Page 15 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

Nikolai draws himself up to his full height, crown glinting in the early dawn light. His aura is magnificent, dancing with such majestic grace and intensity, that I’m sure Gwenivere can feel its threatening presence.

"I am Fae royalty. No one speaks to me in that tone."

Yet, it seems she doesn’t give a flying fuck.

"Suck it up, buttercup!" Gwenivere shoots back, swaying slightly. "Be the president of Narnia for all I care! I won't give a damn!"

I bite back a smile as Nikolai's jaw drops.

In five centuries, I've never seen anyone dismiss his title so casually. The Fae prince looks like he's trying to decide between outrage and amazement.

Gwenivere rubs at her eyes, which have started to droop.

"Ugh, I hate drinking blood. Stupid coma effects..."

She stomps back to Cassius, who tenses when she plants herself directly in front of him.

"Thanks," she says coldly, then spins on her heel toward the door. "I'm going home before I'm stuck in this wicked shithole."

"Where exactly do you think you're going?" I ask though I suspect I already know the answer.

"Home! Like I’ve repeated at least one hundred fucking times!" she declares, marching forward with determined steps.

Right into the solid oak door.

The four of us stare in absolute silence as she crumples to the floor, out cold.

The mighty hybrid who just survived drinking Duskwalker blood, taken down by simple architecture…

It takes everything to not laugh at the irony of all of this.

"Uhhh..." Nikolai pinches the bridge of his nose. "That did not fucking happen."

"Rather entertaining, actually," Cassius comments, the ghost of amusement in his voice.

I sigh, looking between my charges.

"Are any of you going to pick her up, or...?"

Damien grunts, massaging his temples.

"No. My head is killing me after that display. I need a blood pack to recover from whatever the hell just happened."

Before any of us can move, something extraordinary occurs.

The shadows around Cassius coalesce, taking physical form.

But not the usual abstract shapes of his power – this is his Duskwalker creature in its true form, manifesting without command.

An ivory skull gleams in the dawn light, eye sockets filled with writhing shadows that seem to reach outward. With gentle care that seems impossible for such a being, it lifts Gwenivere's unconscious form from the floor.

"Cassius," I say carefully, "did you summon it?"

"No." His response is quiet but clear. "He emerged on his own."

The significance of this hits us all at once.

Duskwalker creatures are extensions of their master's will – they don't act independently. Theycan't. Yet here we are, watching this ancient being cradle our unexpected intruder like something precious.

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