Page 134 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

The reaction proves far more dramatic than anticipated. Mortimer's entire body jerks with sudden violence, my massive head whipping sideways with a force that transfers through connected blood strings directly into my much smaller form.

I scream as momentum sends me hurtling toward his armored back, impact driving the air from my lungs despite vampire durability that prevents more serious injury froma collision. Pain radiates through my torso, ribs protesting treatment that would shatter ordinary human bone structure.

"Dammit, Mortimer," I gasp, clinging desperately to blood strings and scale edges to prevent being thrown into empty air by his continued erratic movements.

With determined effort, I begin climbing upward, using natural handholds provided by overlapping scales as an improvised ladder despite their razor-sharp edges slicing into my palms with each new grip. Blood flows freely from these minor injuries, but vampire healing immediately begins addressing damage even as I continue upward progress.

As I crest the highest point along his spine, unexpected discovery temporarily halts my determined advance. Where I expected merely continuing scales, a structure sits secured between massive shoulder blades—a saddle, complete with securing straps and ornamental details suggesting a design specifically intended for draconic physiology.

"That wasn't visible before," I mutter, confusion momentarily overriding immediate practical concerns.

Pushing aside questions for later consideration, I maneuver toward this unexpected equipment with renewed purpose. If a saddle exists, it presumably provides a safer position from which to attempt communication and control than merely clinging to slippery scales.

As I settle into position, another discovery captures immediate attention—dangling from the saddle's forward pommel, an ornate talisman pulses with subtle magical energy. The object combines three distinct gemstones—deep crimson ruby, royal purple amethyst, and perfect amber gold—arranged in a triangular pattern surrounded by intricate metalwork inscribed with runes similar to those manifested during Zeke's transformation.

Without a conscious decision, my blood-soaked hand reaches for this mysterious object, fingers closing around cool surfaces that warm instantly to my touch. The moment blood makes contact with inscribed patterns, runes begin glowing with intense internal light, power activating through either recognition or catalytic properties contained within the vital fluid itself.

"What the—" Words fail as comprehension struggles to match observed phenomena with magical theory containing an adequate explanatory framework.

Booming thunder interrupts incomplete thought, the sound vibrating through Mortimer's massive body with an intensity that suggests direct proximity rather than merely atmospheric disturbance.

"Oh no," I whisper, recognition dawning with horrifying clarity. "MORTIMER!"

Looking upward, my worst fears materialize in visual confirmation. Above us, spanning an impossible distance across a storm-darkened sky, a magical circle materializes with deliberate precision. Unlike constructs magical practitioners might create for beneficial or neutral applications, this formation pulses with corrupted energy clearly intended for destructive purpose.

The pattern contains elements suggesting binding, punishment, and forced manifestation—a trap designed specifically for a being of Mortimer's classification and power level. The complexity and scale indicate preparation extending far beyond the recent decision to eliminate him from the Seven—this represents long-term planning finally reaching the implementation phase rather than a hastily assembled response to an immediate threat.

At the circle's center, a cloaked figure hovers with arms extended upward, palms directed toward the formation's exactmiddle where energy concentrates with growing intensity. Though distance prevents a clear view of facial features, posture suggests absolute confidence—a practitioner executing carefully prepared work rather than improvising under pressure.

Instinctive recognition of immediate danger triggers a desperate response. Gripping the talisman tightly in both hands, I call upon every protective magical technique acquired through years of hybrid training. Blood magic provides foundation, my freely flowing vital essence eagerly responding to mental direction with unprecedented cooperation.

Power builds between my extended hands, forming a protective bubble intended to encompass Mortimer's entire massive form. The shield grows with encouraging speed, a magical essence responding to desperate need rather than merely technical precision in construction methodology.

As the barrier nears completion, my eyes lift once more toward the figure directing attacks from above. Distance has decreased through Mortimer's continued ascent, allowing a clearer view of our apparent executioner. Recognition strikes with physical force as familiar features become visible beneath a partially lowered hood.

Raven.

The hybrid who accompanies Damien, whose strange energy signature triggered my suspicion during the hallway confrontation. Her expression carries triumphant satisfaction as she observes our desperate countermeasures, lips curved in a smile suggesting absolute certainty regarding the inevitable outcome.

In that terrible moment of recognition, understanding crystallizes with devastating clarity—she never targeted Mortimer at all. His forced transformation and apparent death sentence were merely elaborate mechanisms designed to draw specific prey into optimal positions.

Me.

Our eyes lock across intervening distance, her smile widening with predatory pleasure as she releases gathered power. From the circle's center, corrupted energy manifests as a concentrated lightning bolt—not natural electrical discharge but malevolent force ten times more potent than any atmospheric phenomenon could possibly generate.

The attack strikes with perfect accuracy, Mortimer's desperate evasive movement coming several critical seconds too late. My protective shield, nearly complete but lacking a central keystone that would have sealed its integrity, shatters upon impact. Power intended for destruction flows unimpeded toward its actual intended target.

I hear Mortimer's agonized scream and feel his massive body jerking downward in a desperate attempt to shield me from the attack that's already found its mark. The sensation of corrupted energy flowing through my system defies description—not merely pain but fundamental violation, foreign power rewriting magical structure with malevolent purpose beyond mere destruction.

Consciousness fractures under this assault, perception fragmenting into disconnected impressions that refuse coherent integration.

I see Mortimer's scales directly beneath me and feel the talisman burning against my palm with a desperate attempt to counter corruption flowing through my system.

Voices reach me across impossible distance — Atticus screaming my name, Zeke's musical tones raised in desperate incantation I cannot understand, Cassius's shadows somehow audible despite the distance separating us.

As darkness closes around fragmenting awareness, the initial image resolves with unexpected clarity—Elena's face from mydream visitation, her expression carrying sad acceptance that suggests foreknowledge of this exact moment.

Her lips move in a silent message I cannot quite comprehend before reality dissolves completely.

---