3. Shadows Of Doubt
3
SHADOWS OF DOUBT
~CASSIUS~
I n five centuries of existence, there are certain truths I've come to accept as immutable.
Death comes for all things.
Power demands sacrifice.
And Duskwalker spirits bow to no will but their master's.
Yet here I stand, watching my shadow creature – my eternal companion since my first breath – cradle this impossibility in its arms with a gentleness I didn't know it possessed.
How?
The question echoes through my mind like a curse.
My spirit has never responded to another being in all our years together. It is an extension of my will, my darknes s, my curse. It exists to serve only me, bound by blood and ancient magic that predates civilization itself.
But now...
I watch as tendrils of shadow adjust their hold on the unconscious figure, ensuring their strange guest's comfort. The sight makes something in my chest constrict painfully.
It's wrong. It's impossible. It's...fascinating.
Her words echo in my memory, each repetition underlining the absurdity of our situation.
"I needed the Chalice of Restoration... my sister is dying... please, you have to believe me!"
The desperation in his voice had been real – that much I'm certain of. But Nikolai is right – none of this makes sense.
No one breaks into Wicked Academy.
The wards aren't just barriers; they're sentient protections woven from the darkest magic imaginable. They don't just keep people out; they destroy those who try to enter uninvited.
Yet she walked in.
Not only walked in but survived long enough to reach the Artifacts Chamber. Survived long enough to fall through whatever trap brought her to Damien's quarters.
Survived long enough to...
A pulse of heat shoots through my body, centered where her fangs had pierced my skin. I force my expression to remain neutral even as my body betrays me with its reactions. My heart pounds against my ribcage like a war drum, each beat sending echoes of remembered pleasure-pain through my veins.
It’s not like I haven’t been bitten before.
In worst-case scenarios, I’m always there to help my fellow royal elites, but I’ve never experienced…that.
The hardness between my legs is getting more difficult to ignore.
The way every suck sent desire rushing through me while prickling euphoria coursed through me in waves.
Pleasure like that could have sent me over the edge if I hadn’t used my shadows to numb my senses long enough for her to finish, I would have shot my load in a heartbeat.
When even was the last time I experienced such a sexual reaction?
Focus.
I try to analyze this clinically…academically. She drank Duskwalker blood. Not just any Duskwalker blood – royal blood. The same cursed ichor that has flowed through five generations of my line, each more powerful and more damned than the last.
My ancestors were warriors and kings, death-walkers who commanded armies of shadows and spoke with the dead. Each generation passed down not just their power, but the weight of their sins, victories, and crushing solitude.
The blood in my veins carries centuries of dark magic, potent enough to kill lesser beings with a single drop.
Yet she drank deeply, desperately, and lived.
More than lives – thrives.
I’m tempted to check and see if she’s actually breathing or if this is some sort of joke being played upon us. I can see the way power ripples beneath her skin while the academy's ancient magic wraps around her like a lover's embrace.
She should be dead.
Instead, she seems...enhanced.
Across the room, Damien's rigid posture speaks volumes.
His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, jaw clenched in barely contained fury. I know him well enough to read the truth of his anger.
He’s seething.
It's not simply because she managed to resist him – though that alone would wound his pride. It's not even that she matched him in pure physical power, something few can claim.
No, what truly galls him is the possibility that in a true fight, with her magic unleashed…
She would have won.
The vampire prince has never tasted defeat.
Not in combat, not in feeding, not in any contest of power or will. He is used to being the apex predator, the unstoppable force. A being who is feared in his lands for his mere existence.
To face someone who could not only match him but potentially best him...
A small, dark part of me takes satisfaction in his discomfort. Damien's arrogance has gone unchecked for too long.
Perhaps this will teach him that even princes can be humbled.
But my attention keeps returning to the figure in my spirit's arms. The glamour that fooled the others flickers now in her unconscious state, like a candle guttering in the wind.
One moment I see the male facade she crafted so carefully, the next...
