Page 12 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

"What the hell?!" I cry out, slapping frantically at my arms where dozens of the minuscule tormentors have already begun their assault.

Around me, the others react with varying degrees of control. Cassius's shadows whip outward, sweeping across his skin in undulating waves that send the magical insects flying into the void. The display of power is effortless, almost elegant – a reminder of the formidable abilities I once found so captivating.

Nikolai takes a different approach. Golden light emanates from his perfect skin, creating a shimmering barrier that the ants cannot penetrate. Those already attached sizzle and disintegrate into sparks, unable to withstand the raw fae energy pulsing beneath his epidermis.

Lysth vibrates his entire molecular structure at a frequency that sends the insects scattering. His translucent body oscillates like a tuning fork, creating ripples in the air that distort the light around him.

Mordax struggles more visibly, his shape-shifting abilities working furiously to adapt to the attack. His skin ripples and flows, attempting to find a composition the ants cannot penetrate, but they seem particularly drawn to his left arm and leg, congregating there in writhing masses.

My own defense manifests without conscious thought – runes blazing to life across my skin in intricate patterns of ancient magic. The symbols glow with internal fire, sending the magical insects scurrying away from their protective perimeter. They retreat from the marked territory, abandoning their attack with what almost seems like reluctance.

Watching how they resort to jumping off my flesh to “save” themselves is even more questioning, but I’m more relieved that their presence is absent, taking that burning nagging sensation away with their erupting departure.

Strangest of all is Atticus.

The ants simply don't approach or try to land on him. They materialize on his clothes but immediately drop away, as if encountering something so fundamentally hostile they dare not attempt contact. His expression remains neutral, though the slight quirk of his eyebrow indicates he's well aware of his unusual immunity.

Momentarily distracted from my own predicament, I find my attention drawn to Mortimer. The transformation beginning across his exposed skin is mesmerizing – scales forming in overlapping patterns of deep crimson, with hints of orange and gold gleaming at their edges.

These aren't the pristine scales of a young dragon, but ancient ones that speak of centuries weathering the elements. Each one carries micro-patterns, almost like fingerprints, telling stories of battles won and lost, of magic encountered and absorbed. The coloration suggests fire alignment, though the golden undertones hint at something rarer – perhaps a hybrid lineage combining multiple draconic bloodlines.

My fascination must show on my face, because Mortimer notices my stare and offers a slight, knowing smile. The partial transformation stops at his forearms, containing itself like a controlled experiment rather than a full metamorphosis.

"Impressed?" he asks quietly, just for my ears.

"I've never seen dragonscales up close before," I admit, momentarily forgetting the chaos of our descent in the wonder of this revelation.

"Few have," he acknowledges. "Fewer still live to tell about it."

Nikolai's voice interrupts our exchange, his tone sharp with something that might be jealousy or simply concern.

"The runes, Gabriel. When did those appear?"

I follow his gaze to the glowing symbols decorating my arms, now fully visible through the torn sleeves of my uniform. The ancient magic pulses with protective energy, still dispelling the last of the fire ants.

"Of course the runes are going to appear when I'm in my own domain," I retort, the lie coming easily.

At least, the purpose is to make them believe something they surely wouldn’t accept otherwise.

Nikolai's eyes narrow suspiciously.

"This is Faerie," he counters. "If anything, this ismydomain."

Clearly taking the bait…

"Gabriel's probably getting conceited after beating the first trial," Mordax interjects with a gravelly chuckle, still working to remove the last ants from his shifting flesh. "Word spread quickly among the shifters. I guess he can boast as he wishes, since it was something never accomplished before."

The casual mention of my achievement –breaking a fifty-year streak of failure– comes with uncomfortable complications. Drawing attention to myself was never part of my plan at Wicked Academy. Being infamous for the trial victory puts unwanted scrutiny on Gabriel, scrutiny that might eventually reveal Gwenivere.

From just finding a chalice and being on my way back to Elena and now here I am, falling to my potential doom with a man from the past who went to jail for me while messing with royal princes who ignored my existence when I needed them the most.

Ironic.

Before I can formulate a response that won't further complicate matters, Atticus squeezes my hand. Our eyes lock in a moment of silent communication – his warning clear.

Don't reveal too much.

His intervention comes just in time.

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