Page 101 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

He tilts his head slightly in a gesture that appears unconsciously feline, consideration playing across his features with unguarded transparency.

"There are several possibilities," he begins, fingers tapping a rhythmic pattern against the desktop that suggests organizing thoughts through physical movement. "The astronomy tower would provide a partial view, though the angle might be too oblique for proper aerial perspective. The Stellarum Archive's central dome offers a better vantage point, but access requires special permission unless?—"

He stops abruptly, expression shifting to something more guarded as if suddenly remembering caution previously forgotten in the enthusiasm of problem-solving.

"Unless what?" I prompt, curiosity piqued by his obvious self-censorship.

Zeke hesitates, internal debate visible in minute shifts of expression before a decision crystallizes behind those remarkable eyes.

"Unless you know the back ways," he admits finally, voice lowered despite the empty classroom. "There are passages not on official maps – maintenance corridors and servant channels from when Faerie still employed lesser beings for menial tasks."

The revelation carries weight beyond the simple navigational advantage, suggesting knowledge of the academy's hidden architecture that exceeds what ordinary students should possess.

"And you know these passages?" I ask, keeping my tone neutral rather than accusatory.

His gaze drops momentarily before rising to meet mine with surprising directness.

"I've had to learn alternative routes through the academy," he acknowledges, the explanation offered without specific detail yet carrying implications of necessity rather than idle curiosity. "When you're someone others enjoy tormenting, knowing how to avoid main corridors becomes survival skill rather than academic interest."

The simple honesty of this statement cuts deeper than elaborate justification might have, the truth of his experience laid bare without self-pity or dramatization. Just factual reality of navigation that is required when existence itself invites cruelty from those who perceive the difference as an invitation for torment.

"These passages could get us to a vantage point for an aerial view?" I confirm, accepting his explanation without pressing for details he's clearly uncomfortable providing.

He nods, relief at my lack of interrogation evident in the slight relaxation of his shoulders previously tensed for potential criticism.

"There's a specifically useful access point to the central dome that few know about," he explains, energy returning to his voice as the discussion returns to practical problem-solving rather than personal circumstances. "We could reach it within fifteen minutes from here, leaving plenty of time for capturing images and returning before the deadline."

"Then that's our approach," I decide, gathering notebook and remaining supplies with efficient movements that signal readiness for departure. "Lead the way when you're ready."

Zeke rises with that strange fluid grace that seems effortless despite his evident physical limitations, movements economical yet somehow beautiful in their precision.

Despite the obvious exhaustion that had claimed him during the lecture, he now moves with renewed purpose that suggests a mission provides energy that ordinary existence might not.

As we exit the classroom together, I find myself studying his profile with renewed curiosity.

The contradictions he embodies —fragility and courage, vulnerability and hidden knowledge, apparent social isolation yet connection to extraordinary resources like the Abundance Tree– make him both a more intriguing and potentially valuable ally than the initial assessment suggested.

Whatever catalyst role he claims we share remains puzzling, but his utility in progressing toward the chalice seems increasingly evident. His knowledge of the academy's hidden architecture alone represents an advantage worth cultivating, quite apart from the kindness that prompted him to stand between me and Damien, despite the obvious physical disadvantage.

"What are you thinking about?" Zeke asks suddenly, those extraordinary eyes catching my contemplative observation with unexpected perceptiveness.

The question deserves an honest answer rather than deflection, though careful framing seems prudent given complex circumstances.

"I'm thinking that finding you asleep in class might be the most fortunate thing that's happened since arriving in Year Two," I tell him, truth offered without revealing the complete strategic assessment his presence represents.

His smile returns – smaller than before but carrying genuine warmth that suggests the rarity of such positive acknowledgment in his experience.

"Mostly people just find me inconvenient," he admits with surprising candor. "Or useful when they need something specific, then inconvenient again afterward."

The statement carries weight of repeated experience rather than an isolated incident, a history of conditional acceptance that leaves lasting wounds beneath a seemingly resilient exterior.

"Their loss," I respond simply, truth offered without elaborate justification that might diminish its impact.

His step falters momentarily, surprise registering before a carefully controlled expression returns. The brief glimpse of vulnerability makes something in my chest tighten with unexpected protectiveness I hadn't anticipated developing for someone known less than a single day.

We turn down the corridor that appears unremarkable until Zeke approaches a specific section of paneling, fingers pressing precise sequence against what look like ordinary decorative elements. The wall slides silently inward, revealing a narrow passage illuminated by soft blue light that seems to emanate from the walls themselves rather than distinct fixtures.

Zeke glances back with an expression that mingles mischief and caution – an invitation extended with awareness of trust it represents.

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