I catch glimpses of her true form in the fluctuations – hair white as moonlight, features delicate yet striking, a face that would launch wars in earlier ages.
But it's not her beauty that captures my attention.
It's the way shadows seem drawn to her, like moths to flame. Even now, unconscious and vulnerable, she pulls at the darkness around her with an awareness that shouldn't be possible for anyone not of Duskwalker blood.
My spirit shifts its hold again, and I feel its foreign contentment ripple through our connection. In all our years together, I've never felt it experience... happiness. Satisfaction, yes. The dark pleasure of a successful hunt, certainly.
But this simple joy in caring for another being?
Never.
This is too dangerous of a temptation to deal with. We don’t have time for distractions. Not with so much at stake.
I try to push away these thoughts, to focus on the practical problems before us.
We need to decide what to do with her.
The sunrise clock is ticking, and if Mortimer is right about her true gender, we're running out of time before the academy's ancient laws demand their price.
But my mind keeps circling back to the moment her fangs pierced my skin.
The initial sharp pain had given way to something else entirely – a connection I still can't fully comprehend. For a brief moment, I felt her desperation, determination, and absolute conviction that had no choice but to succeed.
And underneath it all, something sought the darkest parts of my nature, that makes my spirit stir with recognition and my blood sing with possibility.
That scent...
It shouldn't be possible for someone to smell of both life and death, yet here we are. The dominant note is mahogany – deep, rich, masculine even – but underneath lurks...
Winter roses touched by frost, their delicate petals preserved in the moment between death and decay.
Aged leather bound books whose pages hold forbidden spells, their ink still wet with possibility.
The metallic tang of blood mixing with the sharp bite of ceremonial incense.
But there's more.
Night-blooming jasmine wrapped around ancient tombstones.
Fresh earth disturbed by resurrection rituals.
Darkness given form and function.
The combination should be harsh, discordant, and wrong.
Instead, it creates a harmony that makes my enhanced senses ache with want. A symphony of contradictions that speaks to both the shadows in my soul and something I dare admit should never resurface: a sensation I thought had died when I accepted my Duskwalker crown.
Another flicker of the glamour draws my attention.
For just a heartbeat, I glimpse white hair cascading like moonlit silk, features that belong in Renaissance paintings of angels and demons alike.
Again.
Then it's gone, replaced by the male facade that my rational mind tells me is real.
But is it?
I find myself craving another glimpse of that other form, wondering if my senses have finally betrayed me after centuries of reliability.
Perhaps the blood loss has affected me more than I thought…
"If this he-she is really telling the truth about being a girl," Damien interrupts my thoughts, lip curling around the crude term, "why can't we see it? Why maintain the deception now that we've caught them?"
"It could be both a blessing and a curse," Mortimer muses, his pale eyes never leaving our unconscious guest. "The academy's gift...or perhaps its challenge."
Nikolai steps forward, emerald magic still crackling around his fingers.
"Explain."
"The blessing," Mortimer says slowly as if piecing together a puzzle whose full image remains unclear, "is that she can blend in. Move among us without triggering the ancient wards that would normally destroy any female who dares enter these halls." His lips quirk into a sardonic smile. "Which means, in theory, she could attend alongside you all."
"Absolutely not!" The denial comes from three throats simultaneously, though I'm surprised to hear my own voice among them.
Mortimer raises one elegant hand, silencing further protests.
"The curse, however, lies in the uncertainty. How long will the academy's energy protect her? How long before the glamour fails at precisely the wrong moment?" His expression grows grave. "And what happens to her…or should I say to all of us…when it does unravel?"
"That's hardly our concern," Damien scoffs, though something in his tone suggests he's not as dismissive as he'd like to appear. "Let her face the consequences of her own foolish choices."
Nikolai nods in agreement, but I find myself speaking before I can stop the words.
"It may not be that simple."
All eyes turn to me, but my gaze seeks out Mortimer.
