Page 66 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

The last thing I register before drifting off is the gentle shadow of one tendril adjusting a blanket over my form, the gesture carrying unexpected tenderness from one who presents himself as anything but gentle to the outside world.

Peace settles over me like a physical weight, drawing me down into slumber unmarred by wilting flowers or cryptic messages.

Just darkness, warm and welcoming, offering respite from the questions that await in waking hours.

Shadows That Sing And Hymns Of Peace

~CASSIUS~

The humming wakes me, a delicate minor melody winding through the edges of consciousness like smoke curling through an empty room.

The sound carries a strange innocence, a vulnerability that feels out of place in the world of shadows and secrets I inhabit.

My mind drifts, caught between waking and dreaming, and suddenly I'm a child again — crouched alone in the darker corners of our ancestral home, listening to the mockery of older Duskwalkers who found my interest in light and color shameful.

A weakness unbecoming of our lineage.

"The silver-eyed one watches flowers again,"they would whisper."Perhaps he should have been born Fae instead."

Their cruelty was a constant companion, but so was something else — a sound much like the humming that now draws me from sleep.

Back then, the melody came from a rare shadow being known as aNachtlied— "night song" in the ancient tongue of our people.

Unlike most shadow creatures bred for battle and dominance, the Nachtlied were gentler souls, capable of shiftinginto forms that almost mimicked the mundane: cats with extra toes, birds with too many eyes, dogs with shadow-smoke for fur.

They were considered lesser by most Duskwalkers, their ability to take simple forms deemed unimpressive compared to the monstrosities others could manifest. But what made them truly unique —what drew my childhood fascination— was their singing. In moments of fear or perfect peace, they would hum to themselves, a sort of self-soothing that carried notes no other being could replicate.

I would seek them out when the mockery became too much, following their melodies to hidden gardens where shadow flowers bloomed under moonlight. They never spoke to me directly, these shy creatures, but their songs felt like acknowledgment. Like acceptance.

Like hope.

The humming continues, pulling me fully into consciousness now.

I open my eyes slowly, vision adjusting to the dim light of predawn that filters through nearby windows. The sound comes from my shoulder, and when I turn my head, I find Grim's miniature form perched there like a peculiar familiar.

His hollow eye sockets somehow convey contentment as he continues that haunting melody, tiny skull tilted slightly as if lost in memory or dream. I've never heard him make such sounds before —never knew he was capable of it.The realization sends an odd pang through my chest, a reminder of how little I truly understand about the shadow being bonded to my essence.

Or how they can be easily manipulated.

It’s a good lesson to learn, especially because it proves I need to get better in a magnitude of areas. Thankfully, Atticus isn’t deemed as an enemy, at least for as long as Gwenivere stays an ally in our eyes, but it also means my shadows can be easily morphed in others favor.

That can be used against us in the next trial. I have to learn to control it better.

After the discussion with Mortimer, I know the library is going to be a source of a lot of knowledge that can benefit us. I’d want to use the privilege to not only help locate legends regarding this chalice, but also more of what I can do with my capabilities that wasn’t taught to me.

Having to learn things on my own has made things tricky in a world that is so unpredictable, but maybe Mortimer can be of aid?

I can't help the smirk that forms, the expression feeling foreign on features more accustomed to careful neutrality as I return to reality, away from my thoughts. There's something disarming about this moment — this powerful entity of death and shadow, humming like a Nachtlied while perched on my shoulder in diminutive form.

My gaze drifts left, catching on something that transforms my smirk into an expression of genuine surprise.

An easel stands near the center of the room, upon it a canvas bearing an image of breathtaking detail and emotional depth. The painting depicts a dual portrait of Gwenivere —one half showing her as Gabriel, the other revealing her true female form.

I stare at the masterpiece, momentarily confused by its existence until I notice several of my shadow tendrils hovering near the canvas, each holding brushes still wet with paint. Understanding dawns with uncomfortable clarity — my unconscious mind channeled artistic ability through these extensions while I slept.

A childish pout forms before I can suppress it.

How long have I been asleep for my shadows to create something so intricate?

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