Page 51 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

We exchange looks — Atticus with his insufferable confidence, Mortimer radiating scholarly curiosity, and me still struggling to reconcile this new reality where even my own magic responds differently.

The weight of everything we need to address hangs heavy in the air: transformations, bonds, betrayals both real and perceived, and whatever consequences our trial victory might bring.

My gaze drifts back to Gwenivere's sleeping form.

She looks peaceful now, the strain of recent events smoothed from her features by unconsciousness. The bond mark pulses gently, responding to her proximity even in this altered form.

What will she think when she wakes to find me like this as a potentially permanent situation until we get through Year Two?

The thought sends fresh anxiety coursing through me.

Will this transformation affect our connection? Change how she sees me?

We've barely had time to explore what exists between us, and now everything's shifted again. Such fears and uncertainties also feel foolish of me when I’ve obviously fucked up.

I have to fix shit…but how? What opportunity will I have?

Swallowing the lump forming in my throat, I ignore the heaviness of dread rushing through me, wondering in the depths of my mind, is this how Gwenivere normally feels?

The burden of these constantly changing emotions or the overwhelming wonder of whether you’re doing something right or wrong.

The others are already moving toward the door, clearly ready to hash out whatever revelations and accusations await. I linger a moment longer, watching the steady rise and fall of Gwenivere's chest.

In sleep, she looks like exactly what she is — a woman of impossible strength who's survived more than anyone should have to. Someone who fought her way into our lives out of chance and changed everything, whether we were ready for it or not.

And now I stand here in this female form, facing changes I never anticipated, wondering if I'm strong enough to weather the obvious storm brewing upon the horizon.

"Coming?" Cassius calls softly from the doorway, his shadows reaching toward me in what might be comfort or concern.

I straighten my shoulders, trying to find that royal bearing that's served me for centuries. It feels different in this body—not wrong exactly, but like instrument strings tuned to a new key.

"Yes," I answer, turning away from Gwenivere's sleeping form.

I can’t let these minor challenges stop me. I'll face them as I've faced everything else in my centuries of existence. Despite this, I have a throne to claim, and that will require me returning to my roots.

Even if I have to do it in a form I never expected to wear.

Blood And Boundaries Tested With Purpose

~MORTIMER~

"YOU KISSED HER?"

The collective outburst rings through our new common area, but I maintain my composure, taking another careful sip of my perfectly steeped Earl Grey.

The tea's familiar warmth helps center me as I survey the wards I've spent the last hour meticulously crafting around our living space.

Without official reassurance from the administration —which will surely come during the entry ceremony— I prefer to err on the side of caution after such an unpredictable trial. The magical barriers shimmer faintly at the edges of my perception, a complex web of protection and privacy that should, theoretically, keep our conversations from reaching unwanted ears.

"Yes," I answer simply, appreciating how the bergamot's subtle notes complement the tea's natural astringency. "I had to kiss her to pull her soul and reconstruct her body in the same space-time continuum. It was the only way to initiate the switch before Lysth's attack would have proven fatal."

The explanation, though accurate, does little to soothe the obvious tension radiating from my companions. Particularly from Nikolai—or rather, Nikki, as Gabriel had dubbed her current feminine form with surprising casualness before succumbing to exhaustion.

"You're centuries old," she protests, her golden aura flickering with agitation. "You can't possibly date anyone?—"

"Age isn't necessarily a factor in this instance," Atticus interrupts, his voice carrying unexpected authority. "And it shouldn't be weaponized in some pejorative way when that clearly wasn't Mortimer's intention."

The intervention surprises me — not just the words themselves, but the weight behind them. Not to say no one has come to my defense unless it truly benefits them, but Atticus has no purpose of standing in my steed.

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