Page 71 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

"It wasn't just any forbidden love," a student explains in hushed tones. "The child fell for someone from the Lightborn realms! Beings of pure radiance who opposed everything the dark arts stand for."

Lightborn realms? Dark Arts…

"The woman who betrayed them," another adds, "she was a Lightborn spy. She promised the child sanctuary, promised them understanding and acceptance. Instead, she led them straight to their execution."

The theories spiral outward, each student adding their own version of events. Some claim the Headmaster's hatred runs so deep it's become part of the academy's very foundation. Others insist there are layers to the story that only the Seven truly understand.

It almost feels too much to consider which is the truth woven in layers of deception.

I’m beginning to feel the urge to discover the truth myself, knowing well if I can get into the depths of a library, I most certainly can discover the ultimate truth hidden in the depths of plentiful ancient knowledge and papers.

"That's why the trials are so brutal," someone behind me mutters. "They're not just tests. They're punishment. Revenge against a world that would destroy anything it doesn't understand."

A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the wind. If there's any truth to these whispers, it adds another layer of complexity to my already precarious position.

A woman who betrayed them.

A forbidden child.

A curse of misery and chaos.

The elements of the story strike uncomfortably close to home, though I can't quite say why. Something about it tugs at the edges of my memory, like a half-remembered dream.

I’ve certainly read this tale somewhere. Woven in legends in ancient books abandoned in the depths of the library. I can’t remember for sure, but the familiarised sensation has to revolve around that possibility.

Through it all, one theme remains constant: whatever sparked Wicked Academy's creation…drove its founder to forge this place of power and pain…it all comes back to that initial betrayal.

The question forms before I can stop it, slipping out in a deep baritone.

"What's the endgame?" I ask, drawing curious looks from nearby students. "After graduating from Wicked Academy, what's the point of it all?"

The silence that follows my question feels heavier than the wind-whipped air around us. Several students exchange meaningful glances, but no one seems eager to answer.

Perhaps that answer is enough.

"Wicked Academy exists to carve merciless elite soldiers who will have no urge to give anyone salvation."

The words come from somewhere to my left, spoken in a voice that carries echoes of Cassius's darkness butis somehow wrong.

They are tainted, like shadows that have forgotten their purpose or perhaps never truly understood it to begin with.

I turn to find their source — a student whose presence seems to bend the light around him as if reality itself recoils from his touch.

His uniform is impeccable; pressed, and positioned with military precision, but there's something about him that speaks of decay rather than discipline.

Of rot masquerading as refinement.

His energy reminds me of Cassius's shadows, but where Cassius's darkness feels natural —like night itself given a physical form. This student's aura seems artificial.

Manufactured darkness trying to imitate true shadow, like a portrait attempting to capture starlight.

The sight ignites an odd sensation in the depths of my heart. Not necessarily making me feel ill, but more so a sickening fluttering in the depths of my stomach.

I frown, unable to hide my skepticism, though I make sure to keep my voice pitched in deeper tones to not give myself away.

"That's what everyone's fighting for? To become emotionless weapons?" The concept sits wrong in my chest, like swallowing glass. Each word tastes bitter on my tongue. "Why would anyone risk their life for that kind of existence?"

Laughter erupts from the surrounding students, sharp and mocking. The sound carries on the wind, mixing with the constant thrum of gathering magic that seems to pulse through the very air around us.

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