17. The Waiting Game Of Acknowledgment
17
THE WAITING GAME OF ACKNOWLEDGMENT
~NIKOLAI~
T he Headmaster's antechamber is a study in contradictions.
Ancient tomes line shelves that seem to defy physics, their spines etched with runes that pulse faintly in the dim light.
The air itself feels heavy with magic, yet there's an underlying stillness that sets my teeth on edge. It's as if the very atmosphere is holding its breath, waiting for something —— or someone —— to break the tension.
Damien paces near the window, his footsteps echoing against the marble floor. Each step is punctuated by a low growl of frustration, his usual grace hampered by obvious discomfort.
He’d never admit that he’s actually nervous. This is a bigger deal than any of us would dare to admit, but he can’t help but let out his frustrations.
"My fucking head," he snarls, pressing his fingers against his temples. "Why are we even here? The great and powerful Headmaster has never deigned to speak with us before, but suddenly we're worthy of their precious time?"
His voice drips with sarcasm, but I catch the undertone of genuine hurt beneath the venom. Being ignored for years by the very being who runs this institution has clearly left its mark.
I don’t blame him for his feelings, but then again, Fae like myself aren’t very emotionally moved by being shunned by those in powerful thrones.
We’re royalty ourselves, and I wouldn’t waste my efforts on those who won’t acknowledge my worth unless deemed valuable after a certain instance. It does intrigue me as to why they wish to meet us now, but we’ll find out the answers to those questions soon enough.
Though there’s obviously a hidden motive here.
From his position in a high-backed chair, Mortimer barely glances up from the ancient text in his lap. The book's pages are yellowed with age, their edges crumbling despite the preservation spells I can sense woven into the binding.
"The Headmaster's attention is not a right," he says calmly, turning a page with deliberate care. "It's a privilege few have earned in the academy's history."
Damien whirls on him, fangs flashing.
"Oh, really? And you would know, wouldn't you? How many times have you tried to gain an audience? How many years have you been shunned despite being one of their precious Seven?"
The words hit their mark. Mortimer's fingers still on the page, though his expression remains carefully neutral.
"The Headmaster is not merely an administrator," he says after a moment, his voice measured. "They are, for all intents and purposes, a god within these walls. The very force that keeps Wicked Academy thriving."
His pale eyes lift to meet Damien's glare.
"Your previous attempts to communicate were not insignificant, Damien. But to them..." He shrugs elegantly. "They simply weren't worthy of direct intervention."
"But this is?" Damien gestures wildly at our surroundings. "Some newbie shows up, manages to destroy those fucking slates, and suddenly we're summoned like pets to their master?"
His voice rises with each word, frustration and exhaustion evident in every syllable.
"Said newbie is currently unconscious," I point out, unable to keep the amusement from my tone.
My gaze drifts to where Gabriel —— Gwenivere —— slumps against Cassius's shoulder. Her glamour holds, maintaining the masculine facade, but there's a softness to her features in sleep that the magic can't quite hide.
Her chest rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of pure exhaustion. Dark circles shadow her eyes, and dried blood still stains the collar of her uniform. The trial has left its mark on all of us, but she bears the heaviest evidence of its toll.
"She won't wake even if the academy crumbles around us," I muse, studying the way Cassius's shadows curl protectively around her sleeping form.
The Duskwalker prince hasn't moved since we entered the chamber, his posture rigid but his touch gentle where it supports her weight. His silver eyes remain fixed on some distant point, but I notice how they flick to her face whenever she stirs.
"He," Damien corrects sharply. "We're still maintaining that facade, remember? Unless you want to explain to the Headmaster why we're harboring a female student."
I arch an eyebrow at him.
"You think they don't already know? This is their domain, Damien. The walls themselves probably whisper our secrets directly to their ears."
"Then why the pretense?" he demands. "Why summon us at all if they know everything?"
"Because knowledge and understanding are not the same thing," Mortimer interjects, his attention returning to his book. "The Headmaster may know what transpired, but perhaps they seek to understand the why of it all."
Damien scoffs, resuming his pacing.
"The why? The why is that we got stuck with a crazy hybrid who decided to play hero. Nothing more to understand."
