10. Blood And Boundaries
10
BLOOD AND BOUNDARIES
~NIKOLAI~
T here's something oddly fascinating about watching someone drink blood when you're not a vampire.
Gabriel — Gwenivere in her masterful disguise — sits perched on the edge of Damien's oversized bed, one leg crossed elegantly over the other as she downs another blood pack.
The Type O should, in theory, be the most palatable option. Yet her nose wrinkles with each sip, those crimson eyes narrowing in obvious distaste.
"I take it this one isn't any better?" I ask, unable to keep the amusement from my voice. It’s the expressions she’s making that are far more entertaining than I’d dare to admit.
It’s kind of cute.
I doubt she’s realized her manly glamor has dropped during her trial and error in blood packs, but watching her is rather fascinating.
She’s really pretty…
She lowers the pack, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand in a gesture that somehow manages to be both refined and rebellious.
"It tastes like someone bottled depression and served it with a side of existential crisis," she mutters, glaring at the half-empty pack as if it had personally offended her. "Are you sure this is fresh? Because my taste buds are staging a revolt."
The room — my temperamental vampire friend's chambers, chosen for their superior size — feels oddly intimate despite housing five beings of considerable power.
Damien himself occupies a high-backed chair near the window, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he watches our newest addition with barely concealed suspicion.
His nose twitches occasionally, and I catch the way his fingers dig into his biceps. The scent of blood, even packaged, must be testing his control.
Though…whether it's the blood itself or the hybrid drinking it that draws his attention remains unclear.
Cassius maintains his position against the far wall, shadows dancing around him in patterns that seem more agitated than usual. His silver eyes never leave Gwenievere’s form, though his expression remains typically unreadable.
The mark, that I’m coming to realize is on his neck, as well as hers, pulses faintly, visible even from where I stand.
I’m sure we’re going to have a discussion regarding that “tidbit” of problems here — if you can consider unexpected bonding a small complication — but right now, we have to prioritize Gwen’s need to replenish her blood levels.
A vampire with low stores is a very dangerous one.
Mortimer leans against Damien's ornate desk, his pale eyes studying our guest with the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for particularly fascinating specimens in his research. The Reaper's presence adds an extra layer of gravity to our impromptu gathering, though his usual aura of death seems somehow muted.
As if even his power recognizes the delicacy of our current situation.
I find myself cataloging details about Gwenivere that I missed in the chaos of her confrontation with Lord Bartholomew.
Her hair, a striking shade of platinum blonde roots that shift into pure white that catches the light like liquid moonlight, falls in perfect waves past her shoulders. The length suggests years of careful maintenance, each strand impossibly healthy despite the obvious stress her body has endured.
Her complexion, while naturally fair, shows signs of recent strain. The pallor isn't quite sickly, but it's noticeable enough to concern someone with my level of observation. Especially when compared to the vibrant energy she displayed while putting our esteemed administrator in his place.
"The blood is becoming an issue," I say carefully, watching her reaction. "Your body clearly isn't accepting it properly."
She sighs, setting the pack aside with obvious reluctance.
"No shit, Sherlock. I feel like I'm drinking watered-down copper with a hint of sadness." Her nose wrinkles again. "Actually, that's being generous. At least copper has character."
Damien shifts in his chair, the movement drawing everyone's attention.
"The blood is fresh," he states flatly. "I supervised this early morning's collection myself. Before your unexpected arrival, of course."
Meaning it had to be around two to three in the morning.
That’s the usual time frame for blood-extracting activities, or anything that’s supposed to be “under the radar” around Wicked Academy.
Gwenivere’s eyebrows shoot up.
"Collection? As in, willing donors?" A pause, then, "Please tell me you're not running some sort of underground blood farm. Because that would be tragically cliché, even for a vampire prince."
The look Damien gives her could freeze hellfire.
"We have arrangements with local blood banks," he growls. "Everything is properly screened and ethically sourced."
"Well, their ethics need better quality control," she mutters, but I catch the relief in her voice. "Because this tastes like it was filtered through a sock."
I clear my throat, drawing attention back to the more pressing matter at hand.
