8. Reflections And Revelations
8
REFLECTIONS AND REVELATIONS
~GWENIVERE~
T he mirror reflects back an image that somehow manages to be both myself and a stranger.
The uniform fits perfectly as if it had been crafted specifically for my measurements. Which, given the events of the past twenty-four hours, wouldn't be the strangest thing to have happened.
Speaking of strange...
My gaze drifts to the elegant makeup collection arranged on the counter. High-end brands I've only ever dreamed of owning sit before me like an offering. The eyeshadow palette contains a carefully curated selection of dark nudes and neutrals – colors that would complement any skin tone while maintaining a subtle, academic appropriateness.
"Did you actually go shopping yourself?" I mutter, imagining Cassius prowling through a high-end makeup store, shadows trailing behind him as he examines different products.
The mental image is both amusing and oddly endearing.
The liquid eyeliner is from a brand known for its staying power, the brow tint promises twenty-four-hour wear, and then... there's the lipstick.
I pick up the golden tube, its weight substantial in my hand.
YSL's legendary matte, non-transfer formula in the perfect shade of red. Not just any red – my red.
The exact shade I'd been wearing last night when...
Heat creeps into my cheeks as I remember his comments about testing its non-transfer claims.
"Well, you certainly paid attention," I say to my reflection, uncapping the lipstick. The scent of luxury fills my nostrils as I carefully apply it, the color gliding on like silk. "Though this feels suspiciously like boyfriend behavior for someone who's supposed to be an emotionless creature of shadow and death."
The thought catches me off guard.
Is that what this is? Some sort of courtship ritual I don't understand? Or is it simply practicality – ensuring his unexpected guest has what she needs to maintain appearances?
Don't go there, Gwen. Don't make this more complicated than it already is.
I finish the last touches of my makeup, appreciating how the products work together to create a polished look that somehow enhances both the masculinity and femininity of my appearance.
It's a delicate balance – enough makeup to make me feel confident and feminine but applied in a way that doesn't detract from the male facade I'm supposed to be maintaining.
At least when I add a bit of glamor to the mix.
Sunlight streams through the heavy curtains, painting strips of gold across the floor. I pause, the reality of my situation hits me anew.
I'm alive.
Not just alive – I'm standing here in broad daylight, inside Wicked Academy, very much female and very much not dead. According to everything I'd heard, this should be impossible. The ancient magic that protects these halls was supposed to be violently opposed to female presence, yet here I am, casually applying lipstick as if I belong here.
"Maybe the place is just sexist," I muse, adjusting my collar in the mirror. "Though that seems a bit pedestrian for ancient magic. 'No girls allowed' is more elementary school playground than prestigious supernatural academy."
The collar refuses to lay perfectly flat, and as I tug at it, something catches my eye. A marking on my neck, just below my jawline.
"What the..." I tilt my head to the right, leaning closer to the mirror for a better look.
The mark is unlike anything I've seen before – not quite a rune, but definitely magical in nature. Intricate lines weave together in a pattern that seems to shift slightly when I look at it too long, like trying to focus on smoke in the wind.
Something about it feels familiar, though I know for certain it wasn't there before I entered the academy. The design triggers something in my memory, like a word on the tip of my tongue that I can't quite grasp.
My fingers trace over it gently. There's no raised texture, and no temperature difference from the surrounding skin. If I wasn't looking directly at it, I wouldn't know it was there.
Yet somehow its presence feels...significant.
"Add it to the list of questions," I sigh, dropping my hand. "Right after 'why am I not dead' and 'how did you know my exact shade of lipstick.'"
Cassius will have answers – or at least, I hope he will. He seems to be at the center of most of my questions lately. The mark, the survival past sunrise, the impossible way his blood affected me...
The way he affected me.
I catch my own gaze in the mirror, noting the slight darkening of my cheeks at the thought. The woman staring back at me looks confident, put-together, ready to face whatever challenges await. But underneath that carefully constructed exterior, questions swirl like restless shadows.
The uniform hugs my curves in a way that somehow makes them less noticeable while still allowing me to move comfortably. The pants, in particular, are a masterwork of tailoring – fitted enough to be flattering but cut in a way that maintains the illusion of a male silhouette.
"You didn't do any of this halfway, did you?" I ask the empty room, smoothing down the front of my blazer. The gold emblem catches the light, reminding me of my precarious position here.
I'm an intruder who's somehow become...what, exactly? A guest? A prisoner? Someone’s ‘pet’?
The mark on my neck seems to mock me with its mysterious presence, a physical reminder of how little I understand about my current situation. Every answer I've found has only led to more questions, creating a web of mysteries that all seem to lead back to one shadow-wielding prince.
"Right then," I say, straightening my shoulders and lifting my chin. "Time to find some answers."
The woman in the mirror mimics my determined expression, but I catch the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. Despite the perfect fit of the uniform, the flawless makeup, and the confident pose, there's no hiding the fact that I'm in completely uncharted territory.
I've survived the impossible – drinking Duskwalker blood, lasting past sunrise, bearing a mysterious mark that seems to pulse in time with my heartbeat.
