Page 89 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

His fingers hover above the sodden paper, disappointment evident in the slight droop of his shoulders.

Another voice joins the mockery, this one carrying aristocratic inflection that immediately reminds me of Nikolai at his most insufferable, but the tone fails in delivering enough masculine depth for my liking.

"Crazy how some hybrid can be allowed to chill in our world of perfection as if he's on the same level as our perfected beings."

The direct reference to my mixed heritage sends quiet alarm through my system.

"And he has to sit next to that freak homeless street cat," adds another student, this insult clearly directed at my drenched companion. “We should be thankful he’s not stinking up the classroom.”

Odd commentary when he actually smells nice.

The cruelty in their voices, the casual way they dispense humiliation as entertainment, sends anger simmering beneath my careful composure. I've been on the receiving end of suchtreatment too recently to dismiss its impact, regardless of whether I'm the primary target or merely collateral damage in an attack aimed at my neighboring partner.

I glance down at Mini Grim, who's looking particularly pitiful as water drips through his shadowy form. His tiny rain cloud, usually just an aesthetic manifestation of his Duskwalker nature, has turned darker grey, small lightning bolts flickering through its vaporous edges as if threatening a storm of retribution.

"Sorry, Grim," I apologize, reaching up to gently pat his drenched skull. With a casual snap of my fingers, I direct a stream of warm air toward the little shadow being. "Let me fix that."

Unfortunately, I misjudge the intensity. The magical wind catches Mini Grim's diminutive form, sending him soaring upward with squeak of surprise. His tiny limbs windmill frantically as he's tossed several feet above my head, rain cloud trailing behind him like a comet's tail.

"Oops," I mutter, immediately adjusting the spell's strength to a more appropriate level. "Too strong. My bad."

Beside me, my neighbor stares mournfully at his ruined notebook.

"That was my only one," he says softly, voice carrying musical quality that catches me by surprise. There's no accusation in his tone, merely statement of fact made more poignant by apparent resignation to his situation.

Something about his acceptance of this casual cruelty triggers a protective instinct I hadn't expected to feel for a stranger. With a slight sigh that's more for show than genuine reluctance, I pick up my own notebook — enchanted to resist damage from elements, courtesy of precautions I'd taken after the cafeteria incident — and pass it to him.

"Here," I offer with casual shrug that belies the deliberate kindness. "You can use mine. Unlike your obviously inferior clothing, my notebook is waterproof."

The surprised gratitude that flashes across his features makes something in my chest tighten unexpectedly. It's such a simple gesture, yet his reaction suggests meaningful kindness is a rare occurrence in his experience.

From behind us comes renewed mockery, several voices joining in chorus of derision aimed at both my generosity and our bedraggled appearances.

Rather than engage directly, I stand with deliberate calm, beginning to wring water from my sodden uniform jacket.

"Is there a matter that cannot be resolved?" Professor Eternalis asks without turning from her diagram, her voice carrying a perfect blend of authority and disinterest that suggests this behavior, while noted, isn't unusual enough to warrant interrupting her lesson.

"No problem at all, Professor," I respond casually, continuing to squeeze excess moisture from my clothing. "Just a little impromptu demonstration of fluid dynamics."

Her shoulders shift slightly in what might be suppressed amusement, though she merely continues her careful construction of the blood circle's outer containment ring.

With calculated indifference to our audience, I begin unbuttoning my uniform shirt, revealing the white undershirt beneath that has, unfortunately, become completely transparent when soaked. Gabriel's physique is deliberately impressive — not bulky like a bodybuilder but defined with lean muscle that suggests both strength and speed.

The display causes immediate reaction throughout the classroom.

Several female students —Faerie Academy being notably different from main Wicked Academy in its inclusion of womenas students rather than merely staff— make appreciative sounds that range from quiet sighs to more dramatic squeals.

The male contingent seems divided between renewed hostility and reluctant respect, their expressions suggesting my physical presentation contradicts whatever narrative they'd constructed about the "hybrid" in their midst.

"What's wrong?" I ask with deliberate innocence, directing the question toward the original instigators. "Didn't think I had muscles or a six-pack? I actually work out when I feel like it." I allow a hint of my natural cocky confidence to color my tone, embracing a slightly cockier persona than I might normally project. "I probably sound like a cocky bastard, but whatever."

My neighbor’s observation catches me completely off-guard.

"You don't have any magical tattoos," he notes, eyes tracing my exposed torso with scholarly interest rather than the appreciation evident from others.

The comment presents a peculiar challenge.

I shouldn't have visible magical markings since I’m not trying to show the ones I have as Gwenivere, those unique displays of powerful runes remain hidden beneath the glamour. Yet, my neighbor’s specific phrasing suggests he's seeing absence where something should be present rather than simply making casual observation.

---