Page 69 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

There is nothing fragile about Gwenivere except the trust I must now rebuild.

With infinite care, I reach down and brush the errant strand of hair from her face, fingertips barely grazing her skin. The contact sends a jolt through my system despite its briefness — a surge of connection that makes the bond mark at my neck pulse with renewed intensity.

She stirs slightly at the touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips, but doesn't wake. My relief at this small mercy wars with unexpected disappointment — part of me longs for her eyes to open, to see recognition and perhaps forgiveness in their silver depths.

Patience…

I have to remind myself.

Some things cannot be rushed, especially healing.

It’s a first for me. To think this way. To give another such a chance and opportunity, especially when I’m the culprit of such lingering trauma that needs time to heal.

I straighten, preparing to withdraw and seek rest elsewhere, when her hand suddenly moves. Still deep in slumber, she reaches out, fingers catching the edge of my sleeve withsurprising strength. The gesture lacks conscious intent but carries unmistakable meaning all the same — a wordless request for presence, for closeness.

For the first time in centuries, I find myself utterly uncertain of the correct course of action. Leave as planned, extracting myself from her unconscious grip? Or yield to this unspoken invitation, this chance to guard her sleep more directly?

Her fingers tighten slightly on my sleeve, decision made for me before conscious thought can fully form. With careful movements, I settle onto the bed's edge, maintaining a respectful distance while remaining close enough to fulfill her unconscious request.

Grim's humming grows softer, the melody shifting into something that feels like approval. My shadows respond by dimming slightly, creating a cocoon of gentle darkness around the bed. The effect is oddly peaceful — a sanctuary carved from shadow and silence, illuminated only by the faint blue glow that accompanies Duskwalker magic at its most unthreatening.

Here in this bubble of quiet, with dawn approaching and Gwenivere’s breathing providing gentle rhythm, I allow myself to acknowledge what I've been avoiding since the cafeteria incident.

The cold truth that settled in my chest when I watched her walk away, drenched in humiliation while I remained immobile.

I failed her.

The admission burns, acid-sharp against carefully maintained pride. I, who prided myself on control and calculation, on seeing paths others missed, failed to anticipate the depth of Damien's cruelty or its perfect aim at Gwenivere’s hidden vulnerabilities.

Worse, I failed to act when action was needed most.

The reasons —blackmail, threats against her safety, the academy's twisted system of rewards and punishments— feelhollow in the face of her pain. Explanations without weight, justifications without merit.

The truth is simpler, harder to bear: when she needed protection most, I chose inaction. When faced with her suffering, I remained still.

When our bond demanded defense, I offered none.

Now she lies sleeping in my bed, unaware of these bitter reflections. Unaware that my failure has become a binding oath in my mind — a promise to never again choose safety over her wellbeing, never again allow threats to prevent me from standing between her and those who would cause harm.

Never again will I watch her walk away alone.

My shadows swirl with renewed purpose, responding to this internal vow with a surge of protective intent. They form a more visible barrier around the bed now, no longer merely hovering but actively guarding against potential threats.

The darkness deepens, not with menace but with something closer to sanctuary. Here in this shadow-veiled space, with Gwenivere’s fingers still loosely gripping my sleeve and Grim's melody weaving through the silence, I find an unfamiliar sensation settling over me.

Peace.

How strange that it comes now, amid uncertainty and unresolved conflict.

Yet there's no denying the quiet contentment that fills me as I watch over her sleep, as I guard these precious moments of vulnerability she unconsciously entrusts to my care.

Perhaps this is part of the bond's true purpose — not merely connection but mutual protection, a sharing of strength when one partner falters.

A balance of light and shadow, each complementing rather than consuming the other.

Dawn approaches with steady certainty, but for now, in this moment suspended between night and morning, I allow myself simply to be. To watch over her. To cherish this strange, unexpected peace that comes from proximity to my Little Mouse.

To hope that when she wakes, the path to redemption will become clear.

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