Page 55 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

Her complexion, while naturally fair, shows signs of recent strain. The pallor isn't quite sickly, but it's noticeable enough to concern someone with my level of observation. Especially when compared to the vibrant energy she displayed while putting our esteemed administrator in his place.

"The blood is becoming an issue," I say carefully, watching her reaction. "Your body clearly isn't accepting it properly."

She sighs, setting the pack aside with obvious reluctance.

"No shit, Sherlock. I feel like I'm drinking watered-down copper with a hint of sadness." Her nose wrinkles again. "Actually, that's being generous. At least copper has character."

Damien shifts in his chair, the movement drawing everyone's attention.

"The blood is fresh," he states flatly. "I supervised this early morning's collection myself. Before your unexpected arrival, of course."

Meaning it had to be around two to three in the morning.

That’s the usual time frame for blood-extracting activities, or anything that’s supposed to be “under the radar” around Wicked Academy.

Gwenivere’s eyebrows shoot up.

"Collection? As in, willing donors?" A pause, then, "Please tell me you're not running some sort of underground blood farm. Because that would be tragically cliché, even for a vampire prince."

The look Damien gives her could freeze hellfire.

"We have arrangements with local blood banks," he growls. "Everything is properly screened and ethically sourced."

"Well, their ethics need better quality control," she mutters, but I catch the relief in her voice. "Because this tastes like it was filtered through a sock."

I clear my throat, drawing attention back to the more pressing matter at hand.

"We have approximately thirty minutes until the trials begin." My eyes scan the room, meeting each gaze in turn. "If we're to present any semblance of coordination, our newest member needs at least a basic understanding of Wicked Academy's requirements."

Gwenivere straightens, her posture shifting subtly.

"Right. The whole 'prove we're worthy' thing." She runs a hand through her hair, the gesture is casually masculine despite its inherent grace. I don’t think she’s even grasped she’s switched back yet. "I don't suppose these trials involve a written exam and some light cardio?"

The laugh that escapes me is genuine if slightly strained.

"If only it were that simple." I move closer, studying her more carefully. "The trials are designed to test not just individual abilities, but how well units function as a whole. They're brutal, unforgiving, and often..." I search for the right word.

"Fatal?" she supplies helpfully.

"I was going to say 'challenging,' but yes, fatalities aren't uncommon." I watch her face for any sign of fear, finding only that same defiant interest that seems to be her default expression. "Especially for incomplete or unprepared units."

She nods slowly, digesting this information.

"Okay, so we're talking serious business here. Not just your standard 'throw some fireballs and dodge some punches' type deal." Her eyes narrow thoughtfully. "What exactly are we up against?"

The question hangs in the air, heavy with implications.

We have precious little time to prepare her, and even less certainty about how her unique abilities will mesh with our established dynamic.

Not to mention the other complications...

The mark on her neck pulses again, drawing my attention. It's obviously tied to Cassius somehow, but the nature of that connection — and what it means for our unit — remains frustratingly unclear.

More concerning is her reaction to the blood.

If she can't maintain her strength properly, she'll be vulnerable during the trials.

And in Wicked Academy, vulnerability rarely ends well.

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