"We have approximately thirty minutes until the trials begin." My eyes scan the room, meeting each gaze in turn. "If we're to present any semblance of coordination, our newest member needs at least a basic understanding of Wicked Academy's requirements."
Gwenivere straightens, her posture shifting subtly.
"Right. The whole 'prove we're worthy' thing." She runs a hand through her hair, the gesture is casually masculine despite its inherent grace. I don’t think she’s even grasped she’s switched back yet. "I don't suppose these trials involve a written exam and some light cardio?"
The laugh that escapes me is genuine if slightly strained.
"If only it were that simple." I move closer, studying her more carefully. "The trials are designed to test not just individual abilities, but how well units function as a whole. They're brutal, unforgiving, and often..." I search for the right word.
"Fatal?" she supplies helpfully.
"I was going to say 'challenging,' but yes, fatalities aren't uncommon." I watch her face for any sign of fear, finding only that same defiant interest that seems to be her default expression. "Especially for incomplete or unprepared units."
She nods slowly, digesting this information.
"Okay, so we're talking serious business here. Not just your standard 'throw some fireballs and dodge some punches' type deal." Her eyes narrow thoughtfully. "What exactly are we up against?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy with implications.
We have precious little time to prepare her, and even less certainty about how her unique abilities will mesh with our established dynamic.
Not to mention the other complications...
The mark on her neck pulses again, drawing my attention. It's obviously tied to Cassius somehow, but the nature of that connection — and what it means for our unit — remains frustratingly unclear.
More concerning is her reaction to the blood.
If she can't maintain her strength properly, she'll be vulnerable during the trials.
And in Wicked Academy, vulnerability rarely ends well.
I open my mouth to begin explaining the complex hierarchies and power structures she'll need to navigate, but movement from the corner catches my eye.
Cassius's shadow creature — Grim, as she's taken to calling it — detaches from the wall and glides toward her. Its skull tilts in that peculiar way that somehow manages to convey genuine concern.
Gwenivere’s expression softens immediately.
"I'm fine, big guy," she assures it, reaching up to pat its skull without hesitation. The gesture should be absurd, a supposed male student casually petting death incarnate, but somehow she makes it seem natural. "Just trying to figure out how to survive whatever madness these princes have dragged me into."
The creature releases a puff of smoke that curls around her protectively. The sight makes something in my chest tighten.
In all my years at this academy, I've never seen anything quite like this.
The way she interacts with Grim, her casual defiance of Lord Bartholomew, the mark that connects her to Cassius, her immunity to Duskwalker blood...
Everything about her existence seems to defy the natural order.
Yet here she sits, in the heart of the most dangerous paranormal academic institute in existence, drinking subpar blood and treating death's companion like a beloved pet.
We have thirty minutes to prepare her for trials that have broken far more experienced students.
Somehow, I suspect that won't be nearly enough time.
But as I watch her banter with Grim, her crimson eyes bright with mischief even as she complains about the blood's taste, I can't help but wonder if we've stumbled upon exactly what our unit has been missing.
Whether that's a blessing or a curse remains to be seen.
Movement draws my attention as Damien rises from his chair, the motion carrying that predatory grace unique to royal vampires.
Every line of his body speaks of carefully contained power — a reminder of why he's considered one of the most dangerous beings in our realm. When he’s not being a moody competitive asshole.
Yet as I watch him stalk toward Gwenivere, I find my attention drawn more to her reaction than his approach.
She's shifted back to female traits'; the male glamour falling away like morning mist dissolving in sunlight. The change is subtle yet profound — softer curves replacing sharp angles, delicate features emerging from beneath the masculine mask.
Yet somehow she retains that core of steel, that unmistakable strength that had radiated from her male persona.
It's oddly captivating, this blend of fierce and feminine.
Damien plucks the blood packet from her grasp with casual authority, the gesture almost intimate in its presumption. I find myself studying the way she holds herself — spine straight, shoulders back, chin lifted in subtle defiance. Even seated on the edge of Damien's bed, she manages to project an air of complete ownership of her space.
Her protest dies unspoken as Damien raises the packet to his mouth, taking several long drinks. The sight stirs something uncomfortable in my chest — not jealousy, precisely, but a sort of protective indignation. There's something fundamentally wrong about watching her sit there, clearly in need of sustenance, while Damien consumes what should be hers.
