Page 67 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

The level of detail suggests hours of meticulous work — the precise curve of Gabriel's determined jaw, the subtle vulnerability in Gwenivere’s eyes, the complex symbolism woven through both backgrounds.

The image perfectly captures the dream that had filled my sleeping mind. A vision of Gabriel descending onto an ancient throne, commanding attention from beings whose power radiated like physical heat.

Entities that typically acknowledge no authority found themselves bowing before this silver-haired hybrid whose presence bent reality itself.

Then the dream had shifted, transforming into a meadow where Gwenivere stood surrounded by shadow spider lilies — rare flowers that only bloom in the deepest regions of Duskwalker realms.

These particular blooms only appear when a significant power shift approaches, when a new royal will ascend to prominence in our shadowed world.

The forebearer of change.

The painting captures both aspects with unsettling accuracy, as if my unconscious mind understood connections my waking thoughts couldn't grasp. The symbolic duality between her forms, the subtle suggestions of destiny and transformation — all rendered with expertise I rarely allow myself to display.

I should be concerned about where my tendrils acquired the materials.

We haven't explored this new campus yet, which means my shadows must have ventured out alone while I slept, seeking pigments and canvas through means I'd rather not examine too closely. Such action suggests autonomous behavior that stretches the normal boundaries of Duskwalker abilities.

Yet another irregularity to add to the growing list of changes since Gwenivere entered our lives.

Deciding to worry about these implications later, I prepare to rise from my window perch. My body feels stiff from hours in one position, muscles protesting as I begin to shift. I turn my head toward the bed, intending to drag my exhausted form there for proper rest before dawn fully breaks.

The sight that greets me steals the breath from my lungs.

Gwenivere lies curled on my bed, silver hair spread across the dark pillows like moonlight captured in silk. She wears only an oversized dress shirt — deep blue fabric that has slipped to reveal one pale shoulder where the smooth skin appears almost luminescent against the shadowed bedding.

Her expression in sleep carries none of the wariness that typically guards her features, revealing a vulnerability she rarely allows the waking world to glimpse.

I freeze, afraid the slightest movement might shatter this moment of unexpected grace. My shadows respond to my stillness, withdrawing from the painting to hover protectively near the bed, their movements carrying a gentleness at odds with their usual predatory nature.

She looks smaller somehow, curled on her side with one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting lightly against her neck where I know my bond mark lies hidden beneath fabric. The realization that she bears my mark —that some essential part of me is woven into her very being— sends a wave of possessiveness through me so intense it's almost painful.

My Little Mouse.

The nickname forms in my mind with unexpected tenderness.

I've called her this from our first real conversation, finding something endearing in the way she scurried through Wicked Academy's dangerous halls, determined to survive despite overwhelming odds. But now the endearment carries deeper meaning — acknowledgment of her courage, resilience, andunwavering determination in the face of challenges that would break lesser beings.

Her eyelashes cast delicate shadows against her cheeks, dark crescents that flutter slightly with dreams I cannot share.

What visions visit her in sleep? Does she dream of her sister, of the chalice she still seeks? Or has her unconscious mind turned to more immediate concerns — the trials we've survived, the transformations we've witnessed, the strange new reality we now inhabit?

A strand of silver hair has fallen across her face, and I find myself fighting the urge to cross the room and brush it gently aside. Such tenderness doesn't come naturally to me — Duskwalkers are taught from birth that emotion is weakness, that vulnerability invites exploitation.

Yet something about her sleeping form awakens protective instincts I've spent centuries suppressing.

The bond mark on my neck pulses gently, responding to her proximity even in slumber. The sensation is still unfamiliar, this magical connection that defies the natural isolation of my kind. Duskwalkers bond rarely, if ever — our shadows too territorial, our natures too solitary for such intimate connection.

Yet here I am, bound to this impossible woman who crashed into our lives with fire in her eyes and determination in every line of her body. This hybrid who refused to accept limitations, who challenged us all to be more than the cold, calculated beings we'd become through centuries of careful control.

My gaze traces the curve of her jaw, the subtle arch of her exposed throat where her pulse beats slow and steady in peaceful sleep.

That vulnerable expanse of skin triggers memories I've tried to suppress — the taste of her blood on my tongue, rich with magic and life force unlike anything I've experienced incenturies of existence. The way she yielded to me in shadow-veiled darkness, trusting despite every reason to be wary.

Her quiet moans, those intimate touches and caresses. How so much passion and desire ignited between us, but that was so foreign for me, one who has never enjoyed the true depths of intimacy like the way she delivered it to me.

Then came her pain, her disgust at our inaction during Damien's cruel display. The memory of her expression —betrayal cutting deeper than mere disappointment— makes my shadows writhe with agitation.

I should have protected her, consequences be damned.

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