Page 47 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

The blackmail behind it all…

Yet, we never had the chance to confront the situation.

No…we did…but my pride took over.

I’m coming to realize that my pride and ego hidden behind walls of perfection in impending royalty makes me hide my true emotions that I feel Gwenivere has earned in experiencing the raw truth behind the masked wall I project to the rest of the world.

At least before I fucked it all up.

Acting on instinct, I reach for his hand, needing to bridge this sudden distance between us. The bond mark urges connection,reassurance, anything to ease the obvious strain he's under.

My golden aura reaches out instinctively, seeking to wrap around him in familiar comfort.

He jerks away from my touch as if burned.

I don’t know why the movement angers me. Makes me feel like I’ve been rejected. I shouldn’t care if he wants his space all of a sudden.

But it does…

Enough for me to say something.

"What the fuck?"

The words escape before I can stop them, my voice higher now but carrying the same aristocratic inflection it always has. The rejection stings more than it should, a sharp pain that has nothing to do with physical transformation.

Gabriel gives me a sidelong look that freezes the blood in my veins. Gone is the warmth I'd grown accustomed to seeing in those eyes. The expression that sought for us to be equals in this true game of survival and wickedness.

Instead, they hold something colder, harder—like fortress walls built too high to scale. The sight reminds me of how he looked in those first days at the academy, before bonds and intimacy complicated everything.

"I don't get why you're trying to reach out as if things are supposed to go back to normal just because we survived the trial," he says, each word precise and cutting. The bond mark aches at his tone, responding to the pain beneath his careful control.

I start to argue, to explain, to try and bridge whatever chasm has opened between us. The words pile up behind my teeth—explanations about point systems and survival and choices that felt impossible in the moment.

But before I can voice any of it, Cassius steps forward, somehow radiating both authority and concern despite his usual stoic demeanor.

"Are you tired?" he asks Gabriel directly, shadows writhing with barely contained agitation. The way his darkness moves betrays his worry more than his expression ever could.

Gabriel's frown deepens, but he remains silent as Cassius approaches with careful deliberation.

When the Duskwalker prince reaches to press his hand against Gabriel's forehead, our companion tries to flinch back—only to collide with the shadowy being that's materialized behind him.

"You don't need to sandwich me like that," Gabriel grumbles, though the usual fire in his voice sounds dampened, almost slurred. The weakness in his tone sets off warning bells in my mind.

Cassius's lips twitch slightly.

"I could have just held you down with my tendrils," he points out, "but maybe that wouldn't be good with an audience."

The comment makes Gabriel cringe, but I notice how he doesn't pull away from Cassius's touch this time. Something in my chest tightens —jealousy maybe— though whether at Gabriel accepting Cassius's concern or at Cassius being able to offer it so freely, I'm not sure.

My new form makes these emotions feel sharper somehow, as if the transformation has stripped away some barrier between feeling and experiencing.

Everything seems to cut deeper, resonate stronger.

"You have a fever," Cassius announces, concern sharpening his usually controlled tone. His shadows coil tighter, responding to his worry.

"I'll drink some water," Gabriel dismisses with a weak wave of his hand. "Maybe have some blood in the morning. Too fucking tired right now to do much of anything."

The casual mention of blood needs sends another spike of guilt through me.

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