She carries herself like a warrior queen, yet here we are, watching her go hungry.
Gwenivere's lips form a perfect pout, the expression surprisingly endearing on her features. It's a strange contrast to the way she'd commanded the room earlier, putting Lord Bartholomew in his place with all the authority of a seasoned ruler. That duality fascinates me — how she can shift from terrifying to charming in the space of a heartbeat.
I find myself fighting a smile, even as concern gnaws at my thoughts. The Fae in me appreciates beauty in all its forms, and there's something undeniably beautiful about the way she balances these seemingly contradictory aspects of herself.
"Perhaps we should—" I begin, but Damien cuts me off with a sharp gesture.
"I'm testing it," he states matter-of-factly, lowering the packet. "And it tastes perfectly normal. Nothing wrong with it at all."
Mortimer's thoughtful hum draws our attention. The Reaper's pale eyes narrow slightly as he studies Gwenivere with that clinical intensity that makes most beings squirm. She meets his gaze steadily, another small detail that adds to my growing admiration.
Most can't hold death's gaze for long. Yet she does it without flinching.
"I wonder," he muses, "if her aversion to the blood might be connected to her consumption of Cassius's essence?"
The question hangs in the air for a moment as we all process its implications. Gwenivere's eyes widen comically, the expression so genuinely dismayed that I have to bite back a laugh.
Even in surprise, she manages to be somehow enchanting.
Maybe I’m becoming rather smitten for the youngling hybrid…
"Hold on," she says, sitting up straighter. The movement causes her hair to catch the light, and I find myself distracted by how it shimmers — like moonlight on fresh snow. "You're not suggesting I'm going to have to keep drinking from Cassius for who knows how long, right?"
Damien merely shrugs, turning back toward his chair with the blood packet still in hand. The casual dismissal earns him a glare that could melt steel, and I find myself appreciating how she wields her displeasure like a weapon.
Elegant yet devastating.
"You weren't going to drink it anyway," he points out, settling back into his seat. Then, with deliberate casualness, "And by the way, you've switched back."
Gwenivere glances down at herself, taking in the sight of her feminine form wrapped in the masculine uniform. Rather than show concern, she merely shrugs, the gesture carrying that same confidence she'd displayed as Gabriel.
It's remarkable how she makes even this moment of potential vulnerability feel like a choice rather than a mistake.
"Not like you're attracted to me anyway," she retorts. "I could be sitting here naked and you wouldn't give a fuck."
The crude language should clash with her delicate features, but somehow it only enhances her appeal. She wears her contradictions like armor, each one making her more intriguing rather than less.
Damien's eyes narrow dangerously, a scowl darkening his features. The tension in the room ratchets up several notches, but before he can respond, I find myself chuckling.
"I, for one, would find that rather distracting," I admit, moving closer to where she sits. The words slip out before I can properly consider their implications, drawn forth by the strange magnetism she seems to exude.
Damien's scowl deepens.
"Fae appreciate perfection," he snaps. "She is not it."
The declaration should sting, but Gwenivere's lips curve into a smile that's equal parts amusement and mischief. The expression transforms her entire face, adding a sparkle to her eyes that makes something in my chest tighten.
"Aww, thanks for calling me ugly in Fae standards," she coos. "I adore the honesty."
She takes what should be an insult and turns it into a weapon.
"She's not ugly."
Cassius's quiet statement drops into the room like a stone in still water. We all turn to stare at him, the shock of hearing him defend anyone's appearance — let alone in such a direct manner — momentarily stealing our words.
Before anyone can respond, Grim releases a distinctly affirmative puff of smoke.
Gwenivere's laugh — bright and genuine — breaks the stunned silence. The sound seems to startle everyone, myself included. It's not the calculated amusement she'd shown earlier, but something real and unguarded.
The joy in it is almost tangible, filling the room with a warmth that seems to push back against the perpetual chill of Cassius's shadows.
She points at Grim, her eyes sparkling with genuine delight, and I find myself captivated by how alive she seems in this moment. How someone can radiate such vitality while surrounded by creatures of death and darkness is beyond me.