The Reaper's expression confirms my growing suspicion — there's more at stake here than a simple case of trespassing.
Mortimer sighs, running a hand through his midnight hair.
"Cassius is right. Think about it. We're now aware of her presence, aware of her true nature. If the remaining members of the Hexarch Order discover that we knew and failed to report her..."
The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees.
The Hexarch Order– seven beings of such power and influence that even mentioning them feels threatening. They aren't merely administrators or Professors, even though they aim to “play” that role.
They're the living embodiments of Wicked Academy's most ancient laws. Their word is absolute, their judgments final and often fatal.
And Mortimer is one of them, who is thankfully on our side by sworn destiny versus volunteered choice.
Each Hexarch represents a different aspect of forbidden knowledge: Necromancy, Blood Magic, Void Manipulation, Mind Arts, Flesh Crafting, and perhaps most terrifying of all, Pure Chaos itself.
Many believe there should be seven categories to match the Seven individuals within the Order, but very few know that one key individual carries the knowledge of all six categories deeming them the most important out of all of them.
They rarely interfere directly in academy affairs, preferring to work through their chosen agents and observe from the shadows.
Mortimer not being included in this case.
But when they do take action...
A memory surfaces — unbidden and unwelcome — of the last time the Hexarchs passed judgment. The screams had lasted for days. What remained afterward couldn't even properly be called a corpse.
It was one of the few instances where I feared Mortimer’s wrath, and was secretly thankful despite our usual disrespecting behaviors, he didn’t use such judgment to crucify us.
My spirit shifts uneasily, drawing my attention back to the figure in its arms.
In sleep, another flicker of her true form shows through — this time it's the curve of her jaw, softer than the masculine illusion, yet somehow stronger too.
The sight stirs something protective in my chest that I'm not ready to examine too closely.
"The Hexarchs," Mortimer continues, his voice pitched low as if the very walls might be listening, "take a particularly dim view of those who challenge the natural order of their domain. A female student? In their eyes, that's not merely breaking tradition, but it's an assault on the very foundations of what Wicked Academy represents."
Great…
"And now we're all complicit," Nikolai realizes, the color draining from his face. Even Fae royalty fears the Hexarch Council's wrath. "Simply by knowing of her existence and failing to raise the alarm immediately..."
Damien's familiar smirk has been replaced by something more calculating.
"How long do we have? Before our window of plausible deniability closes?"
"That depends," Mortimer says, glancing meaningfully at the lightening sky outside. "On whether she survives the entirety of the sunrise. If she doesn't, this becomes a very different kind of problem."
My blood runs cold at the implication.
If she dies, we'll have a dead female student to explain; one who somehow breached our defenses and died on our watch.
If she lives...we become conspirators in what the Hexarchs would undoubtedly view as treason against their authority.
The scent of her hits me again. That impossible blend of death and life, power and vulnerability. My spirit cradles her closer, a gesture that feels simultaneously protective and possessive.
What have we gotten ourselves into?
"What now?" Nikolai's voice carries an edge of barely contained panic. "I refuse to be held responsible for some random boy bringing about our downfall." He paces the length of the room, emerald magic crackling around him like static electricity. "Have you forgotten what's at stake? This isn't just another year at the academy."
The Fae prince's crown catches the growing dawn light, throwing prismatic shadows across the walls.
"We have to attend the Academy of the Wicked properly this time. Our positions, our titles, everything we've worked for?—"
"They would never dare outcast royalty," Damien interrupts with a dismissive wave of his hand, but there's a tension in his shoulders that betrays his uncertainty. "Look around, Nikolai. How many royal youth remain in all the realms? How many still possess pure bloodlines and untainted power? They're struggling to maintain loyalty from the few of us left."
His words carry weight — we all know the truth of them.
The ancient bloodlines are failing, power diluting with each generation. Those of us who remain pure-blooded are rare enough to be considered precious resources.
But Mortimer's soft laugh holds no humor.