"Is that what you truly believe?" Mortimer's voice carries a note of challenge. "That destroying those slates, freeing those souls, was simply playing hero?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy with implication.
Damien's steps falter.
"Those slates..." he begins, then stops, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Fifty years. Fifty fucking years of students' souls trapped in those things. And she just... walked in and shattered them like they were nothing."
"Not nothing," I correct softly. "The cost was substantial."
My mind flashes to the moment we thought we'd lost her. The way her body had gone limp, her skin turning an ashen grey as the magic drained from her.
It was odd because I saw it all unravel far differently than I’m sure Damien, Cassius, and Mortimer did. I should have witnessed it happening to Gabriel. To watch the male crumble at the cost of pushing past limits none of us knew could be broken, but I witnessed a different perspective.
A golden privilege of beauty and undeniable grace.
Even now, just taking a second to look at Gabriel, I can blink and see her feminine version in a heartbeat. See those long silky white strands and the energy that pulses through them. How her aura hums across her flesh that’s still rather pale in comparison to her peachy color complexion. How her bruised red lips are slightly parted and the way her expression which should reflect a peaceful slumber is stricken with exhaustion, despite her unconsciousness.
To them, they see Gabriel…
But to me…I see Gwenivere…
The real unanswered question is why that is? Why I have been privileged to see past the facade of masculinity to admire the serene beauty that taunts me in more ways than one.
That makes my cock harden and twitch in want for her.
Fighting to pull out of my thoughts, I can only think of how we really could have lost such a unique individual without interference.
If it hadn't been for Grim's intervention...
Speaking of which, I glance at the strange figure hovering near Cassius and Gwenivere.
Grim's new form is still jarring to behold —— no longer just a skull wreathed in shadow, but a fully manifested being that seems to exist in a state between corporeal and ethereal.
His cloak ripples with that impossible combination of darkness and white flame, and his eyes remain fixed on Gwenivere with an intensity that borders on unsettling.
"This wouldn't have happened if she'd just stuck to the original plan," Damien mutters, though there's less bite in his tone now. "Find the chalice, save her sister, get out. Simple. But no, she had to go and make it complicated."
I find it amusing for him to say it when she had no intention of falling into his bedroom to begin with. The school had pulled a trick and landed her into our possession, or else I’m sure she would have been long gone and saving her apparent sister who needs this chalice to be healthy again.
"When has anything involving her been simple?" I ask, unable to suppress a smile. I make it sound as if we’ve known her for eons, and yet it’s only been what? 48 hours at best?
The memory of her storming into our lives, all fierce determination and reckless courage, brings an unexpected warmth to my chest.
From that first moment in Damien's chambers to now, she's done nothing but defy expectations and shatter preconceptions. Yet, it’s by far the most entertainment I’ve had in centuries, and very little seems to ignite satisfying amusement in my eyes.
"She's a menace," Damien declares, but I catch the faint upturn of his lips. "A complete disaster."
He hates that she can get under his skin. How it seems she’s triggered things we’ve never had the privilege of attempting or experiencing, and that grinds his vampire gears.
Though, I find deep down, he likes this tornado of chaos. The idea of competition. An equal…or maybe someone who is potentially stronger than him making this grand appearance and flipping his world upside down.
"And yet," Mortimer says quietly, "she managed what no one else has in half a century. The slates are destroyed, the souls freed, and the trials' very nature has been altered. That alone makes her worthy of the Headmaster's attention."
"But at what cost?" Damien demands. "Look at her! She's completely drained. And for what? A bunch of strangers' souls?"
I guess he’s also pissed off about that.
Self-sacrifice isn’t a thing at Wicked Academy.
We’re all here for our own motives and intentions. To get us closer to our dreams, make connections, to become leaders who can sit on thrones that don’t give an ounce of mercy to their own rulers.
However, the selfless actions she’s executed have got me second-guessing.
Leads me to wonder how many have suffered the merciless banter and execution of attacks and onslaughts that weren’t deserving of such. How many perished and are trapped in a chamber of the unknown, unable to move on to the afterlife because their life source is needed to ensure the challenges and traps are set to continue their endless collection?
