Page 137 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

Where is he? What happened while I was trapped in that nightmare of memory?

Atticus approaches me, until he slowly kneels next to me, and reaches out to me, caressing my cheek so I'll realize I'm safe and okay.

The gentleness in his touch grounds me, pulling me back from the edge of whatever darkness threatened to consume me moments before.

I finally calm down, shaking before Atticus pulls me into a hug, whispering that it's okay. I'm okay. His arms around me feel like the only solid thing in a world gone mad, his steady heartbeat against my ear creating a rhythm I can cling to.

"We must move immediately," she insists, one jeweled hand making a cutting gesture that brooks no argument. "What I've done will not hold them for long. The distraction was merely temporary—a glamour of sufficient complexity to confuse, but not truly deceive those who hunt you now."

All she could do was distract them, but if we want to avoid being permanently caught, we must leave.

The word "permanently" lingers in the air between us with ominous weight, suggesting fates worse than detention or expulsion. There's something in her expression —a tightness around those extraordinary eyes, a tension in the elegant line of her jaw— that conveys dangers beyond anything we've faced in classroom trials or controlled challenges.

The urgency in her tone suggests consequences beyond mere academic penalties— whatever happened while I was trapped in memory or unconsciousness has escalated beyond ordinary academy politics.

This isn't about points or advancement anymore; the stakes have shifted into territory where failure might mean erasure rather than mere setbacks.

The way her gaze keeps returning to the corridors beyond our temporary sanctuary carries the hypervigilance of prey aware of predators circling ever closer.

Atticus scoops me up without hesitation, one arm beneath my knees and the other supporting my back. The familiar motion carries echoes of other rescues, other moments when my body has failed me and he's been there to ensure I didn't fall.

He’s kept his word, again and again, which I’m thankful for.

Cassius and Zeke ask Mortimer if he needs help, their voices mixing with concern as they approach the scholarly dragon.

Despite being naked and covered in wounds that would kill a normal person, Mortimer just stands there like it's no big deal, his skin still shifting as scales retreat beneath the surface.

"I'll be fine," he says, waving them off like his injuries are nothing more than minor inconveniences. "I've been worse." The casual way he dismisses what looks like serious damage tells me more about his age than any lecture on ancient history ever could.

You don't shrug off wounds like that unless you've had centuries to get used to pain.

But then he turns to Professor Eternalis, and his scholarly tone shifts to something more serious as he says I need medical attention the moment we arrive.

The fact that he's more concerned about me than his own bleeding body makes my stomach tighten. Whatever happened to me while I was out must have been bad. Really bad.

"You all do," she says, those weird mismatched eyes of hers—one red, one violet—sweeping over us like she's cataloging every injury, every magical drain, every drop of blood we've lost.

Then she adds that "the infiltration will be handled accordingly," and there's something in her voice that sounds like a promise of violence.

I try to understand what she means, but my thoughts are too foggy, my mind still trying to piece together what the hell happened while I was lost in that memory or dream or whatever it was.

"I had no participation in this," Mortimer suddenly says, his voice sharper than I've ever heard it. He sounds defensive, almost desperate for her to believe him. Whoever "they" are, they've obviously accused him of something serious.

Something that has him rattled despite all his centuries of careful composure.

Professor Eternalis sighs, and I force my head to turn just enough to see her place her hand on his shoulder. The gesture looks weirdly intimate coming from her—I've never seen her touch anyone with that kind of empathy before.

Her face softens as she looks at him, and suddenly I wonder if there's a history between them I never knew about.

"They've shunned you for a reason I cannot comprehend or explain, but I've known and seen your devotion long enough, Mortimer, to know what a setup is when I see one."

A setup? Who the fuck would set up Mortimer? And why?

The realization hits me that there are layers of academy politics we haven't even begun to understand—forces moving against us, against Mortimer specifically, that we never saw coming. We've been so focused on surviving day to day that we missed the bigger game being played around us.

Mortimer doesn't argue or defend himself.

He just bobs his head, his expression so defeated it makes me feel sick to see it. This is Mortimer —ancient, knowledgeable, always composed— looking like he's lost a war I didn't even know was being fought.Then again, I bet he feels as if he’s lost his very identity.The defeat sits all wrong on his scholarly features, like watching a mountain bow or the sun decide not to rise.

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