Page 106 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

"Then this one…a prince of false pride. Desperately reaches for Pureblood status while making no progress, unlike his siblings. The true black sheep, clutching a throne through mere birthright while bringing nothing but disgrace to his line."

The words are cruel but calculated, designed to provoke a reaction. I keep my expression neutral, though anger simmers beneath my skin at hearing my friend so casually dissected.

"His charm and cockiness serve him well enough here,"they continue, circling Damien's frozen form like a predator assessing prey."Though as the puppeteer of your trials and hardships, I'm tempted to make things more...challenging. See how long that shell of comfortable arrogance lasts when truly tested."

The casual mention of their control over our trials sends a chill down my spine. It's one thing to suspect the Headmaster's involvement in our daily struggles —— another entirely to hear them speak of it so brazenly.

Their power pulses again, making the air thick enough to choke on. The runes beneath their feet spread further, creating complex patterns that seem to write and rewrite the very laws of reality.

I watch them carefully, noting how their movements, though fluid, carry an undertone of restraint as if they're deliberately holding back even greater displays of power. It's the same game I've played countless times in Fae courts:showing enough to demand respect while keeping your true capabilities hidden.

The crown above my head pulses in response to their proximity, its magic recognizing a kindred force of nature. I force it to remain steady, refusing to let it descend even partially. The weight of it —— both physical and metaphysical —— would be too revealing and vulnerable in this precarious moment.

They may be a powerful entity within the walls of Wicked Academy, but at the end of the day, outside these pulsing wallsof ancient forbidden magic are those who are even stronger than the Headmaster.

Plenty of fish in this vast sea of hierarchy and helplessness.

Their attention shifts again, and I brace myself for whatever game comes next. The air grows heavier still, magic condensing until each breath feels like drowning in power.

The Headmaster drifts away from Damien with fluid grace, their movement creating ripples in the fabric of reality.

"It's time to remind this little fish of his place,"they muse, their voice carrying notes of cruel amusement."He plays at power, splashing in shallow pools while oceans of true might remain beyond his comprehension."

I can't help but think of the trials we've just endured —— the broken slates, the freed souls, the sheer magnitude of what we'd witnessed.

"With respect," I say carefully, "there was nothing tame about what we faced."

Their laugh echoes through the chamber, the sound hollow and devoid of genuine emotion. It bounces off the ancient stones like shards of broken glass, each echoes more unsettling than the last.

They pause before Gwenivere's sleeping form, but their hooded face turns slightly toward me over their shoulder. The gesture, though slight, carries immense weight —— as if the very air bends to accommodate their movement.

"Unexpected outcomes, yes,"they concede, their voice dropping to a dangerous whisper."But surely you understand that those trials were mere droplets in an ocean of possibility. I could devise challenges that would eliminate ninety percent of the student body before they could form a single coherent thought about survival."

The casual admission sends chills racing down my spine. Not because I doubt the truth of it ——the power radiating from them makes such claims entirely believable—— but because of the implicit threat woven through their words.

My attention snaps to Gwenivere as the Headmaster moves closer to her sleeping figure.

Every protective instinct I possess screams at their proximity to her vulnerable form, but I force myself to remain still. Even with my true power unveiled, challenging them directly would be suicide.

"Are we going to continue pretending,"they ask suddenly,"that I don't see the female student in our midst?"

I maintain my silence, letting it serve as an answer enough.

To speak now, to confirm or deny, would only give them more ammunition.

The laugh that follows is nothing like their previous displays of amusement. This one carries weight and darkness, promising consequences that make my ancient blood run cold.

It's the kind of laugh I haven't heard since the darker days of Fae court politics —— when enemies were made to disappear without trace or testimony.

"Are you deliberately provoking me, young prince?"Their voice carries edges sharp enough to draw blood."Or perhaps this is some elaborate scheme concocted with Mortimer? Revenge for the many times I've denied his requests for an audience, dismissed his fascinating philosophies about the nature of our realm?"

The accusation hangs in the air like poisoned honey; sweet on the surface but deadly underneath.

"I have no part in this outcome," I reply steadily, choosing each word with careful precision. "Nor do I believe Mortimerharbors resentment toward one who deemed him unworthy of conversation. He understands his place in the hierarchy of power."

The Headmaster says nothing for a long moment, the silence stretching thin and dangerous between us. Then, with deliberate slowness, they reach toward Gwenivere's sleeping form.

The reaction is instant and blinding.

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