"For what she believed was right," Cassius speaks for the first time since entering the chamber, his voice low but firm. "That's all the reason she needed."
The simple statement silences us all.
I study him, noting the way his shadows seem to intertwine with Grim's, creating a cocoon of protection around Gwenivere's sleeping form. The mark on her neck pulses faintly, matching the rhythm of her breathing.
"She's changed things," I say finally, breaking the contemplative silence. "Whether we intended it or not, her presence has shifted the balance here."
"The question is," Mortimer closes his book with a soft thump, "will that shift be welcomed or perceived as a threat?"
Before anyone can respond, the air in the chamber grows heavier. The magical pressure increases until it feels like we are underwater, the very atmosphere seeming to condense around us.
Gwenivere stirs in her sleep, a small frown creasing her brow, but doesn't wake. Grim moves closer, his form flickering like a candle in the wind, while Cassius's shadows writhe with increased agitation.
"I suppose we're about to find out," I murmur, straightening as the chamber's massive doors begin to open.
The Headmaster awaits, and with them, perhaps, answers to questions we hadn't even known to ask.
Though whether those answers will bring clarity or chaos remains to be seen.
The air shifts, reality-bending as the figure enters.
Their presence alone commands attention, the sheer magnitude of power rolling off them in waves that make the chamber's ancient stones groan.
Standing at least seven feet tall, they move with an otherworldly grace that defies their imposing stature. Each step triggers a cascade of magic —— runes and incantations blooming beneath their feet like dark flowers opening to moonlight.
The patterns spread outward, perfect five-inch diameter circles of ancient power that pulse with a rhythm that feels older than time itself. Their heavy cloak seems to absorb light rather than reflect it, the fabric moving in ways that suggest it's more alive than inanimate.
The hood obscures their features completely, but the weight of their gaze is palpable —— a force that turns the very air to lead.
In an instant, the room freezes.
Not metaphorically, but literally —— every occupant caught mid-motion like insects in amber. The sudden stillness is absolute and unnatural, and my heart pounds against my ribs as I realize I'm one of the only beings still able to move.
My gaze darts to Cassius first.
The Duskwalker prince is completely immobilized, his shadows frozen mid-writhe around Gwenivere's sleeping form. Even Grim, in his newfound corporeal state, stands like a statue —— his cloak of darkness and white flame caught in an impossible moment of stillness.
Damien's condition nearly makes me laugh, despite the gravity of the situation. He's frozen with his mouth half-open, crimson eyes wide and fixed on the Headmaster's approaching form.
The perpetually composed vampire prince looks almost comical in his suspended state of shock.
Only Gwenivere seems untouched by the magical paralysis, her chest rising and falling in the deep rhythm of exhausted sleep. She shifts slightly, burrowing deeper into Cassius's frozen form as if seeking warmth, completely oblivious to the power saturating the air around us.
Then I feel it —— the burning beneath my skin as my carefully maintained facades begin to crack.
Power surges through me, impossible to contain any longer.
My skin begins to glow with an earthen radiance, the light pulsing in time with my racing heart. Runes and markings I've spent centuries concealing rise to the surface like cream separating from milk, each one a testament to battles and burdens I'd rather forget.
A mirror on the chamber's wall catches my attention, and I can't help but stare at the reflection it offers. The image feels both familiar and foreign, like greeting an old friend who's become a stranger.
My hair, usually kept at a manageable length, now cascades past my shoulders down to my ankles in waves of liquid gold. Strands of pure starlight weave through it, creating patterns that shift and change with each subtle movement.
It's my true form's crown —— a living reminder of the power that flows through my veins.
The tribal markings that cover my exposed skin tell stories in a language few remember. Each one represents a life taken, a power consumed, in the endless game of succession that plagues Fae royalty. Some are delicate, like frost on glass, while others are bold and harsh —— jagged lines that speak of battles won through blood and fury.
A particularly prominent mark curves around my throat, its edges still faintly silver even after all these years.
I earned that one taking down my eldest brother when he tried to poison our father's mind against me. The memory of his face —— shocked that his "weak" younger sibling could best him —— still brings a grim satisfaction.
