Page 57 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

Even in surprise, she manages to be somehow enchanting.

Maybe I’m becoming rather smitten for the youngling hybrid…

"Hold on," she says, sitting up straighter. The movement causes her hair to catch the light, and I find myself distracted by how it shimmers — like moonlight on fresh snow. "You're not suggesting I'm going to have to keep drinking from Cassius for who knows how long, right?"

Damien merely shrugs, turning back toward his chair with the blood packet still in hand. The casual dismissal earns him a glare that could melt steel, and I find myself appreciating how she wields her displeasure like a weapon.

Elegant yet devastating.

"You weren't going to drink it anyway," he points out, settling back into his seat. Then, with deliberate casualness, "And by the way, you've switched back."

Gwenivere glances down at herself, taking in the sight of her feminine form wrapped in the masculine uniform. Rather than show concern, she merely shrugs, the gesture carrying that same confidence she'd displayed as Gabriel.

It's remarkable how she makes even this moment of potential vulnerability feel like a choice rather than a mistake.

"Not like you're attracted to me anyway," she retorts. "I could be sitting here naked and you wouldn't give a fuck."

The crude language should clash with her delicate features, but somehow it only enhances her appeal. She wears her contradictions like armor, each one making her more intriguing rather than less.

Damien's eyes narrow dangerously, a scowl darkening his features. The tension in the room ratchets up several notches, but before he can respond, I find myself chuckling.

"I, for one, would find that rather distracting," I admit, moving closer to where she sits. The words slip out before I can properly consider their implications, drawn forth by the strange magnetism she seems to exude.

Damien's scowl deepens.

"Fae appreciate perfection," he snaps. "She is not it."

The declaration should sting, but Gwenivere's lips curve into a smile that's equal parts amusement and mischief. The expression transforms her entire face, adding a sparkle to her eyes that makes something in my chest tighten.

"Aww, thanks for calling me ugly in Fae standards," she coos. "I adore the honesty."

She takes what should be an insult and turns it into a weapon.

"She's not ugly."

Cassius's quiet statement drops into the room like a stone in still water. We all turn to stare at him, the shock of hearing him defend anyone's appearance —let alone in such a direct manner— momentarily stealing our words.

Before anyone can respond, Grim releases a distinctly affirmative puff of smoke.

Gwenivere's laugh —bright and genuine— breaks the stunned silence. The sound seems to startle everyone, myselfincluded. It's not the calculated amusement she'd shown earlier, but something real and unguarded.

The joy in it is almost tangible, filling the room with a warmth that seems to push back against the perpetual chill of Cassius's shadows.

She points at Grim, her eyes sparkling with genuine delight, and I find myself captivated by how alive she seems in this moment. How someone can radiate such vitality while surrounded by creatures of death and darkness is beyond me.

"That's bias," she declares with a playful wink. "And you know it."

And there it is again…that perfect balance of strength and charm, defiance and joy. She's unlike any being I've encountered in my centuries of existence.

The thought should trouble me more than it does.

It makes me feel as though I’m analyzing her like some sort of experiment but I can’t help it. Fae like me are so used to being surrounded by perfection in our world that witnessing someone so peculiar yet bold in execution in all things is profound.

Like a new breath of fresh air.

Without further deliberation, I extend my wrist toward her, the gesture smooth and deliberate. The pale skin there seems to glow in the room's dim light, blue veins visible beneath the surface like rivers on a map.

Confusion flickers across her features as she stares at my offered wrist, then up at my face. The question in her eyes is clear, but I maintain my silence, letting the moment stretch between us. Sometimes words are unnecessary —especially among beings like us.

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