Page 45 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

The runes continue their nervous dance across my skin, like they're trying to tell me something I'm not quite grasping.There's more happening here than a simple search for a teammate. The political undertones, the pressure from their kingdoms, the involvement of one of the mysterious Seven...

What have I stumbled into?

The man's voice drips with aristocratic disdain as he continues speaking, but I find myself focusing on the strange way my magic reacts to him. The flames under my skin pulse in time with my heartbeat now, creating patterns that seem to respond to the mark on my neck.

Everything about this situation screams of destiny or fate or some other cosmic force I've never put much stock in. The timing of my arrival, the impossible way I've survived, the mark that appeared after drinking Cassius's blood...

It can't be a coincidence.

Nothing about this is coincidental.

The runes flare brighter for a moment before settling into a steady glow, as if confirming my thoughts. I've always trusted my magic's instincts – it's saved my life more times than I can count.

And right now, it's trying very hard to tell me something about the man beyond this door.

Something about him feels wrong in a way I can't quite explain. It's not just his voice or his words, but something deeper, more fundamental.

Like oil floating on water or a discordant note in an otherwise perfect symphony.

My free hand rises to touch the mark on my neck, and I swear I feel it pulse in response. Whatever this is – whatever I've become entangled in –it's bigger than my original mission to save Elena.

"Unless you can present a final male candidate immediately," the man's voice cuts through the tension like a knife, "you will pack your belongings and vacate these premises without delay."

Nikolai steps forward, his diplomatic tone strained but intact. "Lord Bartholomew, surely we can discuss this matter with more?—"

A sharp stomp echoes through the corridor, followed by a pulse of magic that makes the very air shudder. The wave of energy slams into the princes with enough force to elicit pained groans.

Even through the door, I feel its effects – like being hit with a wall of compressed air that sets every nerve ending on fire.

Oh, that does it.

My magic surges in response, temperature spiking as pure, unadulterated annoyance courses through my veins. The flames beneath my skin roar to life, no longer content to merely simmer.

Everyone who knows me has always said I have the shortest fuse imaginable – act first, ask questions later, and deal with consequences whenever.

They weren't wrong.

Right now, every drop of that infamous temper is focused on the pompous ass beyond the door.

I don't know the first thing about the hierarchy here, couldn't care less about how royalty works in this twisted place. All I know is this pretentious prick is standing between me and two very important things: getting my questions answered and enjoying a nice, chilled blood pack.

And I'm not in the mood to wait for either.

"Lord Bartholomew," Mortimer's voice carries a note of warning, "perhaps we should discuss this matter among the rest of the Order?—"

"Enough!" Bartholomew snaps, cutting him off. "There has been far too much favoritism shown to this particular group already. We don't need to add to it with more special treatment."

The way he says 'special treatment' makes it sound like a curse, dripping with disdain and barely concealed hatred.

"Today marks the first challenge," he continues, his voice taking on a cruel edge of satisfaction. "You've already missed the preliminaries yesterday, which is strike one. If you miss this, you're out by default.”

Shit…did they miss it because of me?

“The challenge is mandatory for all attendees, complete team or not."

My fingers flex against the doorknob, the metal growing warm beneath my touch as my magic continues to build. The runes along my wrist pulse faster, matching the rhythm of my rising anger.

Who does this man think he is?

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