Page 112 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

He nods as if confirmation matches expectation rather than reveals new information, gaze lifting toward the ceiling in a gesture that clearly invites me to do the same.

As I follow his direction, the starry decor of shimmering magic above captures my attention – constellations arranged in patterns suggesting meaning beyond mere decoration.

"Did you ever stop and wonder why?" he asks softly, the question hanging between us with a weight that suggests importance beyond simple curiosity. "Why you're going to these lengths to save her."

The inquiry strikes with unexpected force, challenging motivation I've accepted as fundamental rather than requiring justification or examination.

"Because she's of blood," I respond automatically, the answer emerging without conscious thought as if obvious truth requiring no elaboration. "That she's my sister. My twin."

Memory surfaces as I speak, Elena's dream visitation is suddenly relevant to the current discussion. "I did... have a dream of her, saying I need to remember something, but... but either way, it's my duty to save my own."

I turn the question back toward him, curiosity about his perspective genuine rather than merely deflective. "Wouldn't you do the same?"

His smile carries sadness that suggests knowledge too heavy to share completely, an experience beyond what simple words can adequately convey.

"Blood holds plenty of secrets, Gwenivere," he says softly, expression conveying compassion rather than judgment. "But sadly, sometimes blood isn't thicker than water. In some realms, it's so thin of substance, that it simply leads them down a path of regret."

His gaze turns distant, perspective-shifting to what seems more personal reflection than direct advice.

"Cats have no issue with discarding their siblings to set off on their own journey," he continues, his comparison drawn from natural behavior rather than moral judgment. "So it makesme wonder, do you believe your sister is deserving of her sacrifice...or is that a plague she earned?"

The question lands with an unsettling impact, challenging the assumption that has formed the foundation for the entire mission without deliberately undermining it. Not accusation but an invitation to deeper reflection, and examination of motivation beyond surface-level justification I've accepted without question.

Before I can properly formulate my response; a musical chime resonates through the chamber, indicating a time-sensitive development requiring immediate attention. We both turn toward the doorway, where a subtle shimmer signals that the next section has opened. Access is granted to the viewing platform that represents our assignment's objective.

"We should head over to the next checkpoint," Zeke suggests, practical concerns temporarily taking precedence over philosophical exploration that could potentially continue indefinitely. He moves toward the doorway with fluid grace, somehow conveying both efficiency and elegance simultaneously.

Before he can proceed beyond reach, I catch his hand, a question forming that cannot wait despite the assignment's pressing timeline.

"If we fulfill the picture," I ask, reference to the ancient illustration's arrangement clear between us, "where will you go?"

His response carries neither self-pity nor false optimism, just factual acceptance of circumstances as he understands them.

"Once that section is complete... well... Mortimer and I will be left behind," he states simply, a reality acknowledged without emotional embellishment that might invite pity or special consideration.

The casual acceptance of abandonment as an inevitable outcome sends unexpected pain through my chest, rejection of such a conclusion forming before conscious consideration of implications.

"How can I prevent that?" I ask, mind already searching for the potential solution rather than accepting separation as inevitable. Existing relationships provide the potential template for alternative arrangements. "I'm bonded with Cassius, Nikolai, and Atticus, which means we have to stay together because they're bonded with me by blood. Can't that be the same with you?"

Zeke frowns slightly, expression suggesting possibility hadn't occurred to him – or perhaps had been dismissed as improbable without serious consideration. His response carries quiet disbelief that anyone would consider such an arrangement.

"I'm a nobody," he whispers, a statement presented as a simple fact rather than a bid for contradiction or reassurance.

The words trigger an unexpected emotional response, eyes suddenly burning with tears that form without conscious permission. Something about that specific phrase –that exact combination of words delivered with such matter-of-fact acceptance– strikes deeper than mere sympathy for current circumstances.

Memory surfaces with disorienting suddenness – not gradual recollection but a vivid flash that temporarily overwhelms present reality.

I see myself crying, surroundings containing broken items of gold and precious value scattered across the floor. Before me stands a small boy with clenched fists, face contorted with rage and anguish as he screams words that echo through time:

"BUT I'M A NOBODY!"

The child's finger extends toward me, accusation carrying weight beyond his years.

"You'll feel exactly what I've been through. I'll make sure of it, even if I pay the consequences!"

The vision disappears as suddenly as it arrived, leaving momentary disorientation as present reality reasserts itself.

Zeke stands before me, concern evident in his extraordinary eyes as he notes my reaction.

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