Page 140 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

It was like a congregation of people were here and left, the evidence of recent crowd scattered across what appears to be some kind of ceremonial space. But the mess behind is nothing compared to what catches my attention immediately—plentiful posters decorated with foul hate plastered across every available surface.

But that's not even the problem at hand. It's the person on the posters.

Nikki.

The posters scream hatred with a viciousness that takes my breath away.

Not metaphorically.Literally.I feel the air punch out of my lungs as if someone has delivered a physical blow, my body responding to visual assault before my mind can fully process what I'm seeing.

Dozens of sheets plastered across every available surface, each one a weapon more devastating than any magical attack we've encountered.

Nikolai's face stares back at me from a dozen different angles, each image progressively more degrading.

The first set looks almost official— academic headshots that might have been pulled from school records, his features captured in that neutral expression he wears during lectures. But as the posters progress, something shifts.

The images become more personal, and more invasive.

Photographs that look like they were taken without consent, are captured in moments of vulnerability.

When a shifter becomes a target, privacy is the first thing stripped away.

The words accompanying the images are a catalog of brutality that makes my vampire blood run cold.

"HALF-BREED TRAITOR", some declare in bold red letters.

"ROYAL BLOODLINE CONTAMINATION" screams another, the typography itself seeming to vibrate with malevolent energy.

Each poster represents a different flavor of violation—some academic, some personal, some so deeply racist they feel like physical wounds made manifest through paper and ink.

I feel Atticus tense beside me, his body becoming a coiled spring of barely contained rage. Cassius's shadows writhe with such intensity I can see them actually disconnecting from his physical form, tendrils of darkness responding to emotional turbulence in ways that defy ordinary magical physics.

"Who did this?" The question emerges from me as a whisper, then grows in volume with each repetition. "WHO. DID. THIS?"

My hand reaches out, fingers tracing the edge of one poster. The paper feels wrong— not merely printed, but imbued with a magical signature that suggests these aren't simple propaganda pieces. They're magical markers, designed to do more than just communicate hate.

They're tracking, targeting,marking.

Zeke moves closer, those extraordinary cat-like eyes scanning the posters with a familiarity that suggests he's seen similar attacks before. His hand hovers near one image, not quite touching but close enough that I can see how the magical energies are layered into the very fibers of the paper.

"Fae politics," he mutters, the words carrying the weight of centuries of understanding. "When royalty feels threatened, they don't just attack. They destroy."

The implication is clear. This isn't just about Nikolai. This is about everything he represents—a challenge to establishedpower structures, a disruption of carefully maintained hierarchies that have existed longer than most civilizations.

Atticus's hand finds mine, his grip so tight it would crush human bones. "Breathe," he instructs the single word carrying enough vampire authority that it momentarily cuts through my rising fury. "Whatever they've done, we're going to unmake it."

I turn to look at him, silver eyes meeting crimson, and for a moment the entire world seems to pause.

In that breath, I see something I've rarely witnessed — true, unfiltered rage coupled with a determination that makes promises blood can't easily break.

"They touched our person," Cassius adds, his voice so cold it makes the surrounding air drop several degrees. "They marked what belongs to our bond group."

The possessiveness should feel suffocating. Instead, it feels like a protective shield being raised around us, a collective declaration that whatever forces think they can tear us apart have gravely miscalculated.

Zeke's hand rises, tracing a complex pattern in the air. Golden light momentarily illuminates the magical signatures embedded in the posters, revealing intricate tracking spells that go far beyond simple propaganda. These are weaponized magical constructs designed to isolate, track, and potentially neutralize their target.

"They want him found," Zeke explains, his musical voice carrying an academic precision that somehow makes the horror more bearable. "Not just exposed. Eliminated."

The word hangs in the air, a promise and a threat rolled into one devastating package.

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