Page 20 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

"How long do we have? Before our window of plausible deniability closes?"

"That depends," Mortimer says, glancing meaningfully at the lightening sky outside. "On whether she survives the entirety of the sunrise. If she doesn't, this becomes a very different kind of problem."

My blood runs cold at the implication.

If she dies, we'll have a dead female student to explain;one who somehow breached our defenses and died on our watch.

If she lives...we become conspirators in what the Hexarchs would undoubtedly view as treason against their authority.

The scent of her hits me again. That impossible blend of death and life, power and vulnerability. My spirit cradles her closer, a gesture that feels simultaneously protective and possessive.

What have we gotten ourselves into?

"What now?" Nikolai's voice carries an edge of barely contained panic. "I refuse to be held responsible for some random boy bringing about our downfall." He paces the length of the room, emerald magic crackling around him like static electricity. "Have you forgotten what's at stake? This isn't just another year at the academy."

The Fae prince's crown catches the growing dawn light, throwing prismatic shadows across the walls.

"Wehaveto attend the Academy of the Wicked properly this time. Our positions, our titles, everything we've worked for?—"

"They would never dare outcast royalty," Damien interrupts with a dismissive wave of his hand, but there's a tension in his shoulders that betrays his uncertainty. "Look around, Nikolai. How many royal youth remain in all the realms? How many still possess pure bloodlines and untainted power? They're struggling to maintain loyalty from the few of us left."

His words carry weight — we all know the truth of them.

The ancient bloodlines are failing, power diluting with each generation. Those of us who remain pure-blooded are rare enough to be considered precious resources.

But Mortimer's soft laugh holds no humor.

"By all means," he says, pale eyes gleaming with that particular coldness that reminds us of his true nature, "continue believing your royal blood grants you immunity. Test that theory against the Hexarchs' will. I'm certain it will make for an...educational experience."

Fuck…

The silence that follows feels sharp enough to draw blood.

Mortimer may humble himself for us in many ways, but he gets no benefit from lying to us. Meaning, if he’s saying we’ll become educational puppets for thinking we’re the shit because of our royal blood, chances are, we’ll be fucked if we play stupid games.

Playing stupid games leads to winning stupid prizes.

Damien recovers first, gesturing sharply at our unconscious guest.

"Well, ifhe'sreally ashe, let's prove it right now." His voice takes on a harder edge. "For all we know, this could be an elaborate plot. A spy sent to infiltrate and set us up for failure. Maybe the sister story is just a convenient cover?—"

"Is there a way to show them?" I interrupt, directing the question to Mortimer. The words come out rougher than intended, thick with an emotion I'm not ready to name.

I want this conversation to be over with so I can get out of these clothes and take a cold shower.

Nikolai's head snaps toward me, eyes narrowing.

"Why do you phrase it like that? As if you're already convinced about her true nature?"

I hesitate, weighing my next words carefully.

In our world, admitting to uncertainty is often seen as weakness.

But the glimpses I've seen...

"I've caught flashes of white hair, features that don't match the male glamour. Though it could be because my spirit?—"

A cloud of dark smoke puffs from my shadow creature's mouth, cutting me off mid-sentence.

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