Page 46 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

Sure, he might be some big shot in whatever twisted hierarchy runs this place, but his attitude –that smug superiority, or better titled, casual cruelty– it sets every protective instinct I possess on high alert.

The blood in my veins sings with the need to act upon this insufferable situation. I've never been good at standing idle while others throw their weight around. It's gotten me into trouble more times than I can count, but it's also saved my life just as often.

My sister Elena always said my temper would either be my downfall or my salvation.

"You never know when to back down,"she'd tell me, half exasperated, half admiring."One of these days, that's either going to get you killed or make you a legend."

Well, I've already survived drinking Duskwalker blood and made it past sunrise in a place where both those things should have killed me.

Might as well go for the hat trick.

The magic rippling through the air from Bartholomew's display of power carries notes of corruption – not the natural darkness of Cassius's shadows or the predatory edge of Damien's vampiric energy, but something fundamentallywrong.

It's magic twisted by ego and cruelty, wielded not out of necessity but pure spite.

My own power responds to it; recoiling even as it rises to meet the challenge. The temperature around me continues to climb as my anger builds, the air shimmering with barely contained heat.

I don't know the full story here.

Don't understand all the political machinations and power plays at work. But what I do understand is that this man – this Lord Bartholomew – is threatening people who, despite our rocky start, showed me more consideration than I probably deserved.

Cassius, with his impossible shadows and even more impossible tenderness.

Damien, whose predatory nature recognized something in me worth respecting.

Nikolai, trying so hard to maintain diplomacy in the face of pure arrogance.

And Mortimer, whose death magic sees through all pretense yet chooses to help rather than harm.

I could be giving them the true benefit of the doubt, but in the end, they allowed a roof to remain over my head while I remained unconscious and healing.

They might be princes and creatures of legend, but right now, they're being bullied by someone who clearly gets off on wielding power over others.

And if there's one thing I hate more than anything, it's a bully.

The mark on my neck pulses once, sharp and clear, as if sensing my rising determination. The runes on my wrist have settled into a steady burn, no longer anxious but ready – battle magic awakening after centuries of slumber.

My magic has always been different – not quite vampire, not quite witch, something unique that defies easy classification. Right now, it feels like every drop of that power is coiled and ready to strike, just waiting for me to open this door and show Lord Bartholomew exactly what happens when you threaten what a vampire hybrid has decided to claim.

Elena would probably tell me to think this through.

But Elena isn't here.

She's lying in a magical coma, slipping further away with each passing day, while I stand in a place that was supposed to hold her salvation.

Maybe I didn't find the Chalice of Restoration, but I might have found something else – a purpose, a position, a way to prove that sometimes the most wicked things aren't the ones that go bump in the night, but the ones that hide their cruelty behind titles and manipulated tradition.

My lips curve into a smile that would make even a vampire proud.

Time to crash another party.

9

A WICKED ENTRANCE

~GWENIVERE~

"Jeez, Cassius. What have I said about leaving the window open?"

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