Page 131 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

"Attention all Academy personnel and students,"the announcement begins, the voice carrying authority that somehow manages to feel both ancient and coldly mechanical."We regret to inform you that there will be a temporary disruption to scheduled activities. A betrayer has been identified among our ranks—one who must be terminated immediately."

My eyes meet Atticus's, confusion mirrored in his crimson gaze. The formal language suggests official Academy business, but something about the phrasing sends a chill down my spine.

"It is a shame to reveal that the Seven are no longer seven in number,"the voice continues, artificial regret dripping from every syllable."One of our esteemed members has attempted to place Wicked Academy in jeopardy, requiring immediate elimination by all means necessary."

"This can't be good," I whisper, tension coiling in my gut like a serpent preparing to strike.

Atticus's expression darkens, fangs partially descending in unconscious response to a perceived threat. "Someone's making a move against?—"

"The following member is no longer recognized as part of the Seven and will be terminated on sight: MORTIMER."

"Fuck!" The curse escapes simultaneously from both our lips, the single word carrying weight beyond mere profanity.

Atticus's grip on my hand tightens to near-painful intensity as he pulls me into motion, our feet barely touching the polished floor as we race down the corridor.

"We need to find him before they do," he growls, voice dropping to that dangerous register that reminds me of what truly lies beneath his controlled exterior.

I match his pace, calling on vampire speed to propel us faster, but something feels wrong. The familiar surge of supernatural acceleration doesn't respond as expected, my body moving quickly but nowhere near the blurred velocity I should be capable of achieving.

"Something's wrong with my abilities," I hiss, frustration mounting as I push harder against whatever invisible force restricts my natural capabilities.

Atticus curses again, more colorfully this time. "Mine too. They've activated some kind of dampening field."

As if in response to our realization, the announcement system crackles once more.

"All shifter and enhanced speed abilities have been temporarily disabled by Academy security protocols,"the voice informs with cold satisfaction."These measures will remain in effect until the traitor has been apprehended."

"They've locked down the entire Academy," Atticus growls, never slowing despite the limitations now imposed on our supernatural capabilities.

My mind races through implications with frantic assessment. If our abilities are suppressed, Mortimer's would be similarly affected. A dragon shifter stripped of transformative capabilities would be vulnerable in ways that make my chest tighten with dread.

"The atrium," I suggest, remembering the massive glass-domed space we'd passed earlier. "If there's a suppression field, it might not extend to exterior spaces. We need height and visibility."

Atticus nods sharply, altering our course without breaking stride. "The eastern stairwell should provide direct access to the roof level."

We burst through polished wooden doors into a spiraling staircase that seems to extend infinitely upward. Without supernatural speed, the climb becomes a brutal test of endurance—hundreds of steps stretching before us like a physical manifestation of odds stacked against our mission.

I take them three at a time, pushing muscles to their human-equivalent maximum, lungs burning with effort that would be unnecessary if my vampire physiology functioned normally. Atticus matches my pace, his expression hardening with each floor we conquer.

The bond mark at my wrist pulses with growing urgency, as if sensing danger I can't yet perceive. The new familiar connection with Zeke similarly tightens, golden threads of magic pulling with directional insistence that suggests he's above us, already at our intended destination.

When we finally burst through the door leading to the roof, cold air slaps against my face with shocking intensity after the Archive's perfect temperature regulation. Dark clouds have gathered since we entered the time bubble, transforming what had been clear skies into ominous storm formation that stretches across the horizon like bruised flesh.

"Gwenivere! Atticus!" Zeke's voice carries across the expansive rooftop, his slender form silhouetted against the darkening sky as he waves frantically from the eastern edge.

We rush toward him, feet pounding against the stone surface with desperate urgency. As we draw closer, his expression becomes visible—fear mixed with determination that suggests situations already deteriorating beyond our worst estimations.

"Look!" He points skyward, those extraordinary eyes wide with obvious alarm.

Following his gesture, I freeze mid-stride, horror washing through my system with paralyzing intensity.

Above us, wings spread against turbulent clouds, Mortimer's draconic form writhes in obvious distress. Gone is the majestic control he'd exhibited during our trial descent—replaced by jerking movements that suggest either injury or some external force manipulating his massive body against his will.

"MORTIMER!" I scream his name with desperate volume, though logic suggests he cannot possibly hear me across such distance.

His answering roar shatters any such doubt, the sound vibrating through the stone beneath our feet with such intensity that small objects begin dancing across the rooftop's surface. The cry carries no words but communicates pain with heartbreaking clarity—a being of ancient dignity reduced to an agonized reaction against forces beyond his control.

"What happened?" Atticus demands, crimson eyes tracking Mortimer's erratic flight pattern with tactical assessment that never completely overrides evident concern.

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