Page 53 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

Positioned himself to be present when she needed protection most. The tactical brilliance of such a long game makes me reassess everything I thought I understood about recent events.

"How did you end up in prison if that was your intention all along?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me despite the oppressive power still filling the room.

Atticus's expression darkens, though his aura remains steady.

"That story intersects with events that aren't entirely mine to share," he says carefully. "Though given recent circumstances, perhaps some context is necessary."

As Atticus speaks, his voice takes on a darker edge, each word weighted with carefully contained fury.

He describes finding Gwenivere in an abandoned warehouse, surrounded by Darius and his followers who had spent hours systematically breaking her down—first mentally, then physically.

They'd chosen their location carefully, he explains, somewhere the sounds wouldn't carry. Somewhere they could take their time teaching a "hybrid witch" her proper place in vampire society.

The public humiliation had come first—taunts and degradation designed to strip away dignity.

Then water, held under until consciousness began to fade, only to be pulled back for more mockery.

"They made it a game," Atticus says, his crimson eyes burning brighter with each detail. "Placing bets on how long she could hold her breath, wagering on when she'd finally break andbeg them to stop. Darius watched it all, smoking his cigarettes and commenting on proper techniques for breaking rebellious spirits."

The methodical nature of their cruelty makes my stomach turn.

These weren't actions of momentary passion or uncontrolled rage. This was calculated torture, designed to leave scars deeper than mere physical wounds.

"When I found her," he continues, his power pulsing with each word, "they had progressed to marking her. Small cuts, precisely placed to spell out 'hybrid' across her ribs. A permanent reminder, they said, of what she was—what she would always be to them."

The parallel to today's cafeteria incident suddenly becomes brutally clear. Damien's "prank" with the urine wasn't just casual cruelty—it had unknowingly replicated elements of her past trauma.

The public nature of the humiliation, the use of liquid as a weapon, the laughter of onlookers who treated her suffering as entertainment... all of it would have triggered memories of that warehouse.

No wonder why she walked away…looking at us with such betrayal when we couldn't intervene.

“Why…” Cassius mutters, drawing our attention to him as he seems conflicted.For obvious reasons.

“If you’re wondering why you’ve never seen those scars it’s because she hides them well enough with magic. A layer that she rarely allows anyone to witness, and for obvious reasons. Don’t need to see something that can constantly trigger a panic attack just with the sight.”

None of us say a word.

"She survived," Atticus states, though his tone suggests this isn't necessarily a comfort. "But survival isn't always mercy.Sometimes it's just the beginning of a different kind of torment…one where every laugh sounds like mockery, every splash of liquid triggers panic, every moment of public vulnerability feels like being back in that warehouse."

His words paint a picture of trauma that extends far beyond that single night, helping me understand why Gwenivere's reaction to the past events seemed so extreme to those who didn't know her history.

It wasn't just about the current humiliation — it was about being forced to relive a nightmare she's spent years trying to overcome.

The scholar in me wants to analyze this, to categorize the psychological implications and study how such trauma affects magical development. But the part of me that's grown to care for her —to see her as more than just another fascinating subject of study— feels something closer to horror at what she endured.

Looking at Nikki's tea-soaked form now, I realize Atticus's choice of retaliation wasn't random. He's making a point about power and vulnerability, about how quickly the mighty can be brought low by something as simple as unwanted liquid.

No wonder Gwenivere reacted so strongly.

Atticus turns back to Nikki, who still kneels before him.

With deliberate slowness, he reaches out, using one elongated nail to lift her chin. Tea continues to drip from her golden hair, each drop hitting the floor with what feels like ominous finality.

"Would you like to know what justice looks like, little Fae?" he asks, his voice carrying harmonics that make reality itself shiver. "What true punishment looks like when someone truly powerful decides to protect what's theirs?"

He describes entering the warehouse after finding Gwenivere, how he appeared to them first as merely "Chubby Atti" — the harmless, overweight boy everyone underestimated.

They laughed at him, he recalls, amused by his declarations of vengeance.

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