Page 90 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

I snap my fingers, creating a more controlled stream of heated air that lifts my removed clothing into a gentle cyclone.

Mini Grim, having recovered from his earlier misadventure, now surfs atop visible air currents with tiny shadow feet balanced on shadowed surfboard, his skull-face conveying such ridiculous joy that I find myself smirking despite the situation.

"I have magical markings," I clarify, meeting my neighbor’s curious gaze. "They're more like runes and symbols, but they remain hidden most of the time."

"No, I mean like Nachtlied markings," he specifies, using the exact term Cassius had used to describe his Duskwalker tattoos. "The ones created with special ink from Duskwalker realms."

The specificity of his knowledge raises several questions at once.

Nachtlied markings aren't common knowledge outside Duskwalker circles, their properties and creation methods typically guarded with typical paranoid secrecy the shadow-aligned paranormals maintain.

Cassius explained a little bit at breakfast today, but I still don’t know enough about them to be confident of why they would be a popular choice to get.

"No, not those," I acknowledge, curiosity piqued despite myself. "Though should I get some? You think I have the right energy wavelength for them?"

His reply sends an unexpected intrigue through me.

"You do," he confirms with quiet certainty. "Or at least, it matches the energy signature coming from the mark on your neck."

My hand rises instinctively to touch the spot where Cassius's bond mark rests beneath my glamour. The location shouldn't be visible, the mark itself disguised by the same magic that transforms my entire appearance.

Yet, my mysterious neighbor speaks as if he can see it clearly, can detect its magical resonance despite the layers of concealment.

"Has everyone finished copying the magic circle displayed?" Professor Eternalis inquires, finally turning from her completed diagram that now covers the entire blackboard in glowing, intricate pattern. "Given the volume of discussion, I assume you've all captured every detail with perfect accuracy."

The question prompts immediate scramble among students who'd been more focused on the drama unfolding in our rowthan the actual lesson content. The stranger next to me looks momentarily panicked, glancing between his ruined notebook and the complex diagram he'd been genuinely attempting to record.

"I'll copy it and share with you," he offers quietly, gesturing to my still-dry notebook in his possession. "Since it's your notebook and all."

I shrug with affected nonchalance, continuing to focus on drying my undershirt through controlled application of warm air currents.

"Hurry up, then," I instruct, tone deliberately casual despite growing curiosity about this strange classmate. "So I can finish drying my clothes and work on yours."

He hunches slightly over the notebook, his pencil moving with surprising speed across the paper. As he works, I notice a subtle tremor in his hands that suggests physical strain beyond normal fatigue.

"I don't have the confidence to strip like that," he comments without looking up, voice barely audible over the general classroom noise. "My body isn't...nice like yours."

The vulnerable admission carries weight beyond simple comparison.

There's something in his tone that suggests deeper insecurity, a history of judgment or cruelty that's left a lasting impression. Combined with the earlier taunts about "homeless street cat" and his obviously undernourished frame, a concerning picture begins to form.

I give him a measuring look before making a decision that's equal parts impulse and calculated response to the earlier attacks. With deliberate precision, I snap my fingers, channeling magic into a controlled burst of warm, soothing air that wraps around him like a gentle blanket.

The interior current remains gentle, carefully calibrated to dry his clothes without causing discomfort. The exterior boundary, however, I intentionally strengthen to hurricane force, directing it specifically toward the five male students who'd instigated the water attack.

The effect is immediate and immensely satisfying.

All five go flying from their seats, tumbling backward with startled shouts as papers explode into academic confetti, raining down throughout the classroom in impromptu celebratory display.

My neighbor blinks repeatedly, clearly stunned by both the gentle warmth surrounding him and the chaos unfolding among his tormentors.

His wide-eyed amazement suggests he's unaccustomed to anyone intervening on his behalf, much less with such decisive —and admittedly theatrical— retribution.

Mini Grim completes the performance perfectly, floating down from his aerial surfing adventure with tiny shadow parachute deployed, landing delicately atop my head. The shadow being strikes a dramatic pose, hollow glowing eyes somehow conveying tremendous satisfaction with this turn of events.

"There," I announce with casual shrug. "You're toasty dry. Finish writing the notes." I gather my now-dried clothing, straightening Gabriel's uniform with precise movements that suggest complete unconcern for the disruption I've caused. "I need to piss."

Professor Eternalis watches this entire display with an expression that mingles professional disapproval with what might be slight admiration for the magical control demonstrated.

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