the only beings still able to move.

My gaze darts to Cassius first.

The Duskwalker prince is completely immobilized, his shadows frozen mid-writhe around Gwenivere's sleeping form. Even Grim, in his newfound corporeal state, stands like a statue —— his cloak of darkness and white flame caught in an impossible moment of stillness.

Damien's condition nearly makes me laugh, despite the gravity of the situation. He's frozen with his mouth half-open, crimson eyes wide and fixed on the Headmaster's approaching form.

The perpetually composed vampire prince looks almost comical in his suspended state of shock.

Only Gwenivere seems untouched by the magical paralysis, her chest rising and falling in the deep rhythm of exhausted sleep. She shifts slightly, burrowing deeper into Cassius's frozen form as if seeking warmth, completely oblivious to the power saturating the air around us.

Then I feel it —— the burning beneath my skin as my carefully maintained facades begin to crack.

Power surges through me, impossible to contain any longer.

My skin begins to glow with an earthen radiance, the light pulsing in time with my racing heart. Runes and markings I've spent centuries concealing rise to the surface like cream separating from milk, each one a testament to battles and burdens I'd rather forget.

A mirror on the chamber's wall catches my attention, and I can't help but stare at the reflection it offers. The image feels both familiar and foreign, like greeting an old friend who's become a stranger.

My hair, usually kept at a manageable length, now cascades past my shoulders down to my ankles in waves of liquid gold. Strands of pure starlight weave through it, creating patterns that shift and change with each subtle movement.

It's my true form's crown —— a living reminder of the power that flows through my veins.

The tribal markings that cover my exposed skin tell stories in a language few remember. Each one represents a life taken, a power consumed, in the endless game of succession that plagues Fae royalty. Some are delicate, like frost on glass, while others are bold and harsh —— jagged lines that speak of battles won through blood and fury.

A particularly prominent mark curves around my throat, its edges still faintly silver even after all these years.

I earned that one taking down my eldest brother when he tried to poison our father's mind against me. The memory of his face ——shocked that his "weak" younger sibling could best him—— still brings a grim satisfaction.

The robes that now clothe my form are not the practical uniform of Wicked Academy, but the traditional garments of Fae royalty. They shimmer with embedded magic, the fabricseeming to catch and reflect light that doesn't exist in this realm. Patterns of leaves and vines move across the surface, each one a testament to the natural powers I command.

Above my head, the crown hovers —— an impossibility of precious metals and living magic that refuses to settle.

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