"By all means," he says, pale eyes gleaming with that particular coldness that reminds us of his true nature, "continue believing your royal blood grants you immunity. Test that theory against the Hexarchs' will. I'm certain it will make for an...educational experience."
Fuck…
The silence that follows feels sharp enough to draw blood.
Mortimer may humble himself for us in many ways, but he gets no benefit from lying to us. Meaning, if he’s saying we’ll become educational puppets for thinking we’re the shit because of our royal blood, chances are, we’ll be fucked if we play stupid games.
Playing stupid games leads to winning stupid prizes.
Damien recovers first, gesturing sharply at our unconscious guest.
"Well, if he's really a she , let's prove it right now." His voice takes on a harder edge. "For all we know, this could be an elaborate plot. A spy sent to infiltrate and set us up for failure. Maybe the sister story is just a convenient cover?—"
"Is there a way to show them?" I interrupt, directing the question to Mortimer. The words come out rougher than intended, thick with an emotion I'm not ready to name.
I want this conversation to be over with so I can get out of these clothes and take a cold shower.
Nikolai's head snaps toward me, eyes narrowing.
"Why do you phrase it like that? As if you're already convinced about her true nature?"
I hesitate, weighing my next words carefully.
In our world, admitting to uncertainty is often seen as weakness.
But the glimpses I've seen...
"I've caught flashes of white hair, features that don't match the male glamour. Though it could be because my spirit?—"
A cloud of dark smoke puffs from my shadow creature's mouth, cutting me off mid-sentence.
"What does that mean?" Nikolai demands.
"He's...impatient," I translate, somewhat taken aback by my spirit's unprecedented behavior. In all our years together, it has never interrupted me.
Never shown such clear opinions about anything not directly related to our shared power.
"This is fucking insanity," Damien declares, running a hand through his perfectly tousled hair in frustration.
"Indeed it is," Mortimer agrees with unnerving calm. His lips curve into that knowing smile that always makes me wonder just how much death magic has shown him. "Now, pay very close attention."
He raises his hand, fingers poised to snap?—
The tension in the room spirals higher as we wait, each of us caught in the moment before revelation. Dawn paints the windows in shades of amber and rose, marking the precious minutes we have left to make a decision that could alter not just our fates, but the very nature of Wicked Academy itself.
My spirit shifts its hold on our mysterious guest once more, and I catch another flash of her true form — this time it's the curve of her neck, elegant and vulnerable. The sight sends a jolt of something possessive through my blood that I immediately try to suppress.
But I can't deny the way my power responds to her presence, the way my shadows seem to reach for her even in sleep. How her scent — that impossible mixture of death and life — makes every predatory instinct I possess rise to the surface.
Nikolai's magic fills the air with the scent of crushed herbs and ozone, his anxiety manifesting in tendrils of green light that curl around his fingers like vines.
I dare to acknowledge the tiny buds at the tips of the vines, threatening to bloom into blossoming shades of pink and purple.
Love at first sight maybe?
Damien has gone preternaturally still, every line of his body screaming barely contained violence.
And through it all, Mortimer stands like the eye of a storm, fingertips still poised to unleash whatever death magic he's gathered.
The air around him feels heavy with potential, thick with the promise of revelations we may not be prepared to face.
I find myself holding my breath, watching those pale fingers hover in the air. The anticipation trembles through me, the idea of seeing her in entirety, to see what we’re up against.
Show us who you really are, little intruder.
The first rays of true dawn break through the windows, painting the scene in gold and shadow as Mortimer's fingers begin to move?—
Threads of silk materialize from the air itself, shimmering with otherworldly purpose. They start as whispers of magic, barely visible in the growing light, before taking on rich hues of royal purple and emerald green. The ethereal strands dance through the air with deliberate grace, weaving around the figure in my spirit's arms like a living cocoon.
Layer by layer, mixture of purples and forest green, the magical silk wraps around her form, each band glowing with internal light. The wrapping accelerates until she's completely enshrouded, suspended in a chrysalis of magical energy that pulses in time with the academy's ancient heartbeat.
