Page 116 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two
"What problems?" I ask directly, cutting through potential diplomatic evasion with a characteristic focus on essential information rather than social niceties.
Mortimer's expression shifts to something approaching approval, scholarly assessment apparently recognizing the value of directness in current circumstances despite a usual preference for a more nuanced approach to information sharing.
"The Seven have arrived," he states simply, each word carrying weight beyond the ordinary announcement. "And they've brought the Headmaster."
Frozen Time And Forming Bonds
~ATTICUS~
"The Seven have arrived," Mortimer states with uncharacteristic gravity, "And they've brought the Headmaster."
The announcement lands like a stone in still water, ripples of tension spreading through our impromptu gathering.
"Why are the Headmaster and Seven here?" I question, keeping my tone deliberately casual despite internal alarm systems activating at full capacity. The timing feels too precise to be coincidental – the convergence of powerful figures at the exact moment we're discussing thrones, bonds, and the academy's true nature suggests either surveillance more extensive than anticipated or cosmic timing with a particularly perverse sense of humor.
Gwenivere looks at Zeke, that peculiar feline-energy boy who's claimed more of her attention today than I find entirely comfortable with.
Personally, at first glance, I don’t like him and the very obvious clinging nature he carries when it comes to my Queen of Spades.
I’m the one who vowed to be at her side.
No one else is deserving of such.
"Isn't the Seven supposed to be the final boss?" she asks him, gaming terminology revealing an unexpected glimpse into interests I hadn't previously known she possessed. The casual way she phrases questions suggests a comfortable rapport developed during my absence that triggers a possessive instinct I immediately recognize as both irrational and counterproductive.
Do I care though? No. I can be as over-possessive as need be.
Mortimer arches a scholarly eyebrow in her direction, expression mingling amusement with mild offense at being categorized among potential adversaries.
"Not you," she adds hastily, correction bringing a satisfied smirk to the dragon shifter's features that somehow transform his typically bookish appearance into something decidedly more predatory.
Cassius, ever the practical one, redirects the conversation to the more immediate anomaly.
"Why is Gwenivere in her usual form instead of Gabriel?" he asks, silver gaze shifting between her and Zeke with sharpened interest that suggests protective instinct matching my own, albeit expressed with characteristic Duskwalker restraint.
"We're jumping topics," Gwenivere protests with slight exasperation, clearly recognizing the deflection strategy for what it represents —postponement of more immediate concerns in favor of personal curiosities.
"You didn't answer Cassius's question," I point out, unable to completely suppress the territorial edge creeping into my voice despite intellectual recognition of its potential counterproductivity.
Prison teaches many things, but eliminating possessive instinct toward those who matter isn't among them —quite the opposite, in fact.
Gwenivere sighs with familiar frustration that somehow manages to be both irritating and endearing simultaneously.
"You're choosing favoritism on his side," she accuses, a statement carrying enough truth to sting despite its oversimplification.
"This part of the Archives can only present everyone's raw form," Zeke explains with a casual ease that suggests complete comfort with information that should represent closely guarded institutional secrets rather than common knowledge. "But if it makes you feel better, I was aware Gabriel was a woman from the beginning."
"That doesn't make me feel better at all," I respond truthfully, the casual admission that he perceived through disguise apparently designed specifically to prevent such recognition only heightening wariness regarding his true capabilities and potential threat level.
Gwenivere groans with exaggerated exasperation that somehow maintains genuine charm despite theatrical delivery.
"You can be overprotective later," she instructs with a familiar blend of irritation and affection that makes something in my chest tighten with unexpected intensity. "We have more pressing concerns."
I huff slight acknowledgment of valid criticism, allowing myself a small concession to emotional impulse by lifting her hand to press a brief kiss against knuckles — a gesture both territorial and genuinely affectionate in equal measure.
"What's the game plan?" I ask, strategic assessment overriding personal concerns with practiced discipline. "At this point, we're not going to make it to our designated places before the fifteen minutes is up."
"We have fifteen minutes as well," Gwenivere reveals, confirmation of parallel assignments suggesting a coordinated structure designed to force interaction between previouslyseparated groups —institutional manipulation rather than coincidental overlap.
