Page 56 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One
I open my mouth to begin explaining the complex hierarchies and power structures she'll need to navigate, but movement from the corner catches my eye.
Cassius's shadow creature —Grim, as she's taken to calling it— detaches from the wall and glides toward her. Its skull tilts in that peculiar way that somehow manages to convey genuine concern.
Gwenivere’s expression softens immediately.
"I'm fine, big guy," she assures it, reaching up to pat its skull without hesitation. The gesture should be absurd, a supposed male student casually petting death incarnate, but somehow she makes it seem natural. "Just trying to figure out how to survive whatever madness these princes have dragged me into."
The creature releases a puff of smoke that curls around her protectively. The sight makes something in my chest tighten.
In all my years at this academy, I've never seen anything quite like this.
The way she interacts with Grim, her casual defiance of Lord Bartholomew, the mark that connects her to Cassius, her immunity to Duskwalker blood...
Everything about her existence seems to defy the natural order.
Yet here she sits, in the heart of the most dangerous paranormal academic institute in existence, drinking subpar blood and treating death's companion like a beloved pet.
We have thirty minutes to prepare her for trials that have broken far more experienced students.
Somehow, I suspect that won't be nearly enough time.
But as I watch her banter with Grim, her crimson eyes bright with mischief even as she complains about the blood's taste, I can't help but wonder if we've stumbled upon exactly what our unit has been missing.
Whether that's a blessing or a curse remains to be seen.
Movement draws my attention as Damien rises from his chair, the motion carrying that predatory grace unique to royal vampires.
Every line of his body speaks of carefully contained power — a reminder of why he's considered one of the most dangerous beings in our realm.When he’s not being a moody competitive asshole.
Yet as I watch him stalk toward Gwenivere, I find my attention drawn more to her reaction than his approach.
She's shifted back to female traits'; the male glamour falling away like morning mist dissolving in sunlight. The change is subtle yet profound — softer curves replacing sharp angles, delicate features emerging from beneath the masculine mask.
Yet somehow she retains that core of steel, that unmistakable strength that had radiated from her male persona.
It's oddly captivating, this blend of fierce and feminine.
Damien plucks the blood packet from her grasp with casual authority, the gesture almost intimate in its presumption. I find myself studying the way she holds herself — spine straight, shoulders back, chin lifted in subtle defiance. Even seated on the edge of Damien's bed, she manages to project an air of complete ownership of her space.
Her protest dies unspoken as Damien raises the packet to his mouth, taking several long drinks. The sight stirs something uncomfortable in my chest — not jealousy, precisely, but a sort of protective indignation. There's something fundamentally wrong about watching her sit there, clearly in need of sustenance, while Damien consumes what should be hers.
She carries herself like a warrior queen, yet here we are, watching her go hungry.
Gwenivere's lips form a perfect pout, the expression surprisingly endearing on her features. It's a strange contrast to the way she'd commanded the room earlier, putting Lord Bartholomew in his place with all the authority of a seasoned ruler. That duality fascinates me — how she can shift from terrifying to charming in the space of a heartbeat.
I find myself fighting a smile, even as concern gnaws at my thoughts. The Fae in me appreciates beauty in all its forms, and there's something undeniably beautiful about the way she balances these seemingly contradictory aspects of herself.
"Perhaps we should—" I begin, but Damien cuts me off with a sharp gesture.
"I'm testing it," he states matter-of-factly, lowering the packet. "And it tastes perfectly normal. Nothing wrong with it at all."
Mortimer's thoughtful hum draws our attention. The Reaper's pale eyes narrow slightly as he studies Gwenivere with that clinical intensity that makes most beings squirm. She meetshis gaze steadily, another small detail that adds to my growing admiration.
Most can't hold death's gaze for long. Yet she does it without flinching.
"I wonder," he muses, "if her aversion to the blood might be connected to her consumption of Cassius's essence?"
The question hangs in the air for a moment as we all process its implications. Gwenivere's eyes widen comically, the expression so genuinely dismayed that I have to bite back a laugh.