For a moment, complete silence fills the room.
Even the constant whisper of my shadows falls quiet, as if the very elements themselves are holding their breath in anticipation.
Then...the silk cocoon shatters.
It explodes outward in a cascade of crystalline fragments, each shard catching the dawn’s light and throwing rainbow refractions across the walls before dissolving into sparks of pure magic. The display is both beautiful and terrifying, like watching a star burst into nova.
As the magical shards rain down around us, the truth is finally, irrevocably revealed.
She floats in the air where my spirit once held her, sustained by Mortimer's magic. Her form speaks of contradiction — delicate yet strong, vulnerable yet powerful. Lean muscle hints at a warrior's training, while subtle curves whisper of grace. But it's not her physical form that captures my attention most powerfully.
It's the magic.
Her hair floats around her like a living halo, each strand of pure silver seeming to capture and amplify the dawn’s light. It creates an ethereal effect, as if she's been carved from moonlight and starshine.
The overall effect is that of a renaissance painting brought to life, something too perfect to be real yet undeniably present.
Ancient runes and symbols dance across her skin, glowing with internal fire. They're not just surface decorations — these are powerful sigils of protection and power, some so old their meanings have been lost to time. They pulse in harmony with the academy's wards, creating patterns that speak of destiny and ancient purposes.
Her skin itself seems to radiate a soft luminescence, as if she's absorbed some of my Duskwalker energy and transformed it into light. The effect makes her appear almost translucent, like the finest porcelain crafted by master artisans. Her slightly parted lips remain that striking ruby red, a splash of vivid color against her ethereal pallor.
But then I see it.
There, on the elegant curve of her neck, a marking that stops my heart mid-beat.
At first glance, it might appear to be just another of the glowing runes decorating her skin. But I know better. I've seen its like before, though never quite in this form.
My eyes snap to Mortimer's wrist, where I know he bears the traditional Duskwalker pledge mark — the symbol that binds him as protector to our line. He keeps it carefully hidden, as all such marks of servitude are, but I've seen it enough times to know its precise pattern.
This mark on her neck...it's both familiar and utterly foreign. The basic structure is the same — the ancient runes that speak of loyalty and protection, the curved lines that represent the flow of power between bound souls.
But where Mortimer's mark speaks of servitude, this one...
This one speaks of partnership.
Of equality.
Of a hierarchy I've only read about in the most ancient texts of our line.
A bond mark.
Not a pledge of servitude or protection, but something far more rare and dangerous. The kind of connection that hasn't been seen in the Duskwalker bloodline for over a thousand years.
The kind that was supposedly lost when our line turned from light to shadow.
I feel my jaw go slack, the usually iron control of my emotions shattering like the silk cocoon that revealed her true form. One by one, my companions' gazes drag themselves away from the floating figure to fix on me with varying degrees of shock and dawning comprehension.
"Don't." Mortimer's voice cracks through the air like a whip. His face has gone even paler than usual, eyes wide with something that might be fear.
He's still processing the implications, just as I am.
A bond mark. An actual bond mark…
The words echo in my mind like a death knell.
This goes beyond matters of academy policy or Hexarch law. This threatens everything we thought we knew about the nature of Duskwalker magic itself.
And this woman just waltzed in here and ignited the impossible on multiple magnitudes.
The sun climbs higher in the sky, its rays painting her floating form in shades of gold and shadow. The mark on her neck pulses once, as if in response to my attention, and I feel an answering resonance in my own blood.
What have you done?
I yearn to ask her unconscious form the questions my soul desperately seeks answers to.
What are you?
But as dawn fully breaks over Wicked Academy, I realize we're far past the point of simple questions and answers.
Whatever she is or what this mark entails, we're now bound together in ways that even I, a prince of shadows and death, don't fully comprehend.
The game of our wicked lives has changed, and none of us know the new rules.