"That's bias," she declares with a playful wink. "And you know it."
And there it is again…that perfect balance of strength and charm, defiance and joy. She's unlike any being I've encountered in my centuries of existence.
The thought should trouble me more than it does.
It makes me feel as though I’m analyzing her like some sort of experiment but I can’t help it. Fae like me are so used to being surrounded by perfection in our world that witnessing someone so peculiar yet bold in execution in all things is profound.
Like a new breath of fresh air.
Without further deliberation, I extend my wrist toward her, the gesture smooth and deliberate. The pale skin there seems to glow in the room's dim light, blue veins visible beneath the surface like rivers on a map.
Confusion flickers across her features as she stares at my offered wrist, then up at my face. The question in her eyes is clear, but I maintain my silence, letting the moment stretch between us. Sometimes words are unnecessary — especially among beings like us.
After several heartbeats, her lips part slightly.
"Are you...wanting me to drink your blood?" Her voice carries notes of uncertainty, so different from her earlier bravado.
I nod, studying the pallor of her skin with growing concern.
"Your glamour dropped from Gabriel's form," I explain softly. "It means your magic is declining." My eyes meet hers, trying to convey the seriousness of our situation. "If we're participating in these trials, you need to be at peak performance. That can't happen without replenishing your blood levels."
She starts to protest, but I continue before she can form the words.
"If you drink from me, we can determine whether you need blood from a living host, or if your condition is specific to Cassius's essence." The logic is sound, even if the method is unconventional. "It's the most efficient way to test our theory."
Gwenivere's frown deepens as she processes my words. I can practically see the wheels turning in her mind, weighing options and considering consequences. It's fascinating how even her thought process is visible in the subtle shifts of her expression.
"But..." She gestures vaguely toward her neck, where that mysterious mark pulses faintly. "This showed up after I drank Cassius's blood. What if something similar happens with yours?"
The question draws exchanged glances from around the room. Mortimer's expression turns thoughtful, while Damien's scowl deepens. Cassius remains unreadable, though his shadows seem to writhe with increased agitation.
I shrug, keeping my tone casual despite the gravity of the situation.
"We can discuss the mark's significance on our way to the trials." My wrist remains steadily extended, an open invitation. "If another appears, it's not a significant concern to me."
Her eyes narrow as she studies my face, clearly trying to determine if I'm being truthful. Then her gaze drops back to my wrist, and I watch as she catches her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying it gently. The gesture seems unconscious, a tell that betrays her internal struggle with desire.
It shouldn't be as appealing as it is.
"Fine," she finally concedes, the word carrying equal parts resignation and determination. Then, more softly, "But you'll have to tell me to stop when you start feeling odd or dizzy or...whatever."
A faint blush colors her cheeks as she adds, "I don't really feed off...real people."
Damien shifts in his chair, his trademark smirk returning full force.
"Translation," he drawls, clearly enjoying her discomfort, "if you're getting a boner and feeling like a horny fucker, then you tell her to stop. That's what she means."
The blush on Gwenivere's cheeks deepens to a charming shade of crimson. The sight of it makes something in my chest tighten — an entirely inappropriate reaction given our current circumstances.
Mortimer clears his throat, ever the voice of reason.
"Not all vampire bites ignite sensual attraction and desire," he explains, his clinical tone a stark contrast to Damien's crude assessment. "Some can trigger memories or unique powers, depending on the exchange and the intensity of the two individuals' chemistry."
His pale eyes drift between Gwenivere and me, carrying an unspoken warning. Or perhaps it's curiosity. With Mortimer, it's often difficult to tell.
Damien turns to Cassius, his expression suddenly keen with interest.
"What did you experience when she bit you?" The question carries an edge of challenge, as if daring the Duskwalker prince to deny what we all suspect.
Cassius's response is immediate and flat.
"No comment."
The brevity of his answer only seems to fuel Damien's amusement. The vampire prince huffs out a laugh, settling deeper into his chair.
"He probably was a horny fucker," he mutters, though the words carry clearly in the quiet room.
