Page 6 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

Damien's expression freezes as he finally recognizes the predator standing before him – not in Atticus' appearance, which remains deceptively ordinary, but in the ancient power rolling off him in barely contained waves.

One of the other students, a tall sylph with translucent skin and crystalline hair, steps forward.

"The trial begins soon," he announces, his voice an odd melodic yet cutting sound. "Choose your allies wisely."

His gaze lingers on me, or perhaps on my joined hands with Atticus, before he turns away, heading back toward the cavern entrance. The others follow, Damien included, though he glances back once with an expression I can't quite decipher.

Warning, perhaps.Or calculation.

Either way, I'm beyond caring what Damien thinks or feels.

He’s a traitor just like the others…

"So that's the famous vampire prince," Atticus murmurs once they're out of earshot. "Younger than I expected."

"Younger doesn't mean less dangerous," I remind him.

His smile returns, sharper now.

"Neither does it mean more intelligent. He didn't recognize me."

"Should he have?"

Atticus shrugs, a casual gesture at odds with the predatory gleam in his eyes.

"My case was rather famous in certain circles. 'The Butcher of Blackwood Coven' and all that. But I suppose princely education doesn't include recent criminal history."

The cavalier way he references murdering an entire coven should probably disturb me. Perhaps it's a sign of how much I've changed that it instead feels like reassurance.

"Do you think the others will recognize you?" I ask, nodding toward the cavern where the students disappeared.

"Doubtful. My appearance has...evolved since my incarceration." His free hand gestures toward his transformed body, so different from the chubby boy everyone once underestimated. "Prison tends to have that effect."

The casual mention of his imprisonment makes my chest ache with a complicated mix of guilt and gratitude. He sacrificed his freedom for my vengeance, spent years in darkness while I tried to rebuild my life.

And now he's here, risking everything again by allying himself with me.

"You don't have to do this," I say quietly, the words escaping before I can reconsider them. "This isn't your fight. These aren't your enemies."

Atticus stops walking, turning to face me fully.

The lava light casts half his face in shadow, highlighting the dangerous curve of his jaw, the intensity of his gaze.

"They became my enemies the moment they hurt you," he says simply, as if stating an obvious truth like the color of the sky or the wetness of water. "Just as Darius and his friends became my enemies the moment they laid hands on you."

The absolute conviction in his voice makes my throat tight.

"That cost you everything."

"And I'd pay it again," he responds without hesitation. "A thousand times over."

I don't know what to say to that kind of devotion.

It feels both humbling and terrifying to be the focus of such unwavering loyalty.

Atticus seems to sense my discomfort, his expression softening slightly.

"Besides," he adds, his tone lightening, "prison was educational. I learned things there that will prove quite useful in the trials ahead."

---