But there's steel beneath the silk, warning wrapped in politeness.
"As a feline hybrid, despite the lack of full power like one such as myself, I would be rather disappointed to see you not take your inherited role seriously so far in one's journey."
The words land with weight that has nothing to do with volume. Raven's eyes narrow, her grip on the scythe adjusting as she processes not just the words but what they represent.
Zeke isn't just more powerful—he's morelegitimate. Full-blooded where she's hybrid, carrying authority she can only approximate.
Her frown deepens, but something shifts in her posture. Not submission exactly, but acknowledgment. The scythe pulls back slowly, deliberately, making clear this is choice rather than defeat.
"The feline is right," she announces, addressing Damien without looking at him. "By laws woven in the Academy's foundations between academies, we cannot fight unless declared before the gates. It's best we make way."
Damien's frown carries the particular petulance of a child denied a toy.
"Finish what they started," he demands, but the words lack force. Even he knows better than to push against Academy law when witnesses are present.
Zeke smirks—the expression perfectly feline despite his human face. He jumps backward with liquid grace, landing directly in front of me. The protective positioning is deliberate, adding his threat to Cassius's, creating layers of defense between us and them.
"Then best be on your way," Zeke suggests with mock politeness. "You might as well go first since you're so eager to be ahead, right?"
The challenge is perfectly delivered—using Damien's own superiority against him. To refuse would be admitting fear. To accept means leaving, ending this confrontation without the violence he clearly craves.
Damien laughs, but the sound is forced now, performance rather than genuine amusement.
"We'll gladly take the head start, seeing as we have every opportunity to reach the final year. Won't take us long at all."
He pauses, needing the last word like addicts need their fix.
"Only those not worthy struggle."
The laugh that follows is worse than the words—dismissive, degrading, designed to echo in memory long after he's gone.
They proceed past us, Damien's posse following with varying degrees of smugness. Some look uncomfortable with their leader's cruelty but not enough to speak against it.
Others mirror his expression, finding safety in aligning with the one who hurts rather than is hurt.
We watch them go in silence that vibrates with suppressed violence.
Only when they're beyond immediate threat distance does Atticus curse with creativity that speaks of centuries of practice.
"How the fuck did that bastard reach this far? What does he know that we don't?"
The questions voice what we're all thinking. Damien isn't powerful enough to survive what we've survived. His magic ismediocre, his combat skills more performance than practice. Yet here he is, unmarked by trials that nearly killed us.
Zeke and Mortimer exchange a look—one of those wordless communications that speaks of shared knowledge we're about to learn whether we want to or not.
"Their answer may be in the library," Mortimer declares with scholarly certainty.
"Why?" I ask, needing to understand the connection.
Mortimer adjusts his glasses, the gesture buying time to organize thoughts.
"If Damien found such an easy path to reach these realms versus what we went through, it means he made a deal with someone in the library."
His expression darkens with disapproval that goes beyond academic.
"Someone who aids those who wish for speedier ways of reaching the next year of Wicked Academy."
"So there's shortcuts," Nikolai grumbles, speaking for the first time since Damien's appearance.
