Page 57 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

The pained hiss that escapes her as she leaps to her feet, dancing around as though her very clothes burn, carries none of her usual royal dignity. The sight would be almost comical if not for the deadly serious implications of Atticus's display of power.

"Strip those clothes off!" I call out, recognizing the dangerous heat of the liquid. Ancient magic often carries unexpected properties — who knows what enchantments might be woven into that seemingly simple tea?

Just before Nikki can comply, Cassius curses and throws his hands out, shadows surging forward with unprecedented purpose.

Instead of their usual formless mass, they coalesce into a solid figure — an older, more substantial version of Grim who moves with shocking speed to catch Atticus as he suddenly crumples toward the floor.

The transformation is jarring — one moment he stood as an avatar of ancient power, the next he appears almost vulnerable, caught in Grim's shadowy embrace. The sight sends chills down my spine, reminding me that even beings of myth have their limitations.

But what truly captures my attention is how Grim has manifested.

This isn't the miniature companion we've known, nor even the battle form we witnessed during the trial. This version seems older somehow, more refined — as if Cassius's shadows have tapped into some deeper understanding of what Grim truly represents.

The room falls silent except for Nikki's pained breathing, now completely naked as the burning soaked clothes lay in a pile that's visibly melting.

The steady drip of enchanted tea creates an almost hypnotic rhythm against our marble floors, each drop carrying traces of magic that shouldn't be possible even for ancient blood to conjure.

We all watch as Grim carefully supports Atticus, the scene carrying weight that feels significant beyond mere physical assistance. The shadowy being's manifestation in this moresubstantial form suggests depths to our understanding of Duskwalker abilities that even centuries of scholarly research haven't revealed.

What game are we really playing here?

I find myself wondering, looking between these beings of immense power—all somehow connected to a hybrid witch who sleeps unaware in the next room. The pieces are moving on a board far larger than any of us initially imagined, guided by hands that might have been arranging this particular game for centuries.

And more importantly, what happens when Gwenivere wakes to find everything has changed?

When she discovers that her presence here might be part of some grand design orchestrated by powers far older than any of us suspected existed?

My gaze drifts to Nikki, taking in the defeat evident in her posture despite her attempts to maintain dignity.

Her fists are clenched at her sides, shoulders rigid with tension that speaks of pride warring with humiliation. Golden hair, still dripping with enchanted tea, cascades down her back in waves that catch the room's light despite their sodden state.

Something in my chest tightens at the sight.

Perhaps it's because I've never particularly cared for Nikolai's usual arrogance— the way Fae royalty tends to look down on scholars who prefer books to court politics. Their pride often matches that of Duskwalkers, though the latter tend toward cold detachment rather than active disdain.

But now, watching Nikki struggle to maintain composure while clearly fighting back tears that make her eyes gleam with suspicious brightness, I feel an unexpected surge of sympathy. This transformation has stripped away more than just physical form —it's exposed vulnerabilities that centuries of careful control usually keep hidden.

Rising to my feet, I summon one of my usual cloaks with a careful gesture. The fabric materializes at my fingertips, heavy with protective enchantments woven into its very threads. I cross the space between us with measured steps, noting how she doesn't acknowledge my approach.

The cloak settles over her shoulders with careful precision, providing coverage that speaks more of respect than mere modesty. She doesn't look up, gaze fixed stubbornly on the floor as if eye contact might somehow make this situation more real.

I accept her silence, understanding that sometimes pride needs space to bend without breaking.

Returning to my previous position, I decide to take the lead in addressing the more pressing concerns raised by recent events. The scholar in me recognizes patterns that need examining, implications that could affect all our survival moving forward.

"During the purification attempt used on me," I begin carefully, choosing words that might redirect attention from Nikki's current state, "you didn't actually eliminate the dark corruption fully. Instead, it was simply shifted to a more suitable target."

Cassius frowns, his shadows coiling with obvious concern while Grim easily maneuvers Atticus's unconscious form onto a lounge chair deeper in our living space. The way the shadowy being handles the ancient vampire speaks of familiarity that raises fresh questions about their connection.

For another night of confrontation.

"Are you suggesting the corruption is in Gwenivere?" Cassius asks, turning his attention fully to me. The protective edge in his tone betrays depths of feeling that his usual stoic demeanor rarely reveals.

"I believe so," I confirm, noting how Nikki's head lifts slightly at this revelation. Despite her apparent determination to remainuninvolved, her interest in anything concerning Gwenivere proves too strong to ignore. "However, I'm against attempting its removal."

"Why?" Cassius's confusion is evident, his shadows writhing with increased agitation.

I take a moment to organize my thoughts, aware that what I'm about to reveal could change everything we think we understand about our situation.

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