The robes that now clothe my form are not the practical uniform of Wicked Academy, but the traditional garments of Fae royalty. They shimmer with embedded magic, the fabric seeming to catch and reflect light that doesn't exist in this realm. Patterns of leaves and vines move across the surface, each one a testament to the natural powers I command.
Above my head, the crown hovers —— an impossibility of precious metals and living magic that refuses to settle.
It's beautiful in its cruelty, each spike and curve designed to remind its bearer of the weight of power. It won't descend fully until I claim my birthright; until I take the throne that's been prophesied since my first breath.
If I survive long enough to claim it.
My eyes draw my attention last, and they perhaps show the greatest change. Gone is the carefully cultivated youth I present to the world.
These eyes are ancient, having seen centuries of court intrigue and battlefield gore. They hold the weight of decisions that have shaped realms and ended bloodlines.
The violet of my irises now swirls with gold, power barely contained behind pupils that have elongated like a cat's. These are the eyes of a being who could reshape reality with a thought, who could turn armies to ash with a gesture.
These are the eyes I've hidden from my friends for so long.
A bitter smile tugs at my lips as I think of Damien's reaction if he knew the truth. The vampire prince prides himself on his power, on his royal lineage. How would he handle knowing that his friend —— the one he teases and trades barbs with —— could probably erase him from existence with a word?
He'd never forgive me for the deception.
Cassius would understand better, I think.
The Duskwalker prince knows intimately the burden of power that others fear. He's lived with their prejudice, their hatred of abilities they don't understand. Perhaps that's why we've always had an easier rapport —— recognized kindred spirits hiding their true nature from a world that would rather destroy than understand.
My gaze returns to my hovering crown, its magic pulsing in time with the runes on my skin.
All my life, I've walked the knife's edge between power and acceptance. Every realm I've visited, every court I've graced, has offered the same choice: be feared or be loved, never both.
The Fae realms, for all their supposed perfection, are perhaps the cruelest in this regard.
They preach harmony and beauty while breeding generations of vipers, each one ready to strike at the first sign of weakness. I learned early that true power had to be hidden and contained if I wanted any hope of genuine connection.
The marks on my skin tell the story of that lesson —— each one a reminder of what happens when power is left unchecked.
The sister, whose jealousy led her to try drowning me in the moonlit pools.
The cousin, whose ambition drove him to challenge me before the entire court.
The uncle, whose schemes would have seen me bound in iron chains.
All of them defeated.
All of them dead…
All of them add to the weight of power that threatens to consume me.
The reflection shows me what others would see if I ever fully unleashed my power: a being of pure magic barely contained in physical form. The kind of creature that inspired the oldest and darkest of Fae legends.
The type of power that makes even gods pause.
And I hate it.
I hate the loneliness it brings, the way it sets me apart even from my own kind. I hate how it threatens every genuine connection I've managed to forge. I hate knowing that someday, I'll have to stop hiding, to take my place among the highest ranks of Fae royalty.
And then I'll truly be alone.
The thought sends a sharp pain through my chest, and I force my gaze away from the mirror.
Being naive can be the greatest blessing and the deadliest curse…
The Headmaster continues their approach, each step adding to the pressure of power in the room.
Their magic calls to mine, recognizing a kindred force, but I maintain my restraint.
I've spent too long learning to control this power to let it slip now, even in the presence of one who might understand its burden.
The chamber trembles as the Headmaster's power resonates, their voice cutting through reality itself as they speak my true name.
"Crown Prince Nikolious Luminaris Starweaver, Heir to the Eternal Throne of the Summer Court."
Each syllable pulses with magic, the sound both beautiful and terrible —— like crystal bells shattering in slow motion.
The name I've buried beneath centuries of careful facades rings through the chamber, forcing more of my power to the surface.
"Your restraint remains... impressive," they observe, their tone carrying notes of genuine appreciation. "How many years have you played at being a mere student? And yet your hold on such vast power hasn't wavered."
They turn toward Cassius first, head tilting as they study Grim's frozen form. The being's cloak ripples with impossible movement, the fabric seeming to exist in multiple dimensions at once.
It's not silk, not velvet, not any material that has a name in mortal tongues. The closest description might be solidified starlight woven with shadow, but even that feels inadequate.
