Page 97 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

Miniature planets and stars orbit in perfect synchronization, occasionally emitting prismatic bursts of light that illuminate specific sections of ancient texts floating open around the room.

I've claimed a seat in the middle ring – close enough to observe details without drawing excessive attention from either Professor Valerian or the more ambitious students clustered in the innermost circle. Zeke sits beside me, his slender form growing increasingly limp as Professor Valerian's melodious voice continues her lecture on historical treaties between Faerie realms.

Despite the fascinating subject matter, Zeke's eyelids have grown progressively heavier over the past twenty minutes.

Now they've surrendered completely to gravity, his head nodding forward in tiny increments before jerking back up in momentary awareness, only to repeat the cycle withincreasing frequency. The struggle against sleep plays across his features with almost comical determination — each awakening accompanied by widened eyes and forced attentiveness that lasts mere seconds before exhaustion reclaims its territory.

I observe this battle with growing amusement, remembering my life before all this academy fiasco. The comparison brings unexpected sympathy for my strange new acquaintance.

How I’d try to learn any way I could back home because learning and knowledge were but a privilege for a hybrid like myself. It’s odd to wonder about the past, realizing certain instances seem like distant memories that I can barely touch with a fingertip.

Which is odd?

I shouldn’t be forgetting so swiftly, and yet it’s a bit concerning now that I try to remember things that should be easy to recall. Typical circumstances with Elena, or how I grew up in difficult circumstances with lacking parents. I try to remember something as simple as a day at school and it seems to be drifting away, like a butterfly flying higher and higher in the midst of a grand meadow. Beautiful to watch, but impossible to reach.

I’ll have to ask the others later…

Zeke finally surrenders completely, his head dropping forward as consciousness abandons him to whatever dreams visit cat-like beings during impromptu classroom naps. His position looks precarious and uncomfortable, the angle of his neck is guaranteed to leave him with stiffness when he eventually awakens.

I shouldn’t wake him up though.

Without drawing attention to the movement, I slide my blazer from my shoulders and casually drape it across his slumped form.

The garment engulfs his slender frame, emphasizing how much smaller he is compared to my glamoured physique. His shoulders immediately relax beneath the lightweight cover, his body instinctively curling into the unexpected warmth with unconscious gratitude that triggers another twinge of protective sentiment I hadn't anticipated developing.

Professor Valerian continues her lecture without acknowledging this minor disruption, though the slight pause in her cadence suggests nothing escapes her notice despite her apparent focus on floating manuscripts circling her dais.

I return my attention to the lecture, idly spinning a pen between my fingers while wondering how the others are faring with their first day of classes.

The separation feels odd after spending every waking moment in their company since the trial's completion. The absence leaves an unexpected hollow sensation beneath my ribs — concern mixed with something warmer I'm not quite ready to name.

Opening my notebook to a fresh page, I begin doodling abstract patterns in margins while half-listening to Professor Valerian's elegant parsing of historical nuance.

The designs unconsciously morph into familiar shapes —Cassius's shadow tendrils, Nikolai's characteristic smirk, Atticus's watchful eyes, and Mortimer's scholarly concentration.

Before I realize what I'm doing, the words "I miss you" appear in my own handwriting, the sentiment expressed before conscious thought could censor it.

I stare at the phrase with mild surprise, then quickly shade over it with decisive strokes that obscure its vulnerability beneath layers of abstract patterns.

This isn't the time for emotional indulgence, not when valuable information might be flowing right past my divided attention.

"—which brings us to the legend of the missing heir," Professor Valerian states, her voice shifting to a darker register that immediately captures my full focus. "A tale fundamental to understanding Faerie's current relationship with Wicked Academy and the particular challenges experienced here in Year Two."

The floating manuscripts rearrange themselves, several closing entirely while one particular volume –bound in what appears to be pale green leather illuminated with silver filigree– expands to hover directly before her.

Its pages turn without physical contact, settling on elaborate illustrations depicting regal figures surrounded by thorned vines bearing roses of midnight blue.

"The Fae, as most of you know, are renowned throughout paranormal circles for certain intrinsic traits," Professor Valerian continues, her long fingers tracing patterns in the air that cause corresponding sections of the manuscript to illuminate. "Pride, beauty, magical affinity…but also less flattering characteristics: ruthlessness, manipulation, and a certain disregard for consequences that affect those deemed beneath their concern."

Several students shift uncomfortably at this frank assessment, particularly those whose fae lineage shows in pointed ears and unnaturally perfect features.

Professor Valerian acknowledges their discomfort with a slight inclination of her head but continues without softening her critique.

"These traits, inherited through cultural practice rather than genetic predetermination, ultimately catalyzed the current restrictions experienced here in the Faerie realms of WickedAcademy," she explains, her tone carrying academic precision rather than personal judgment. "Where once Year Two represented a sacred space of learning and growth, we now operate under the shadow of punishment for betrayal committed against the Headmaster himself."

My doodling stills completely, pen hovering above paper as full attention locks onto her words. This explanation might finally provide context for the strange food currency system Zeke mentioned earlier —academic performance determining whether students eat or starve in a realm otherwise renowned for abundance and excess.

"The betrayal took the form of theft," Professor Valerian continues, manuscript pages turning to reveal new illustration – an ornate goblet crafted from what appears to be crystallized moonlight, its surface engraved with runes that shift and change even within the confines of static drawing. "A chalice of extraordinary significance, created by the Headmaster as a gift for his beloved partner."

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