The next challenge will be understanding why.
And more importantly, what it all means for my future.
My sister's face flashes through my mind, a painful reminder of why I came here in the first place. The Chalice of Restoration may have been a myth, but I'm still no closer to finding a way to save her.
"One thing at a time," I tell my reflection firmly. "First, find Cassius. Then figure out...everything else."
The mark on my neck catches the light one last time as I turn away from the mirror, like a silent reminder of all the mysteries still waiting to be unraveled.
Time to face the music...and hopefully get some answers in the process.
My fingers curl around the doorknob, ready to face whatever awaits on the other side, when a voice stops me cold.
The sound slices through the air like a poisoned blade – stern, cruel, and dripping with condescension.
"Either you find your final member or consider your positions officially revoked. I'm sure you'll enjoy wandering these halls as the outcasts you truly are."
Something about the voice sets my teeth on edge, like nails on a chalkboard mixed with the hiss of a venomous snake. It's the kind of voice that makes you want to either run far away or punch its owner directly in the throat.
The unsettling feeling grows stronger as ancient runes begin to surface along my wrist, bleeding up through my skin like ink through paper. They pulse with nervous energy, matching the erratic beating of my heart. The air around my hand shimmers, magic manifesting as flickering flames that dance just beneath my skin.
My grip tightens on the doorknob as I lean closer, straining to hear more of the conversation happening on the other side.
Damien's voice cuts through next, sharp with barely contained fury.
"It's not as if we haven't been searching for our final member." The vampire prince's tone carries centuries of royal authority, even as frustration bleeds through. "Such decisions take time, especially when this godforsaken academy demands we remain a 'wicked unit' for four bloody years."
Four years?
The thought of being bound to any group for that long makes my stomach turn. I especially can’t imagine that with this unique bunch of royal paranormals.
Cassius wouldn’t be bad…but maybe I’m being a bit biased.
A throat clearing precedes Nikolai's more diplomatic response.
"What Damien means to say, and please excuse his bluntness, he's rather stressed about the situation, is that we require a partner who can truly balance our unique royal dynamic. Such individuals are exceedingly rare."
The Fae prince's words carry that particular blend of courtly grace and subtle manipulation I've come to expect from his kind. Every syllable is carefully chosen, and wrapped in respect while maintaining dignity.
Cassius's voice follows, cool and measured as winter frost.
"The requirements are...specific. They must possess elemental magic compatible with Fae energy, demonstrate the necessary components to harmonize with a vampire's nature, and somehow manage to exist in the same space as a Duskwalker without succumbing to madness." A pause, then, "Mortimer's presence is merely an additional complication."
Well, that explains a few things about their strange dynamic.
The unknown man's response comes as a growl, thick with disdain. "One of the Seven shouldn't even be part of this mismatched collection of royal misfits." The words drip with venom. "But you have your kingdoms' favor, all demanding their precious heirs receive constant instruction from a high-ranking professor."
So…Mortimer is a professor here?
A wet, hacking cough interrupts his tirade.
When he speaks again, his voice carries a note of smug satisfaction.
"It's only due to my highly sought-after status among the ranks that I was chosen for this task. Though I must say, I'm rather thankful. It seems like a waste of the years granted by our lengthy lifespans."
The runes on my wrist pulse faster, responding to the toxic energy emanating from beyond the door. Whatever – whoever – this man is, his very presence seems to offend the magic running through my veins.
The flames beneath my skin grow brighter, casting faint shadows across the doorknob still clutched in my grip. I've never seen my magic react this way to someone's voice alone. It's as if every fiber of my being recognizes a threat, something fundamentally wrong about this person.
My mind races, processing the implications of what I'm hearing. The princes aren't just students – they're part of some sort of unit, one that requires a final member to be complete. And whatever position or power they hold here hangs in the balance.
No wonder they were so suspicious of my arrival.
The requirements Cassius listed echo in my head: Fae-compatible elemental magic, vampire harmonization, and Duskwalker tolerance...
A hysterical laugh threatens to bubble up in my throat as I realize just how perfectly I fit that description.
Too perfectly.
The runes continue their nervous dance across my skin, like they're trying to tell me something I'm not quite grasping. There's more happening here than a simple search for a teammate. The political undertones, the pressure from their kingdoms, the involvement of one of the mysterious Seven...
What have I stumbled into?
The man's voice drips with aristocratic disdain as he continues speaking, but I find myself focusing on the strange way my magic reacts to him. The flames under my skin pulse in time with my heartbeat now, creating patterns that seem to respond to the mark on my neck.
Everything about this situation screams of destiny or fate or some other cosmic force I've never put much stock in. The timing of my arrival, the impossible way I've survived, the mark that appeared after drinking Cassius's blood...
It can't be a coincidence.
Nothing about this is coincidental.
The runes flare brighter for a moment before settling into a steady glow, as if confirming my thoughts. I've always trusted my magic's instincts – it's saved my life more times than I can count.
And right now, it's trying very hard to tell me something about the man beyond this door.
Something about him feels wrong in a way I can't quite explain. It's not just his voice or his words, but something deeper, more fundamental.
