The normalcy of their presence should be reassuring. We survived the trials together. We're bonded by more than magic—by choice, by blood, by the particular trust that comes from seeing each other at absolute worst and choosing to stay anyway.
But even their presence feels...distant.
Like I'm experiencing them through layers of glass or time, present but removed.
I squeeze Atticus's hand, the pressure deliberately communicating need for discretion. Leaning in, I match his whisper with my own, lips barely moving to form words that feel too important for volume.
"Something feels odd."
The understatement makes my throat tight. Odd doesn't capture the vertigo of watching reality argue with itself about what's real.
"Like the Academy doesn't feel real."
Even saying it aloud—or as aloud as whispers allow—makes the sensation stronger.
As if acknowledging the wrongness gives it permission to become more wrong.
"I'm seeing burning buildings one moment, then barely walking upon stairs the next. It's as if we're witnessing time in real time but also... not. I can't grasp it."
The explanation is inadequate, words too small for the experience. How do you describe seeing multiple versions of the same moment, each one equally real but mutually exclusive?
Atticus frowns, the expression creating lines in his perfect vampire features that speak of genuine concern rather than performed emotion. His gaze shifts to Professor Eternalis's back as she continues leading us forward, seemingly unaware of or unconcerned by my distress.
"What would Year Three have in store for us?" he asks, voice carrying just enough to reach our guide.
The question seems casual—new student seeking information about curriculum. But I hear the underlying probe,the attempt to understand if what I'm experiencing is intentional or concerning.
Professor Eternalis doesn't turn, doesn't slow, but her voice carries back with perfect clarity despite the distance she's maintained.
"Year Three will require your bonds as a team to be the strongest."
The words float through air that suddenly feels thicker, heavier, like breathing through honey.
"Or else, those you cherish will slip away, like pieces of a puzzle that will never become solved."
The metaphor should be simple, but something in how she says it makes my skin prickle. Not threat exactly, but prophecy. Statement of natural law rather than curriculum requirement.
"What do you mean by that?" I ask, needing clarification even as part of me fears the answer.
My eyes focus on Professor Eternalis's back as we continue walking.
When did we start climbing stairs? The transition from level ground to ascending happened without my notice, each step taking us higher through architecture that shouldn't be able to support itself.
The stairs spiral.
Not in regular helical pattern but in something more complex—sometimes curving left, sometimes right, occasionally seeming to double back on themselves in ways that should have us walking on our own heads but don't.
"Everyone believes this Academy was made out of wickedness," Professor Eternalis says, her voice carrying that particular tone of educators about to correct fundamental misunderstanding. "Out of the agony of its creators who lost their heir."
Lost heir.
The words resonate through me, connecting to memories that might be mine or might be Gabriel's…
Hell…it might be something inherited from ancestry we're only beginning to understand.
"But what if that's fable?"
The question hangs in air that's definitely getting heavier. Each breath requires more effort, as if oxygen itself is becoming scarce despite no change in altitude that should warrant it.
