Page 86 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

"Sounds unnecessarily complicated," Nikki mutters, examining her own schedule with faint distaste. "Though I suppose 'Fae Diplomatic Leveraging in Multi-Realm Negotiations' might prove useful eventually."

"If you ever return to court," Atticus points out with casual precision that carries subtle barb. "Assuming they haven't replaced you with a more cooperative heir during your extended absence."

The comment strikes nerve judging by Nikki's suddenly rigid posture, though she maintains admirable composure.

"My position remains secure regardless of temporary educational commitments,"she states with practiced certainty with a pinch of assertive magic, though that “confidence” doesn't quite reach her eyes.

Sensing potential conflict brewing, I redirect attention to practical matters.

"How do we find these classrooms? This doesn't look like any wing of the academy I've glimpsed so far."

"The Year Two campus exists in a separate dimensional pocket," Mortimer confirms, academic interest momentarily overriding social awareness. "It's technically still contained within academy grounds, but accessible only to those carrying proper advancement tokens."

I touch the pendant at my throat reflexively, feeling its subtle pulse of recognition against my fingertips. The connection feels more personal than simple magical verification, as if the token responds specifically to my essence rather than mere presence.

"Will transportation be provided, or are we expected to discover these locations through trial and error?" Cassius inquires, shadows coiling slightly tighter around him as he contemplates unknown territories ahead.

"The main administration building contains a transportation nexus," Mortimer explains, slipping naturally into lecture mode that feels comfortingly familiar amid so many uncertain variables. "Your tokens will guide you to appropriate departure points, which reconfigure based on daily schedules to maximize efficiency."

"How very organized," Atticus observes with faint amusement. "One might almost forget the academy regularly sacrifices students to maintain its prestigious reputation."

The casual reminder of dangers lurking beneath civilized veneer sends chill through our conversation, momentarily silencing breakfast banter. We've survived one major trial, but Year Two undoubtedly holds challenges designed to eliminate those deemed unworthy of advancement.

"Two will fall," I murmur, recalling the prophecy that accompanied our trial completion. "We all survived that initial challenge, but the warning remains valid for whatever comes next."

"Precisely why we should approach this educational opportunity with appropriate seriousness," Mortimer states, adjusting his cuffs with scholarly precision. "Knowledge gained during classes may prove crucial during subsequent trials. The academy designs curriculum specifically to provide tools necessary for survival, though rarely with explicit instruction regarding their application."

"Learn the theory, figure out practical application under pressure," Nikki summarizes with aristocratic disdain that doesn't quite hide underlying tension. "Typical academy methodology."

"Speaking of theory," I interject, returning to an earlier topic that continues to trouble me, "what exactly happens with time differential between here and the upper world? If we're experiencing slower temporal flow in Faerie, does that mean months could pass outside while we're attending a few weeks of classes?"

Mortimer's expression turns thoughtful, academic assessment replacing casual conversation.

"The exact ratio fluctuates based on several factors, including proximity to certain ley lines and current alignmentof paranormal realms. Generally speaking, a week here might represent approximately three weeks in upper world, though the calculation isn't precise."

"Three to one," I repeat, anxiety tightening my chest as I think of Elena's worsening condition. Three weeks of deterioration for every week I spend here seeking the chalice that might save her seems like a cruel cosmic joke. "That's significant enough to be concerning."

"It also means we must be particularly efficient in our search for information regarding your sister's chalice," Mortimer acknowledges with uncharacteristic gentleness. "The academy library contains extensive collection on magical artifacts, including those with healing properties. With proper research approach, we might identify potential locations or historical references within a reasonable timeframe."

The practical suggestion eases some of my immediate panic, though underlying concern remains.

Elena's mysterious illness had progressed steadily despite medical intervention;how much worse might it become with temporal acceleration added to equation?

"We'll find it," Cassius states with quiet certainty that catches me by surprise. His silver eyes meet mine across the table, shadows briefly reaching out to brush against my hand in a gesture too subtle for others to notice. "The chalice is here somewhere. Everything you've described suggests a powerful healing artifact that wouldn't be casually discarded or forgotten."

"Agreed," Atticus adds, crimson eyes carrying calculated assessment rather than mere reassurance. "Artifacts of significant power leave distinctive magical signatures. Between Mortimer's academic knowledge and our collective abilities, tracking it should be feasible once we narrow potential locations."

The confident assertions from both Cassius and Atticus —typically so different in approach and demeanor— creates unexpected warmth in my chest. Their willingness to prioritize Elena's chalice amid all other concerns feels like a precious gift I haven't properly earned.

"Thank you," I say simply, the words inadequate for depth of gratitude bubbling beneath surface composure.

Mini Grim chooses this moment to float from my shoulder, performing an elaborate aerial somersault before manifesting a tiny parchment scroll between skeletal fingers. The miniature document unfurls with theatrical flourish, revealing flowing script that glows faintly against shadowy material.

"Gree!" he announces, pointing emphatically at a specific line that appears to indicate time.

"Eight-thirty," Mortimer translates, glancing at his watch with sudden sharpening of attention. "We should depart within the next fifteen minutes to ensure punctual arrival at orientation session."

The mundane concern —being late for class— seems almost comically ordinary amid discussions of time differentials, magical artifacts, and life-threatening trials.

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