The formation is protective without being obvious, but I understand the impulse.
After "that"—and none of us are ready to name it more specifically—taking chances seems foolish.
When we're in range of Professor Eternalis, close enough to see the complete absence of blood on her despite what she just did, Zeke comes to a stop.
"That's the one problem with feline hybrids," he announces, voice carrying the particular tone of education rather than accusation. "They lose their immortality. Or more importantly, they were never granted the same privilege as full-breeds."
Damien spins to face him, desperation making him aggressive.
"You're lying!"
He turns back to Professor Eternalis, demanding truth from the source.
"Tell me he's lying!"
Professor Eternalis sighs—the first sign of any emotion beyond calm authority.She gives Damien a look that promises worse than death if he continues to test her patience, but she answers.
"Zeke is correct. Hybrid felines forego having nine lives compared to full-breed felines who are gifted that trait by nature."
The confirmation seems to break something in Damien. His shoulders slump, the fight going out of him as the reality settles.
Raven is dead.
Truly, permanently, irrevocably dead.
The silence stretches as we all process this information. The unfairness of it—that mixing bloodlines costs such a fundamental protection—seems particularly cruel.
But then, when has the Academy ever been fair?
It’s a place of wickedness after all.
Professor Eternalis continues, her voice returning to that neutral tone of judgment delivered.
"The punishment was delivered due to your group using an unofficial guide to lead you to Year Three versus a real one."
She turns her gaze to Zeke then, and something passes between them—understanding, acknowledgment, perhaps approval.
Zeke responds immediately, dropping to one knee with fluid grace that speaks of practiced ceremony. His scythe appears in his hand, and he lays it on the ground before him like a knight offering oath to sovereign.
"The royals from across our lands," he intones, voice carrying formal cadence, "both of forbidden and royal, darkness and light, flames and ice, of Fae and of dusk—they followed my guidance, confronting the guardians in place and retrieving the keys which are in their leader's possession."
The words feel ritualistic, like something that must be said in specific way to be recognized by whatever forces govern this place.
All eyes turn to me.
Right. The keys.
This should be the moment to show them, to prove we've earned our place through trial rather than trickery. I reach into the space where I've kept them—that pocket between dimensions that my power carved to hold things too important for regular carrying.
The three keys materialize in my grasp, each one radiating its own particular energy.
The first still burns with internal fire, warm against my palm. The second contains its captured starlight, pulsing with rhythm of distant suns. The third holds its perfect nothing, absence given form that makes looking at it directly almost impossible.
I lift them like an offering, presenting proof of our trials, our suffering, our survival.
Professor Eternalis's expression doesn't change, but something in her eyes shifts—approval, perhaps even impressiveness at the edges.
She nods slowly, then asks a question that makes my stomach drop.
