Page 95 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

He doesn’t speak much, but the single word he hisses sends a chill down my spine, cutting through the chaos like a blade.

“Mine.”

The boy’s voice slices through the tension like a blade, his tone sharp with indignation.

“Why does a dusk reaper dare interfere with my reaping?” he demands, the power in his voice suddenly gone while his hollow eyes narrowing with fury.

The scythe in his grasp lowers slightly, but its presence remains menacing.

“She’smyclaim, one I got fair and square.”

The man —no, the creature behind me— doesn’t reply immediately.

Instead, he lets out a slow, deliberate puff of smoke. It coils around me like a living thing, its tendrils shifting in mesmerizing patterns.

The scent that fills the air is an intoxicating blend of familiarity, carrying hints of Grim’s distinct cedar-like aroma mixed with the sharp, cold essence of Cassius’s shadows.

It’s grounding in a way that defies the chaos around me.

A sudden realization dawns on me as my gaze drifts toward the creature’s neck.

There, pulsing faintly, is a mark.

It’s eerily similar to the one on my own neck, though his is darker, tainted, and glowing with runes of ominous magic. The sight sparks a flicker of recognition deep within me.

My throat tightens, my voice a fragile whisper as the name escapes my lips.

“Grim?”

The creature — Grim —turns his head at my call, and for the first time, I see a more tangible shape forming from the swirling shadows.

Smoke curls from his nostrils like a dragon on the verge of unleashing a torrent of relentless fire. His arm lifts, the shadows shifting and coalescing into something close to a physical form.His fingers stretch, long and tendril-like, before curling around the front of my neck.

The grip is possessive, almost protective, as though I’m some precious treasure he refuses to relinquish.

It doesn’t hurt.

In fact, I’m not sure I feel anything at all. My body remains frigid and numb, save for the faint pulse at my neck. But Grim’s growl reverberates through me, low and primal, as he turns his menacing gaze back to the boy.

“Myclaim.Mymate.MyWicked Heart,” Grim snarls, his voice a guttural echo that sends shivers down my spine.

The phrase hangs heavy in the air, its weight wrapping around me as I struggle to comprehend its meaning.

Wicked Heart.

The words echo in my mind, foreign yet strangely familiar. What could they possibly mean?

The boy frowns eerily, his head tilting in a way that’s almost mechanical.

“A claim?” he sneers. “You’re nothing but shadows. You have no heart. No soul. You can’t be with a concoction of imperfections that shouldn’t exist in any realm. She’s an abomination, and even Wicked Academy can’t protect her. You most certainly can’t.”

Grim responds with another breath of smoke, this one denser and darker, as if the shadows themselves are growing angrier.

The smoke twists and spirals around me, curling over my limbs like a protective blanket. As each tendril engulfs me, warmth begins to seep into my frozen body. Pins and needles prickle across my skin, sensation slowly returning with each passing moment.

Only my head remains untouched, free from the shadows as they swirl around me.

“Destined to unravel the secrets of this academy,” Grim growls, his voice colder than ice. “You will not interfere.”

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