Page 52 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

Nevertheless, there's something about how Atticus carries himself, a kind of ancient power that seems at odds with his apparent youth.

Nikki bristles visibly, her transformed features arranging themselves into an expression of pure aristocratic disdain.

"What's your fucking problem?" she demands, golden light gathering around her clenched fists. Silence descends on us as he’s not going to entertain her outburst. I can get why Nikolai is acting rather obnoxiously irritable, especially with his current predicament, but I’m sure Atticus, who doesn’t need to carry sympathy for someone whose practically a stranger, doesn’t give a damn about his circumstances.

"Nothing?" she snaps when Atticus merely raises an eyebrow. "You shouldn't even be interfering because you're a fucking nobody. Between the two of us, I would probably be of better service than the significant douche you are."

The words have barely left her lips when Atticus appears directly in front of her, moving with the kind of speed that makesvampire abilities look sluggish in comparison. Before anyone can react, he upends my entire teapot over her head.

The Earl Grey —still steaming— cascades over Nikki's long golden hair, staining her white shirt and leaving her sputtering in shock. Cassius and I remain perfectly still, equally mortified by this display of casual disrespect toward Fae royalty.

"You—" Nikki rises, literally steaming with rage as her magic flares. Her Fae aura has to be the only layer of protection that saved her from the scoldingly hot liquid that would have peeled off anyone else’s flesh in an instant. "Do you know who the fuck I am?! I'm royal?—"

The word dies in her throat as Atticus's aura suddenly fills the room.

The change is immediate and overwhelming—like watching a predator shed its camouflage to reveal something ancient and terrifying. The very air grows heavy with power that feels older than time itself, forcing Nikki to her knees through sheer magical pressure.

Cassius and I find ourselves similarly immobilized, not by any direct compulsion but by the instinctive recognition of something far more dangerous than we'd imagined. His presence resonates on frequencies that shouldn't exist in our realm, power that feels like it predates the very concept of magical classification.

Atticus tilts his head, studying Nikki with eyes that now burn like fresh blood.

When he speaks, his voice carries harmonics that make reality itself seem to shiver.

"Allow me to properly introduce myself,"he says, each word precise and heavy with power."I am Atticus Bloodweaver, Crown Prince of the Crimson Throne and sole heir to the Shadowheart Dynasty. First ofthe Eternal Bloodline, bearer of the Mark of the Forgotten, and High Lord of the Crimson Coven."

The titles alone send chills down my spine — not just their grandeur, but the implications they carry. The Shadowheart Dynasty is spoken of only in whispers, a bloodline so ancient and powerful that most believe it mythical. They're said to be the original vampires, those who walked the earth before the great schism that created the modern vampire courts.

Their power is rumored to transcend normal vampire abilities, drawing on magics so old they predate written history. The Crimson Court itself exists more as legend than fact—a gathering of purebloods whose abilities make normal vampire powers look like parlor tricks in comparison.

"Your pathetic attempts at asserting dominance through royal status mean nothing to me,"Atticus continues, his voice carrying notes that make my bones vibrate."I was ancient when your bloodline first learned to harness Fae magic. I watched empires rise and fall while your ancestors were still learning to craft glamours."

The pressure in the room increases, making it difficult to even breathe. Nikki remains on her knees, her golden aura completely overwhelmed by the waves of power rolling off Atticus. Tea drips from her hair, the sight almost comical if not for the deadly serious situation unfolding.

"The Shadowheart Dynasty was sealed away," I manage to say, academic curiosity temporarily overwhelming survival instinct. "The records say they chose voluntary exile after the Great Sundering."

Atticus's lips curve into a smile that holds no warmth.

"History is written by those who fear what they cannot control,"he says simply."The truth, as always, is far more complex."

His gaze returns to Nikki, who seems to be struggling just to remain conscious under the weight of his presence.

"You play at power, little Fae, but you have no concept of true strength. Your courts and their pretty politics are nothing compared to the games played in the eternal dark."

The casual dismissal of Fae authority would normally warrant immediate retaliation, but none of us move. The power radiating from Atticus feels fundamentally different from anything I've encountered in centuries of magical study — purer somehow, more primal, as if he's tapped into something that existed before magic itself was categorized and contained.

"Why would you re-enter this world that doesn’t service you?” I decide to question.

“To service my Queen of Spades,” he announces so casually, and yet it’s so vibrant with the immense force laced in his deep voice. The tone vibrates with empowering force that only continues to fill the room like an endless flood of power and authority. “Prison serviced me well, but it was only a matter of time before my call to return would bring me back to the surface world.”

"So the prison," Cassius says carefully, his shadows writhing with obvious discomfort, "wasn't actually?—"

"A punishment?" Atticus completes the thought, dark amusement coloring his tone. "More like a convenient place to observe while certain pieces moved into position." His gaze shifts meaningfully toward the bedroom where Gwenivere sleeps. "Some games require patience, after all, and what is time when you’re centuries old and can be passed down, host after host?"

The implications send my scholarly mind spinning.

If he's truly who he claims — a prince of the Shadowheart Dynasty — then his presence here carries weight far beyondsimple revenge or protection. The ancient bloodlines were known for their ability to see threads of fate and to manipulate destiny itself through careful observation and precise intervention.

Had he known about Gwenivere all along?

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