Page 138 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

"Lift your head," she tells him, her voice gentler than I've ever heard from the typically no-nonsense professor. "Our hearts are thankfully beating, and this next realm will be one you’ll have the most knowledge in to aid your unit."

So we're going to make it to the next realm.

Year Three.

Despite everything that's happened, we're still advancing. And apparently Mortimer's knowledge will be crucial there.

That's something to hold onto, at least.

"Will you be there?" he asks her, and the question feels loaded with meaning I'm too tired to fully decipher. He's not just asking about logistics but on a rooted level between professional scholars.

She smiles sadly but admits she'll do her best when the time is right. I don't miss the evasion in her answer, or the way her eyes flick toward shadows where nothing seems to be moving.

There's more going on here—constraints on what she can do, who she can help, where her loyalties must lie.

I've seen enough politics in this fucked-up academy to recognize when someone's hands are tied by forces they can't openly defy.

She gestures ahead with graceful efficiency, her jeweled fingers cutting through the air in a motion too precise to be casual.

"Hurry and all of you drink the antidotes I've given you. They taste absolutely disgusting, but they'll ensure you pass through, no matter whether the throne activates or not."

Antidotes? Throne? The words tug at something in my memory, connections trying to form through the mental haze still clouding my thoughts.

"Professor Eternalis..." Zeke whispers, and I'm surprised by the hesitation in his usually confident voice. It's musical, like always, but carrying a vulnerability I don't think I've ever heard from him before.

She smiles at him and nods encouragingly.

The expression transforms her face completely, softening those sharp features into something almost maternal — a stark contrast to her usual clinical demeanor.

Her mismatched eyes hold genuine affection as she looks at him.

"It's time for you to go on the adventure destined for you, Zeke. Do not hold back, for you sacrificed a lot for this reality. Don't let it be stolen by those who are not worthy of your salvation."

The way she says it—"this reality" not "the reality"—makes my skin prickle.

Sacrifice and salvation.

Such heavy words for my skinny cat-boy friend with his extraordinary eyes and quiet courage. They clearly have history I know nothing about, despite the time Zeke and I have spent together

Yet Zeke doesn't crumble under the weight of her words.

Instead, he straightens his shoulders, his posture shifting from its usual careful slouch to something more purposeful, more determined. Whatever burden she's acknowledging, he's accepted it long ago.

With that, we're moving.

The world around me blurs as Atticus carries me, his arms steady despite the pace. He whispers to me constantly, his lips close to my ear, but the words blend together into a comforting stream of sound rather than distinct phrases. I catch fragments—"stay with me," "almost there," "not losing you again"—but can't hold onto full sentences.

The reassurance in his tone matters more than the specific content anyway.

I don't realize I'm drifting off until suddenly someone's holding my mouth open, fingers gentle but insistent against my jaw.

The touch startles me back to partial awareness.

"You need to drink this, Queen of Spades," Atticus urges, his voice sharp with an edge of fear I'm not used to hearing from him. "Your heart is going to stop again if you don't."

Again? My heart stopped?

The casual mention of my apparent death should probably terrify me more than it does, but it feels distant like he's talking about someone else. I try to focus on his face, but my vision keeps blurring, reality sliding in and out of focus like a camera that can't quite find its subject.

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