The hood that obscures their features defies logic, consuming light rather than merely blocking it. It's as if that small space contains a void, an absence so complete that even my enhanced vision can't penetrate its depths.
When they speak again, their voice resonates at a frequency that makes my bones vibrate. It's neither masculine nor feminine, neither young nor old —— a sound that exists outside such mundane classifications.
"Your power grows stronger by the day," they observe, though the words carry an edge of challenge. "Though perhaps you've noticed…few would sense my arrival at all, frozen in time as they are. Yet here you stand, still conscious, still fighting my pull."
Their attention shifts to Grim, and a low chuckle echoes through the chamber. The sound sends ripples through reality itself, like stones dropped in a still pond.
"The pet. New edition unlocked?"
I meet their question with deliberate silence, earning another of those reality-bending chuckles.
Despite the androgynous quality of their voice, there's something distinctly masculine in their need to demonstrate such overwhelming power. It reminds me of countless court performances I've witnessed —— males peacocking their abilities like rare plumage.
"Intriguing," they continue, moving closer to examine Grim. "How this creature bonds itself to the Duskwalker, yet its existence transcends to a higher plane of power." Their hooded face turns toward Gwenivere's sleeping form. "Connected specifically to her neck."
Her…
They know.
They see who she really is…
They pause, and though I can't see their face, I feel the weight of their gaze.
"Why?"
I frown, acutely aware of how exposed this conversation leaves me. The fact that even Mortimer —— one of the Seven —— is frozen in time speaks volumes about the sheer magnitude of power being wielded. My own godlike energy probably serves as the only buffer keeping me conscious.
"You can see for yourself," I reply carefully, hoping his acknowledgment of Gwenivere’s femininity is forgotten just as fast as it was brought up. "Why do you need me to spell it out?"
Another chuckle, this one sharper.
"Always so stubborn, young prince. Making things difficult even for those far more powerful than your pitiful Fae rankings."
The attempt at gaslighting is so obvious it's almost amusing. I offer a measured smile in response.
"Why request our presence, freeze my companions, only to play these games?"
They move like smoke on the water, drifting to hover near Damien's frozen form. The motion is deliberately unsettling —— too smooth and perfect as if they're merely choosing to interact with space and time rather than being bound by it.
"Initially, I had no intention of granting you an audience," they admit, studying Damien with what feels like amused disdain. "Your dynamic is rather...odd. A Duskwalker with Lord potential, yet so comfortable in his emotional void that it may take another century for him to progress down that path."
They gesture dismissively at Damien.
"Then this one…a prince of false pride. Desperately reaches for Pureblood status while making no progress, unlike his siblings. The true black sheep, clutching a throne through mere birthright while bringing nothing but disgrace to his line."
The words are cruel but calculated, designed to provoke a reaction. I keep my expression neutral, though anger simmers beneath my skin at hearing my friend so casually dissected.
"His charm and cockiness serve him well enough here," they continue, circling Damien's frozen form like a predator assessing prey. "Though as the puppeteer of your trials and hardships, I'm tempted to make things more...challenging. See how long that shell of comfortable arrogance lasts when truly tested."
The casual mention of their control over our trials sends a chill down my spine. It's one thing to suspect the Headmaster's involvement in our daily struggles —— another entirely to hear them speak of it so brazenly.
Their power pulses again, making the air thick enough to choke on. The runes beneath their feet spread further, creating complex patterns that seem to write and rewrite the very laws of reality.
I watch them carefully, noting how their movements, though fluid, carry an undertone of restraint as if they're deliberately holding back even greater displays of power. It's the same game I've played countless times in Fae courts: showing enough to demand respect while keeping your true capabilities hidden.
The crown above my head pulses in response to their proximity, its magic recognizing a kindred force of nature. I force it to remain steady, refusing to let it descend even partially. The weight of it —— both physical and metaphysical —— would be too revealing and vulnerable in this precarious moment.
They may be a powerful entity within the walls of Wicked Academy, but at the end of the day, outside these pulsing walls of ancient forbidden magic are those who are even stronger than the Headmaster.
Plenty of fish in this vast sea of hierarchy and helplessness.
