Page 49 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

"The trial heavily manipulated the magical elements in Gwenivere," he explains carefully. "I noticed when I pulled her out of her physical body into a temporary space so I couldperform that trick while you were all attempting the blood prison."

The casual mention of such complex magic makes me pause.

My new form doesn't diminish centuries of magical knowledge—if anything, this transformation seems to have heightened my sensitivity to magical theory.

"How did you even notice that?" I challenge, my higher-pitched voice carrying notes of suspicion. "To delve into such a personal layer of review would require physical connection. That shouldn't have been possible when you were in dragon form and possessed."

A slight smile tugs at Mortimer's lips — the kind that always makes me want to punch him, regardless of what form I'm in.

"I'm rather knowledgeable outside of the battlefield," he says with infuriating calm. "Though I seemed to easily clam up in the last trial."

"Shut up," I snap, golden aura flaring with irritation. "I had a lot on my mind and couldn't perform to my best."

"And if it wasn't for me," Mortimer counters smoothly, "the trial would have ended in defeat and your bonded Queen dead."

The words hit like physical blows, but pride makes me strike back.

"She's not my mate," I declare, though the bond mark burns in protest at the denial.

Atticus's laugh cuts through the tension—a dark, knowing sound that sets my teeth on edge.

"You're fully bonded with her," he states, crimson eyes gleaming with something dangerous. "Why would you allow that if you're now going to deny it like some sort of lost fool who doesn't know how good he’s got it?"

My magic surges with newfound volatility, responding to emotions that feel sharper, more immediate in this female form.

"Where the fuck did you even come from?" I demand. "What right do you even fucking have when you're not bonded with her?"

His smile turns predatory.

"Maybe you should check for the double bonding mark on Gabriel's body instead of talking shit," he suggests with lethal sweetness. "Especially in that female form that is nowhere near attractive, by the way."

The insult shouldn't sting—I'm a Fae royal, centuries old and far above such petty jabs. But something about this new form makes everything feel raw, unfiltered.

"If you're just in love with Gwenivere," I snarl, "the only female you probably ever had the chance to have a relationship with because you're so fucking distasteful, you can just say that instead of trying to insult me as though I'm some insecure bitch."

"You have to be insecure in that form," he counters, never losing that infuriating smile, "or else you wouldn't be so threatened at the idea of being rejected by Gabriel who's clearly fine with Cassius and me, but doesn't want to be near 'her' aka you."

The words strike deeper than they should, touching fears I haven't even had time to process about this transformation.

About what it means for my relationships, my identity, my place in all of this.

Before I can form a suitable retort, Mortimer snaps his fingers. The sound carries power—pure, undiluted magical force that ripples outward in a visible wave. We all flinch as it passes through us, the energy feeling like static electricity against skin.

When I open my eyes, the first thing I notice is that Gabriel's form has shifted. Gwenivere lies unconscious in Atticus's arms, her silver hair spilling over his forearm like liquid moonlight.

The sight makes my heart stutter, but that's not the only change.

"Was this really necessary?" Cassius groans, the sound drawing my attention—and then freezing me in place.

Where the stoic Duskwalker prince once stood, a woman now commands the space.

The transformation hasn't diminished the aura of lethal grace that always surrounds him, but everything else has shifted. His usually sharp jawline has softened into elegant curves, while his silver eyes seem larger, more striking against feminine features.

Even his shadows move differently, curling around a form that somehow maintains its deadly precision despite the dramatic change.

The sight sends an odd ripple of recognition through me—seeing another prince transformed this way makes my own situation feel simultaneously less isolating and more real.

My gaze drifts to Atticus, expecting to find him similarly altered, only to stop short.

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