Like oil floating on water or a discordant note in an otherwise perfect symphony.
My free hand rises to touch the mark on my neck, and I swear I feel it pulse in response. Whatever this is – whatever I've become entangled in – it's bigger than my original mission to save Elena.
"Unless you can present a final male candidate immediately," the man's voice cuts through the tension like a knife, "you will pack your belongings and vacate these premises without delay."
Nikolai steps forward, his diplomatic tone strained but intact. "Lord Bartholomew, surely we can discuss this matter with more?—"
A sharp stomp echoes through the corridor, followed by a pulse of magic that makes the very air shudder. The wave of energy slams into the princes with enough force to elicit pained groans.
Even through the door, I feel its effects – like being hit with a wall of compressed air that sets every nerve ending on fire.
Oh, that does it.
My magic surges in response, temperature spiking as pure, unadulterated annoyance courses through my veins. The flames beneath my skin roar to life, no longer content to merely simmer.
Everyone who knows me has always said I have the shortest fuse imaginable – act first, ask questions later, and deal with consequences whenever.
They weren't wrong.
Right now, every drop of that infamous temper is focused on the pompous ass beyond the door.
I don't know the first thing about the hierarchy here, couldn't care less about how royalty works in this twisted place. All I know is this pretentious prick is standing between me and two very important things: getting my questions answered and enjoying a nice, chilled blood pack.
And I'm not in the mood to wait for either.
"Lord Bartholomew," Mortimer's voice carries a note of warning, "perhaps we should discuss this matter among the rest of the Order?—"
"Enough!" Bartholomew snaps, cutting him off. "There has been far too much favoritism shown to this particular group already. We don't need to add to it with more special treatment."
The way he says 'special treatment' makes it sound like a curse, dripping with disdain and barely concealed hatred.
"Today marks the first challenge," he continues, his voice taking on a cruel edge of satisfaction. "You've already missed the preliminaries yesterday, which is strike one. If you miss this, you're out by default.”
Shit…did they miss it because of me?
“The challenge is mandatory for all attendees, complete team or not."
My fingers flex against the doorknob, the metal growing warm beneath my touch as my magic continues to build. The runes along my wrist pulse faster, matching the rhythm of my rising anger.
Who does this man think he is?
Sure, he might be some big shot in whatever twisted hierarchy runs this place, but his attitude – that smug superiority, or better titled, casual cruelty – it sets every protective instinct I possess on high alert.
The blood in my veins sings with the need to act upon this insufferable situation. I've never been good at standing idle while others throw their weight around. It's gotten me into trouble more times than I can count, but it's also saved my life just as often.
My sister Elena always said my temper would either be my downfall or my salvation.
"You never know when to back down," she'd tell me, half exasperated, half admiring. "One of these days, that's either going to get you killed or make you a legend."
Well, I've already survived drinking Duskwalker blood and made it past sunrise in a place where both those things should have killed me.
Might as well go for the hat trick.
The magic rippling through the air from Bartholomew's display of power carries notes of corruption – not the natural darkness of Cassius's shadows or the predatory edge of Damien's vampiric energy, but something fundamentally wrong .
It's magic twisted by ego and cruelty, wielded not out of necessity but pure spite.
My own power responds to it; recoiling even as it rises to meet the challenge. The temperature around me continues to climb as my anger builds, the air shimmering with barely contained heat.
I don't know the full story here.
Don't understand all the political machinations and power plays at work. But what I do understand is that this man – this Lord Bartholomew – is threatening people who, despite our rocky start, showed me more consideration than I probably deserved.
Cassius, with his impossible shadows and even more impossible tenderness.
Damien, whose predatory nature recognized something in me worth respecting.
Nikolai, trying so hard to maintain diplomacy in the face of pure arrogance.
And Mortimer, whose death magic sees through all pretense yet chooses to help rather than harm.
I could be giving them the true benefit of the doubt, but in the end, they allowed a roof to remain over my head while I remained unconscious and healing.
They might be princes and creatures of legend, but right now, they're being bullied by someone who clearly gets off on wielding power over others.
And if there's one thing I hate more than anything, it's a bully.
The mark on my neck pulses once, sharp and clear, as if sensing my rising determination. The runes on my wrist have settled into a steady burn, no longer anxious but ready – battle magic awakening after centuries of slumber.
My magic has always been different – not quite vampire, not quite witch, something unique that defies easy classification. Right now, it feels like every drop of that power is coiled and ready to strike, just waiting for me to open this door and show Lord Bartholomew exactly what happens when you threaten what a vampire hybrid has decided to claim.
Elena would probably tell me to think this through.
But Elena isn't here.
She's lying in a magical coma, slipping further away with each passing day, while I stand in a place that was supposed to hold her salvation.
Maybe I didn't find the Chalice of Restoration, but I might have found something else – a purpose, a position, a way to prove that sometimes the most wicked things aren't the ones that go bump in the night, but the ones that hide their cruelty behind titles and manipulated tradition.
My lips curve into a smile that would make even a vampire proud.
Time to crash another party.