The temperature drops several degrees as Cassius's shadows ripple ominously. The mark on Gwenivere's neck pulses once, sharp and clear, as if responding to the Duskwalker's agitation.
I find myself studying her reaction to this exchange; the way her eyes dart between Cassius and Damien, the slight parting of her lips as she processes the implications, the unconscious way her hand rises to touch the mark on her neck.
Every gesture adds another layer to the unraveling puzzle she presents.
My wrist remains extended, the offer unchanged despite the charged atmosphere. Her eyes return to it, and I watch as she swallows hard, her throat working with the motion.
The hunger in her gaze is unmistakable now.
The room seems to hold its breath, waiting to see what she'll do. Even Damien's usual restlessness stills, his attention fixed on the tableau before him.
Mortimer watches with his usual analytical intensity, while Cassius...Cassius's silver eyes never leave Gwenivere's face, his expression unreadable but his focus absolute.
The mark on her neck continues to pulse, a steady rhythm that seems to match her heartbeat. Whatever this bond between her and Cassius might be, it's clearly active even when she contemplates drinking from another.
An interesting detail that we'll need to explore later…assuming we survive the trials.
I’m debating whether we tell her before hand. Though promised, the path to the trial entrance is tedious in itself, but maybe it would benefit letting her be aware of the implications prior to the madness that will ensue with the challenges ahead.
The air grows thick with anticipation as she leans slightly forward, her breath ghosting across my skin. The sensation sends an unexpected shiver down my spine, though I maintain my composure.
After all, I'm the one who offered.
But watching her hesitate, caught between need and uncertainty, I begin to wonder if perhaps I've underestimated the complexity of what I'm proposing.
Fae blood is potent — filled with ancient magic and the essence of nature itself. Combined with her unique hybrid status and whatever connection she shares with Cassius...
Too late now.
Gwenivere's eyes meet mine one final time, seeking permission in their depths. I allow my expression to soften, dropping the careful masks we royals tend to wear like second skins.
Leaning in, I whisper words meant only for her.
"You won't hurt me, Gwen. Have a taste and see if it's to your liking."
She swallows hard, nodding slowly as gratitude fills her eyes.
"Thank you," she whispers back, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. The gesture is unconscious but draws my attention nonetheless.
With a deep inhale and gentle exhale, she takes hold of my wrist. Her touch is surprisingly delicate, at odds with the raw power I'd witnessed her display earlier. I watch in fascination as she leans in, feeling the initial brush of extended fangs against my skin.
It's not as if I'm unfamiliar with vampire bites. I've allowed Damien to feed from me in special circumstances, when necessity demanded it. But this... this feels different. More intimate somehow.
Almost sentimental.
When she finally sinks her fangs into my flesh, the sharp pierce of pain is expected.
What follows is not.
Heat floods through me instantly, my body lighting up like a midsummer bonfire. Every nerve ending comes alive, tingling with a potent mixture of power and...unexplainable potential? Something that makes my blood sing and my magic surge beneath my skin.
Her moan of relief vibrates against my wrist, the sound pure satisfaction. Like a wanderer in the desert finally finding water, she drinks with desperate gratitude. The raw need in her response stirs something primal in me, something I usually keep carefully contained.
It’s hard not to get hard from the glorious sound.
I close my eyes, trying to maintain control as my cock hardens against my will. The reaction takes me by surprise — I've never been particularly attracted to hybrids. Rarely feel attraction at all, if I'm being honest, though like most Fae I'm fluid in my preferences when I do.
But this...
I endure it, determined to let her take what she needs. But just as the sensations threaten to overwhelm me, Cassius's voice cuts through the haze.
"Little mouse," he says, the nickname carrying an edge of command. "Slow down."
She obeys instantly, her pulling becoming gentler even before I can open my eyes. Then Damien's startled gasp breaks through my concentration.
"Are you trying to fill my room with roses?"
My eyes snap open, taking in the transformed space. Damien's previously stark chamber now overflows with blooming roses, their sweet fragrance filling the air with intoxicating luxury. The scent brings with it a sense of rejuvenation, of life and vitality.
