Page 54 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

The trials, the deception, the undeniable pull I feel toward a certain Duskwalker prince – it all feels like pieces of a puzzle I can't quite see clearly yet.

The male glamour sits comfortably on my skin now, almost natural, making me a tad more confident that I can keep this appearance at least long enough to get out of this place.

Until then, I have to play to these men’s tune —and not cross paths withLord Bartholomew unless he wants my fangs deep inhis throat and poison shooting into his veins to take him out of this side of our treacherous world.

One step at a time, Gwenivere.First, survive the trials, then figure out why destiny seems to be kicking me in the ass over a healing chalice.

It sounds easy enough the more I repeat it in my head.

The only thing I wonder is whether I'll survive long enough to regret it.

10

BLOOD AND BOUNDARIES

~NIKOLAI~

There's something oddly fascinating about watching someone drink blood when you're not a vampire.

Gabriel —Gwenivere in her masterful disguise— sits perched on the edge of Damien's oversized bed, one leg crossed elegantly over the other as she downs another blood pack.

The Type O should, in theory, be the most palatable option. Yet her nose wrinkles with each sip, those crimson eyes narrowing in obvious distaste.

"I take it this one isn't any better?" I ask, unable to keep the amusement from my voice. It’s the expressions she’s making that are far more entertaining than I’d dare to admit.

It’s kind of cute.

I doubt she’s realized her manly glamor has dropped during her trial and error in blood packs, but watching her is rather fascinating.

She’s really pretty…

She lowers the pack, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand in a gesture that somehow manages to be both refined and rebellious.

"It tastes like someone bottled depression and served it with a side of existential crisis," she mutters, glaring at the half-empty pack as if it had personally offended her. "Are you sure this is fresh? Because my taste buds are staging a revolt."

The room — my temperamental vampire friend's chambers, chosen for their superior size — feels oddly intimate despite housing five beings of considerable power.

Damien himself occupies a high-backed chair near the window, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he watches our newest addition with barely concealed suspicion.

His nose twitches occasionally, and I catch the way his fingers dig into his biceps. The scent of blood, even packaged, must be testing his control.

Though…whether it's the blood itself or the hybrid drinking it that draws his attention remains unclear.

Cassius maintains his position against the far wall, shadows dancing around him in patterns that seem more agitated than usual. His silver eyes never leave Gwenievere’s form, though his expression remains typically unreadable.

The mark, that I’m coming to realize is on his neck, as well as hers, pulses faintly, visible even from where I stand.

I’m sure we’re going to have a discussion regarding that “tidbit” of problems here —if you can consider unexpected bonding a small complication— but right now, we have to prioritize Gwen’s need to replenish her blood levels.

A vampire with low stores is a very dangerous one.

Mortimer leans against Damien's ornate desk, his pale eyes studying our guest with the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for particularly fascinating specimens in his research. The Reaper's presence adds an extra layer of gravity to ourimpromptu gathering, though his usual aura of death seems somehow muted.

As if even his power recognizes the delicacy of our current situation.

I find myself cataloging details about Gwenivere that I missed in the chaos of her confrontation with Lord Bartholomew.

Her hair, a striking shade of platinum blonde roots that shift into pure white that catches the light like liquid moonlight, falls in perfect waves past her shoulders. The length suggests years of careful maintenance, each strand impossibly healthy despite the obvious stress her body has endured.

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