Page 132 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

Zeke's expression carries guilt that suggests personal responsibility despite obvious circumstances beyond his control.

"We were listening to the announcement when something shot into the sky," he explains, words tumbling over each other in uncharacteristic disarray. "It struck him directly, forcing transformation despite the suppression field. Whatever they used specifically targeted his draconic DNA."

Another roar tears through the atmosphere, this one accompanied by jets of flame that illuminate the gathering darkness with brief, terrible beauty. When fire strikes Academy structures, alarms immediately begin wailing, distant screams suggesting students caught in proximity to unexpected destruction.

"They're going to take him down if we don't get him out of the sky," Atticus hisses, assessment carrying no judgment but clear recognition of inevitable consequences. "But he doesn't have a rider."

The statement triggers an immediate connection to the earlier conversation regarding dragons and their fundamental nature—beings who reach their full potential only when paired with a compatible partner who provides a purpose beyond mere existence.

"If I can reach him, I could direct him to the throne!" The idea forms with startling clarity, desperation breeding innovation where careful consideration might suggest impossibility. "You two HAVE to reunite with Cassius, find wherever Nikolai is hiding, and set everything up! I'll bring Mortimer."

"You're not a rider," Zeke objects, concern evident in his musical voice despite obvious recognition of limited alternatives.

"Is anyone in this Academy?" I counter, frustration edging my tone as precious seconds tick away. "If I can just latch onto him somehow, I can use my blood to direct him. It's not a true bond, but it might be enough to guide him where we need him."

Atticus's eyes widen with sudden comprehension. "You're going to use your blood strings as reins to try steering him to us?"

I nod, determination replacing momentary uncertainty. "It's probably our only option right now. I can't form a proper bond with him at this stage, but if we can at least bring him with us out of immediate Academy territory, maybe he can teleport to Year One until we figure out how to properly reunite."

Zeke's extraordinary eyes narrow in concentration, internal calculation clearly weighing probabilities with lightning speed."It's the only viable approach," he finally agrees, a decision apparently made. "Let's move!"

"Our powers aren't working," Atticus reminds him, practical concern cutting through growing enthusiasm for a half-formed plan.

Zeke's responding smile carries confidence previously hidden beneath a more cautious demeanor. "I can address that limitation now."

Without further explanation, he brings his hands together in a precise clap that reverberates across the rooftop with supernatural resonance. Golden light erupts from his slender form, illuminating the space around us with a radiance that seems to push back the gathering darkness.

The transformation that follows defies ordinary description—not mere physical change but a fundamental alteration of essence made visible. A cape of midnight blackness materializes around his shoulders, flowing from nothingness into a substantial reality that moves with a living purpose rather than merely responding to environmental air currents.

Beneath his feet, a circle of golden light etches itself into stone, ancient runes arranging themselves in patterns suggesting mathematical precision beyond human comprehension. His physical form shifts subtly—ears elongating to delicate points while a tail materializes with casual disregard for biological impossibility.

Most dramatic is the change to his eyes—already extraordinary in their cat-like quality but now transforming completely, vertical pupils expanding within irises that glow with internal luminescence rather than merely reflecting available light.

Magical symbols appear across his exposed skin, runes similar to those marking the circle beneath him but somehow more vital—living language rather than mere inscription. Theeffect is both beautiful and slightly terrifying, power ancient beyond easy classification suddenly unconstrained by previous limitations.

Almost simultaneously, I feel an answering response within my own body—silver hair lifting from my shoulders as if gravity temporarily suspended its influence, each strand glowing with subtle luminescence that casts pearl-like reflections across nearby surfaces.

"What's happening?" I ask, voice emerging higher than intended as an unexpected sensation ripples through my system—magic responding to stimulus I didn't consciously initiate.

"A benefit of our familiar bond," Zeke explains, voice carrying new resonance that suggests altered vocal apparatus rather than merely changed emotional state. "My abilities have awakened, which activates corresponding enhancement to yours. Your natural capabilities are now approximately tripled in potency."

"That's amazing," I breathe, feeling the truth of his statement as power courses through my system with unprecedented intensity. My elemental affinities—typically requiring a conscious effort to access—now hum at the edges of awareness, eager for application rather than reluctantly responding to deliberate summoning.

"Can I use wind magic to reach Mortimer?" I ask, already formulating a specific approach based on newly accessible power levels.

Zeke nods, though his expression carries caution alongside confirmation. "Possible, yes, but with an important limitation—the further we're separated physically, the weaker your enhanced capabilities become. You need to act immediately before this opportunity diminishes."

Decision crystallizes with absolute certainty. Whatever risks this approach entails can't possibly exceed the consequences of inaction.

As I prepare myself mentally for what comes next, Atticus suddenly grabs me from behind, powerful arms pulling me against his chest with an urgent intensity that suggests fear rather than mere possessiveness.

"What's wrong?" I ask, turning within his embrace to find his expression transformed by emotion rarely displayed so openly.

Instead of answering directly, he captures my mouth in a kiss that communicates everything words might fail to express—fear, determination, respect, and something deeper that makes the bond between us pulse with answering recognition.

"You need to survive this," he says when our lips finally part, voice carrying authority beyond mere request. "If survival means bonding with Mortimer as a last resort, you will do it."

My eyes widen at the unexpected command, recognition dawning that he's invoked something beyond ordinary instruction. "Are you giving me an actual order with your Pureblood abilities?"

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