Looking down at myself, I'm stunned by how my magic has amplified. I've never been able to summon natural life so swiftly, and these aren't ordinary roses. Their petals shimmer with otherworldly beauty, each bloom perfect beyond mortal possibility.
"Rosa Eternalis," Mortimer identifies them, his voice carrying that professor's tone. "They only bloom in the heart of Faerie, requiring intense magical saturation to maintain stability. The petals are used in resurrection rituals, while the thorns..." He trails off, studying the phenomenon with academic interest.
Gwenivere's eyes open slowly, heavy-lidded and slightly unfocused at first. But I can see the contentment in them — the desperate hunger finally sated.
As she takes in her surroundings, realization dawns on her face.
She retracts her fangs quickly, gasping at the sight.
"Are you okay?" The concern in her voice is genuine, touching even.
"A bit light-headed," I admit. "But I'll be fine in a few minutes."
A blush colors her cheeks.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"It didn't feel bad," I confess, surprised by my own honesty. "At all."
Her sigh of relief is audible.
"Did it...taste good?" I find myself asking.
"Like drinking liquid starlight," she says dreamily. "And I saw things…images flooding my mind. That's never happened before. It was like being inside a fairytale."
I can't help the smirk that forms. Leaning in close, I don’t hesitate to ask what’s humming through my mind.
"You've never been to Faerie before, have you?"
When she shakes her head, I let my voice drop lower.
"I'll have to take you someday." The words carry more weight than intended, but I can't bring myself to regret them. "You look much better now."
Her blush deepens beautifully.
"Thank you for your generosity."
Before she can say more, Cassius's hand appears between us, pushing my face away with surprising gentleness.
"Go get ready," he tells her. "We need to leave."
She pouts — an expression that shouldn't be as charming as it is.
"I am ready. I don't understand why?—"
"You haven't eaten anything," he interrupts.
As if on cue, her stomach growls loudly. The sound makes her blush again, and I find myself fascinated by how often she can shift between powerful and endearing.
"You're right," she admits sheepishly. "I'll go grab an apple or something."
"I ordered breakfast," Cassius states. "It should be waiting on a tray by the door."
Surprise flickers across her features, followed by genuine warmth. "Thank you." Her gaze sweeps across all of us. "You should all eat something too." Her eyes linger on me. "Especially you."
I nod, understanding her concern.
"Go with Grim first. We'll catch up."
She looks for the being of darkness whose already behind her. All she has to do is look up to acknowledge his presence before she smiles excitingly.
"I'll be quick," she promises, then slips out of the room with Grim trailing behind her like a particularly deadly shadow.
As the door closes behind her, I find myself staring at the roses still blooming impossibly throughout the room. Each petal seems to pulse with combined Fae magic and vampire essence — a physical manifestation of what just passed between us.
What exactly have we started here?
"We need to figure this shit out," Damien declares, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair in frustration. "When are we telling her what the fuck that mark is? Because I'm tired of feeling the pulsating power between her and Cassius."
A smirk tugs at my lips, unable to resist the opening he's given me.
"Meaning you're jealous," I drawl, watching as his expression darkens.
"I am not jealous!" His fangs flash as he snarls the words, the vehemence of his denial only making it more suspicious.
"Sure, whatever you say," I respond with deliberate casualness, though I can't quite hide my amusement. Then, more seriously, "We intend to tell her on the way to the trials, which we should head to sooner rather than later. Time isn't exactly on our side."
The reminder of our approaching deadline seems to sober everyone. Even the roses, still somehow blooming throughout the room, appear to dim slightly as if sensing the gravity of our situation.
My gaze shifts to Mortimer, the question forming carefully.
"Are you truly comfortable with this arrangement? Being part of our group despite your position among the Seven?"
The Reaper's pale eyes gleam with something that might be amusement.
"It promises to be a rather peculiar experience," he muses, his voice carrying that particular tone that always makes me wonder just how much he can see that we can't. "At the very least, it won't be boring." His gaze drifts toward the door where Gwenivere disappeared. "She's an intriguing addition. It would be...beneficial for me to remain close."
Something in his phrasing catches my attention.
"You've been improvising," I observe, studying his expression more carefully.
He inclines his head slightly, acknowledging the observation.
