Page 68 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

The fact that mysterious forces prevented our intervention feels like a hollow excuse rather than valid justification.

It feels almost childish now that I review my own behavior. Revolving around the lack of my involvement all because of the hidden threats that lingered to break us apart.

Yet, wasn’t that exactly what it did?

If it hadn’t been for this trial that forced our groups together once more, we wouldn’t be in this shared space. She wouldn’t so easily be willing to dwell within the depths of my room, sleeping so soundly knowing I’m present.

I’m unsure if that means I’ve earned a hint of her forgiveness, especially with my utmost desire to express my regret for my lack of action.

Now she sleeps in my bed, beautiful and vulnerable, unaware of the storm of emotions her mere presence evokes.

The contradiction is almost painful — wanting her close while knowing I've lost the right to such intimacy, needing her forgiveness while understanding I must earn it through actions rather than mere words.

The faint light filtering through the windows casts her in gentle illumination, highlighting the silver of her hair and the subtle curve of her cheek. She seems almost ethereal in this half-light, more dream than reality. Yet the steady rise and fall of her chest grounds her in the physical world, a reminder that beneath all the magic and mystery beats a heart as real as my own.

One of my tendrils drifts closer to the bed, moving with careful deliberation as if drawn by instinct rather than conscious command. It hovers near her sleeping form, not quite touching, maintaining a respectful distance despite the obvious yearning in its movement.

Another joins it, then another, until a protective circle forms around the bed where she lies — my shadows standing sentinel over her slumber.

I should leave.

Find another room, grant her privacy, respect boundaries still fragile from recent breaches of trust.

Yet I remain frozen by the window, unable to tear my gaze from this unexpected tableau of silver hair against dark sheets, of light embraced by shadow.

Grim's humming continues, the melody shifting subtly into something that carries notes of protection and possession. The sound vibrates through my very being, resonating with emotions I lack proper names for — feelings Duskwalkers aren't supposed to acknowledge, let alone embrace.

She murmurs something in her sleep, the words too soft to catch but carrying a tone of distress that makes my shadows surge protectively.

A tendril extends before I can stop it, brushing against her cheek with gossamer gentleness. The touch seems to soothe whatever troubled her dreams, her expression relaxing once more into peaceful slumber.

I swallow hard, confronted by evidence of my own vulnerability where she's concerned. This isn't merely protective instinct or possessive territoriality.

Something I'm not ready to name, even in the privacy of my own thoughts.

Her presence in my bed —innocent though it may be— feels like both gift and torture. Having her so close yet knowing the distance between us extends beyond mere physical space. Wanting to cross that distance while understanding that patience, not pursuit, is what's needed now.

The light outside strengthens imperceptibly, dawn approaching with steady inevitability. Soon she'll wake, and whatever strange magic this moment holds will dissolve into the complicated reality of our current circumstances. But for now, in this liminal space between night and morning, I allow myself to simply watch over her.

To memorize the peaceful curve of her lips, the delicate arch of her brow, the way her silver hair catches even the faintest light.

My Little Mouse,momentarily free from the burdens she carries with such determined strength.

My bonded,whose mark I bear as she bears mine, connecting us in ways that transcend ordinary understanding.

My Gwenivere, whose presence has shattered the careful isolation I maintained for centuries.

The realization that I think of her asmineshould probably disturb me more than it does. Possessiveness isn't a trait I've indulged in or assumed I could experience in this world where loneliness is embraced and welcomed — such emotions run too hot, too unpredictable for Duskwalker sensibilities.

Yet with her, the feeling seems as natural as breathing, as inevitable as shadow following form.

Another strand of silver hair falls across her face, and this time I can't resist. Rising silently from my window perch, I approach the bed with careful steps, each movement measuredto avoid disturbing her rest. Reaching her side, I pause, suddenly uncertain despite my resolve.

She appears even more delicate from this closer vantage — the fine bones of her wrist where her hand rests against the pillow, the subtle shadow beneath her bottom lip, the sweep of silver lashes against pale skin.

But I know better than most how deceptive such apparent fragility can be.

This woman fought her way through trials that have claimed countless lives before her. She's faced humiliation and betrayal without breaking. She carries burdens that would crush lesser beings, yet still finds strength to continue forward.

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