Page 33 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

"I've never seen him do that before," Cassius comments, surprise evident beneath his typical stoicism.

"We're all full of surprises today," I respond, taking my position to complete our formation. I’m hoping this is the last part of the trial because I’m not sure how long I can last.

It’s becoming obvious that these trials are going to be more taxing magic-wise, which points at an obvious need to train and build stamina if we make it out of here alive.

We have to at this rate. We’ve come too far to lose now.

With the five of us arranged in a rough pentagon around the platform, Atticus begins drawing new sigils in blood.

These patterns differ dramatically from the purification circle – where those designs flowed with organic grace, these new symbols appear almost mechanical in their precision. Hard angles and perfect symmetry dominate, creating something that feels less like magical notation and more like complex mathematical formulas.

"Blood prison requires exact parameters," Atticus explains as he works, motions swift and certain despite the corruption still retreating from his system. "Unlike purification, which flows naturally through spiritual channels, containment demands rigid boundaries."

His knowledge of blood arts continues to surprise me, raising questions about his past beyond what I already know.

Prison transformed him, clearly – but into what, exactly? Did he study loads of books in the prison library? Wait…do they even have books for them to read?

I feel odd and a bit stupid that I don’t know much about what Atticus has experienced in the depths of captivity, but I can’t be too hard on myself when we haven’t had the opportunity to breathe and catch up.

I have to make a change when we’re out of this madness.

Maybe this trial is doing more than revolving around the art of survival.

For me, it’s teaching me how limited time can be in an unpredictable institute like Wicked Academy where any moment could potentially be your last…

"The offering needs to be synchronized," he continues, completing the final sigil at my feet. "When I give the signal, release your blood in a single drop. Not before, not after…timing is crucial."

We all nod, preparing accordingly.

Cassius uses his shadows to create a small wound on his palm, the dark essence coalescing into a single perfect sphere above his skin. Nikolai draws his golden dagger again, this time precisely calibrating the depth of his cut to produce the exact amount required.

I follow Atticus's example, using my own small blade to open a fresh cut alongside the one from our earlier ritual. The blood responds differently now – moving with purpose rather than simply flowing. It gathers into a hovering droplet, responsive to my newfound awareness of its potential.

Atticus surveys our preparations with critical assessment.

"On my mark," he instructs, raising his hand with his own blood droplet suspended above his palm. "Three... two... one... now!"

As one, we release our offerings.

The five droplets fall toward the intricate sigils drawn beneath our feet, each striking the obsidian surface at the exact same moment.

For one suspended heartbeat, nothing happens.

Then the platform ignites with power.

Unlike the gradual build of the purification ritual, the blood prison activates with explosive force. The sigils flare from crimson to blinding white, sending columns of energy shooting upward from each of our positions.

These beams connect far above Mortimer's corrupted form, creating a perfect pentagon of light. From these connections, secondary beams form, crisscrossing in complex geometric patterns until they create a shimmering cage of magic surrounding the dragon.

Mortimer immediately recognizes the threat. His massive head whips toward us, those purple eyes narrowing with malevolent intelligence. The corrupted dragon roars –a soundthat seems to distort reality itself– and slams his tail against the forming prison walls.

"It's not strong enough!" Nikolai shouts, strain evident in his voice as the magical structure wavers under Mortimer's assault. "We need more power!"

"Push everything you have into the connection!" Atticus commands, his own beam intensifying as he channels deeper reservoirs of blood magic.

I draw on my newly awakened abilities, feeling the pureblood heritage responding with eager intensity. The markings across my skin pulse with each heartbeat, channeling power into the prison structure with increasing force.

But it's still not enough.

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