Page 119 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

The mark on my neck pulses faintly as if responding to my thoughts.

Another mystery in a growing collection of them, but when a second pulse —this one radiating warmth through my chest like sunlight breaking through clouds— makes itself known, I freeze mid-brush.

My reflection stares back at me, toothpaste foam forgotten as my attention darts between the two marks.

The first one, Cassius's bond mark, I know well enough by now. Its presence on my neck has become almost comforting, a constant reminder of that intense connection forged in blood and shadow. The way it pulses with cool energy has become familiar, like the touch of frost on a winter morning.

But as my gaze drifts lower, drawn by that second pulse of warmth, I notice one of the shirt's buttons has come undone.

The gap reveals something that definitely wasn't there before — a mark glowing with pure golden light just above my cleavage, its radiance impossible to ignore.

An infinity symbol, perfectly rendered as if drawn by master artists, pulses with gentle warmth. The lines flow with impossible grace, each curve speaking of eternity and possibility. On either side, flowers bloom in stark contrast — one crafted in pure darkness, its petals seeming to absorb light itself, the other in blinding radiance, as if a star had been captured and transformed into botanical form.

The magic emanating from it feels different from Cassius's mark, yet somehow complementary. Where he carries notes of shadow and frost, this one radiates warmth and vitality.

The combination should feel discordant, but instead, they harmonize like instruments in a perfectly tuned orchestra.

The toothbrush slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers, toothpaste dripping into the pristine sink. The soft plop of bristles hitting porcelain barely registers through my shock.

"No fucking way," I whisper, my eyes wide as realization dawns. My fingers drift to the mark, and the moment they make contact, warmth floods through me — like stepping into the sunlight after too long in shadow.

Two marks. Two bonds. Two princes.

The implications send my head spinning, but before I can fully process them, my body is moving.

I follow the enticing scent of pancakes and bacon, bare feet sliding across polished floors until I skid into what must be the kitchen.

The domestic scene that greets me feels surreal in its normalcy, like stepping into a painting of impossible things.

Mortimer occupies one end of a heavy wooden table that could easily seat twelve. His tall frame is bent over what appears to be a newspaper, but the way the pages shimmer faintly at the edges suggests glamoured content.

Knowing him, he's probably studying some ancient text about forbidden magic while pretending to read the morning news.

His usual formal attire has been replaced by something closer to casual — though for him, that still means perfectly pressed slacks and a sweater that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. His pale eyes scan whatever he's reading with intense focus, while one hand absently stirs a cup of what smells like Earl Grey tea.

Cassius hunches over a plate of scrambled eggs at the opposite end of the table, prodding them with his fork as if they've personally offended his entire bloodline.

His shadows writhe sluggishly around his shoulders, suggesting he's not fully awake yet — which might explain why his usual perfect posture has given way to something almost resembling a sulk.

He's dressed down as well, wearing black sweatpants and a tank top that shows off the intricate runic tattoos covering his arms. The marks shift and move across his skin like living things, responding to his mood even if his expression remains carefully neutral.

And Nikolai — he stands at a gleaming counter, pausing in the act of pouring coffee into a mug that steams with promising warmth.

His golden hair cascades past his shoulders now, catching the morning light in ways that make it look alive. The sight of him sends another pulse of warmth through the mark on my chest, leaving absolutely no doubt about its origin.

He's wearing loose linen pants and nothing else, his bare chest decorated with runes that pulse with the same golden light as my new mark. The casual display of skin and power should probably embarrass me, but after everything that's happened, it feels almost natural.

His mark. His claim.

His Queen?

The fragments of that half-remembered conversation suddenly feel much more significant, pieces of a puzzle I'm only beginning to understand.

The three of them create a tableau that shouldn't work — a death magic scholar pretending to read the morning paper, a Duskwalker prince fighting with breakfast, and a Fae royal casually making coffee while half-naked.

Yet somehow it feels right as if I'm glimpsing something precious and rare:a moment of true comfort between beings who usually maintain careful distances.

And now I'm part of it.

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