"She needs additional protection," he explains. "Something that can serve as a backup for her glamour. The trials are notorious for their time distortions. What feels like hours inside could be days passing outside, or vice versa." His expression grows more serious. "If we return before sunrise and she's depleted her energy..."
He doesn't need to finish the thought.
We all understand the implications.
"What do you have in mind?" I ask, already appreciating the wisdom of his concern. The mark on her neck may offer some protection, but having redundancies could mean the difference between life and death.
Mortimer's lips curve into a slight smile.
"I can craft something suitable before the trials begin," he assures us. "A failsafe, if you will."
"Can you really prepare it that quickly?" Damien asks, skepticism clear in his voice.
The look Mortimer gives him could freeze hellfire.
"I am one of the Seven," he reminds us quietly. "There are certain advantages to that position."
His power ripples through the air, as if to remind us of what we’ve obviously forgotten in power dynamics. It's easy to forget sometimes, when he's playing at being our advisor, just how dangerous Mortimer truly is.
"We should move soon," Cassius speaks up, his first words since Gwenivere left. His shadows seem more agitated than usual, coiling around him in restless patterns. "The sooner we begin, the sooner we can address...everything."
Everything.
The word hangs heavy with implication — the mark, the blood issues, the impossible way she fits into our dynamic despite all logic suggesting she shouldn't.
"Agreed," I say, glancing at the roses one final time. They've settled into a steady pulse now, their magic harmonizing with the ambient energy of the room in a way that shouldn't be possible. Much like their inadvertent creator.
Damien rises from his chair, his movements carrying that predatory grace that marks him as royal vampire blood.
"Let's get this over with," he mutters, though there's less bite in his tone now. "Before she manages to transform my room into an entire botanical garden."
The joke, weak as it is, helps break some of the tension. Even Cassius's shadows seem to settle slightly, though they continue to writhe at the edges of his form.
Mortimer pushes off from the desk he'd been leaning against, his movements carrying that eerie fluidity unique to his kind.
"I'll need to make a brief stop in my chambers," he says. "To gather the necessary materials for her protection."
"What exactly are you planning to create?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
His smile turns enigmatic.
"Something that will complement the mark she already bears," he answers cryptically. "While providing its own unique safeguards."
The way he says it makes me wonder if he knows more about the mark's nature than he's revealed.
But before I can press further, he continues.
"The trials will test more than just her combat abilities," he reminds us. "They're designed to push boundaries, to find weaknesses and exploit them mercilessly."
"We know how the trials work," Damien interjects, but Mortimer silences him with a look.
"Do you? Because I don't think any of us truly understand what we're walking into this time." His gaze sweeps across all of us. "We have a hybrid bearing a Duskwalker's mark, capable of surviving his blood, who can manifest Fae magic strong enough to create Rosa Eternalis through a simple feeding."
Put that way, the magnitude of our situation becomes clearer.
"The trials adapt to each unit's unique composition," he continues. "They're designed to challenge not just individual strengths, but how well those strengths work in concert. How will they respond to someone like her?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy with implications none of us are quite ready to face.
"We need to move," Cassius states again, this time with more urgency. His shadows have begun to pulse in time with the roses' magic, creating an unsettling harmony.
"Agreed," Mortimer nods. "I can craft her protection as we walk. It's not ideal, but..." He shrugs elegantly. "We rarely get ideal circumstances in this place."
Isn't that the truth.
"Then let's go," I say, moving toward the door. "Before our newest member decides to start growing an entire enchanted forest in here."
As if in response, one of the roses suddenly blooms larger, its petals spreading to reveal a center that glows with pure Fae magic.
Damien groans.
"Get out," he commands, gesturing sharply at the door. "All of you. And someone better figure out how to remove these things before I get back."
"You love them," I tease, earning another flash of fangs. "They add character to your otherwise depressingly monotone aesthetic."
"Out!"
We file into the hallway, leaving behind a room transformed by impossible flowers and lingering magic. As we move, I catch Mortimer muttering under his breath, his hands already weaving patterns in the air that shimmer with power.
Whatever he's crafting, I hope it's enough.
Because something tells me we're going to need every advantage we can get before this day is through.