Page 72 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

"Don't listen to Malcolm Drake," one of them says, waving a dismissive hand. His gesture is casual but his eyes never quite meet Malcolm’s direction. "He's just our resident gothic reject. Probably practicing that speech for years."

"Yeah," another chimes in, his grin cruel though something like fear flickers in his eyes. "He's been repeating the first year so long he's practically furniture. Too dumb to advance but not quite stupid enough to get himself killed."

More insults follow, each one designed to cut deeper than the last.

The other students seem to gain courage from each other, their mockery growing bolder with each barb thrown. But Malcolm doesn't react to any of them.

His eyes —an unsettling shade of grey that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it— remain fixed on me with uncomfortable intensity.

Something about his gaze makes my skin crawl.

It's not just observation; it's like he's trying to see through the glamour, through every layer of deception I've wrapped around myself.

As if he knows exactly what kind of creature stands before him, wearing masculinity like an ill-fitting coat.

Suddenly, I feel shadows wrap around me — but not Cassius's familiar darkness.

This is different, wrong in a way that sets every instinct on high alert. Grim's energy is there, but it's as if he's been muffled, hidden behind some sort of invisible barrier that dampens his usually commanding presence.

"Did it just get colder?" someone nearby asks, rubbing their arms as goosebumps rise on exposed skin. The question carries hints of genuine worry beneath its casual tone.

"Probably just wind chill," another responds with a shrug that seems just a little too forced. "We're high enough to freeze a phoenix up here."

The excuses sound hollow even as they're spoken, but before anyone can question further, a bell rings out across the pillars. The sound isn't quite physical — more like someone striking a chord against reality itself, making the very air vibrate with potential energy.

All conversation dies instantly as a robotic voice fills the air, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once:

"INITIAL TRIALS COMMENCING. REQUIREMENT FOR PASSAGE IS SIMPLE: SURVIVAL."

I find myself repeating those words under my breath, tasting their implications while others around me chuckle at what they perceive as obvious instruction.

The laughter carries notes of bravado now, tension bleeding through their attempted nonchalance.

But something feels wrong.

Very wrong…and approaching.

My instincts ring like chimes rustling hymns in a usually quiet space. All I can think of is a cemetery, the thought immediately telling me that Death is too close for comfort.

That it’s time to react for the sake of my own survival.

Now.

Without questioning the urge, I launch myself upward, gathering magic in my legs to propel me higher than any normal jump should allow. The wind whips past my face as I rise above the crowd, my enhanced senses hyper aware of every shift in the air around me.

It’s been a long time since I’ve used magic to aid me publicly like this, which could be risky and make me an eyesore because no one really knows what I am yet.

They could assume I’m a Fae for all I know, but I guess that doesn’t matter because the initial reaction happening below is…

Not what I’m expecting.

Immediately, the mockery begins, though it carries an edge of uncertainty now.

"Look at the coward!"

"Can't even wait for the trial to start before running away!"

The corner of my lips dips by default, not quite understanding the negative responses to my attempt to protect myself. It’s almost as if students thrive for being menacing to one another in this space, which may correlate to what the guys were warning me about.

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