Page 49 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

Good.

The only thing that matters is derailing Lord Bartholomew's power play and buying these princes the time they need.

Lord Bartholomew straightens his shoulders, clearly trying to regain control of the situation.

"Well, since Gabriel is present, I can at least confirm your unit's participation in today's trials. They begin in one hour."

"Trials?" I slide my hands into my pockets, creating an air of casual indifference. "If that's what my friends wish, I suppose I could entertain these...challenges." A deliberate pause. "Though should I register before or after? Wouldn't want to break any precious protocols."

Something dark flashes in Lord Bartholomew's eyes.

He steps forward, closing the distance between us until I can smell the sour notes of his breath.

"You won't last a day in this academy with that barbaric attitude of yours, boy. Thinking you're better than everyone else..."

His voice drops to a menacing whisper, though in a room full of supernatural beings with enhanced hearing, the gesture is purely theatrical.

"I've seen plenty of younglings like you. Those with attitudes before their superiors..." His lips curl into a cruel smile and the depths of his voice leak of power, almost intentionally."They all quake and cower in defeat when they're seconds from death."

As if that’s supposed to frighten me.

"You won't even survive the challenges," he continues, venom dripping from every word. "Not with how pitifully weak you are."

I let out a dramatic sigh, tilting my head as if considering a particularly boring puzzle.

"You know, I really don't like causing scenes. But..." My lips curve into a mischievous smile as I turn to look at Cassius."Perhaps I could be a little...troublesome? With permission, of course."

Nikolai and Damien frown, clearly uncertain about where this is going. Mortimer clears his throat.

"As long as you don't intend to physically strike Lord Bartholomew..."

A laugh bubbles up from my chest, genuine amusement mixing with anticipation.

"Violence? Please. I'd never stoop so low." My eyes remain locked with Cassius's, something unspoken passing between us. "I have far more interesting methods."

To everyone's surprise –perhaps even my own– Cassius gives a slight nod of approval. The simple gesture carries weight like a king granting permission for a particularly risky gambit.

Lord Bartholomew's mocking laugh cuts through the moment.

"Permission? From the Duskwalker Prince?" He sneers, poison filling his next words. "What could that emotionless being possibly offer? Don’t get me started with those hideous creatures that roam around like they own the shadows nature blessed us with. They're nothing but walking corpses, incapable of real relationships. Probably don't even have hearts to experience love."

The temperature in the room drops sharply as his words hang in the air. Even Damien, who's shown nothing but hostility toward me, looks disgusted by the blatant prejudice that he’s witnessed.

I feel the mark on my neck pulse once, sharp and clear, responding to the insult against its master. My magic surges beneath my skin, no longer playful but carrying an edge of genuine anger.

The runes along my wrist begin to glow faintly, responding to my rising emotions. Only, the dark red in the shade, imitatingan odd tainted aura of power, sends goosebumps down my own arms at their revelation.

Cassius's face remains impassive, but I catch the way his shadows writhe with barely contained fury. The temperature drops further as his power leaks into the air, a reminder of exactly why Duskwalkers are feared throughout the realms.

But it's not just about defending Cassius's honor – though that certainly adds fuel to my fire. It's about standing up to this man who thinks he can crush spirits with cruel words and arbitrary power.

Who believes he can judge the capacity for love in creatures he clearly doesn't understand? Who hasn't learned that the most dangerous moments often come wrapped in smiles.

No. He doesn’t want to understand, for he wouldn’t be worthy of such…privilege.

The mark on my neck thrums with energy, as if agreeing with my assessment. Whatever this bond between Cassius and I might be, it clearly takes offense to anyone questioning a Duskwalker's capacity for feeling.

A defiant smirk curves my lips as I spin on one foot, moving with deliberate grace until I'm well within Lord Bartholomew's personal space.

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