Their attention shifts again, and I brace myself for whatever game comes next. The air grows heavier still, magic condensing until each breath feels like drowning in power.
The Headmaster drifts away from Damien with fluid grace, their movement creating ripples in the fabric of reality.
"It's time to remind this little fish of his place," they muse, their voice carrying notes of cruel amusement. "He plays at power, splashing in shallow pools while oceans of true might remain beyond his comprehension."
I can't help but think of the trials we've just endured —— the broken slates, the freed souls, the sheer magnitude of what we'd witnessed.
"With respect," I say carefully, "there was nothing tame about what we faced."
Their laugh echoes through the chamber, the sound hollow and devoid of genuine emotion. It bounces off the ancient stones like shards of broken glass, each echoes more unsettling than the last.
They pause before Gwenivere's sleeping form, but their hooded face turns slightly toward me over their shoulder. The gesture, though slight, carries immense weight —— as if the very air bends to accommodate their movement.
"Unexpected outcomes, yes," they concede, their voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "But surely you understand that those trials were mere droplets in an ocean of possibility. I could devise challenges that would eliminate ninety percent of the student body before they could form a single coherent thought about survival."
The casual admission sends chills racing down my spine. Not because I doubt the truth of it —— the power radiating from them makes such claims entirely believable —— but because of the implicit threat woven through their words.
My attention snaps to Gwenivere as the Headmaster moves closer to her sleeping figure.
Every protective instinct I possess screams at their proximity to her vulnerable form, but I force myself to remain still. Even with my true power unveiled, challenging them directly would be suicide.
"Are we going to continue pretending," they ask suddenly, "that I don't see the female student in our midst?"
I maintain my silence, letting it serve as an answer enough.
To speak now, to confirm or deny, would only give them more ammunition.
The laugh that follows is nothing like their previous displays of amusement. This one carries weight and darkness, promising consequences that make my ancient blood run cold.
It's the kind of laugh I haven't heard since the darker days of Fae court politics —— when enemies were made to disappear without trace or testimony.
"Are you deliberately provoking me, young prince?" Their voice carries edges sharp enough to draw blood. "Or perhaps this is some elaborate scheme concocted with Mortimer? Revenge for the many times I've denied his requests for an audience, dismissed his fascinating philosophies about the nature of our realm?"
The accusation hangs in the air like poisoned honey; sweet on the surface but deadly underneath.
"I have no part in this outcome," I reply steadily, choosing each word with careful precision. "Nor do I believe Mortimer harbors resentment toward one who deemed him unworthy of conversation. He understands his place in the hierarchy of power."
The Headmaster says nothing for a long moment, the silence stretching thin and dangerous between us. Then, with deliberate slowness, they reach toward Gwenivere's sleeping form.
The reaction is instant and blinding.
Golden light erupts around her like a solar flare, forming a barrier of pure radiance that makes even my enhanced vision ache. Her hair begins to float upward, each strand illuminated from within as if woven from pure sunlight. The effect is mesmerizing —— beautiful and terrible in equal measure.
Yet she sleeps on, her breathing deep and steady despite the power manifesting around her.
The Headmaster goes completely still.
The kind of stillness that makes their earlier immobility seem dynamic in comparison. It's as if they've stepped outside of time itself, becoming an absence rather than a presence.
The tension that fills the chamber is thick enough to choke on. Even my crown, still hovering above my head, seems to pause in its eternal dance of power. The runes on my skin pulse in warning, responding to the dangerous uncertainty of the moment.
I find myself wondering what expression lurks beneath that lightless hood. Surprise? Anger? Calculation? The not knowing makes it worse somehow, leaving me balancing on a knife's edge of possibility.
Seconds stretch into minutes, each one weighted with the potential for catastrophe.
The golden barrier around Gwenivere continues to pulse, its rhythm matching the steady beat of her heart. The light reflects off the frozen forms of our companions, creating strange shadows that seem to dance despite the temporal paralysis holding them in place.
My mind races through possibilities, trying to predict the Headmaster's next move. Will they take offense at this display of power that rivals their own? Will they see it as a challenge to their authority? Or perhaps most dangerously —— will they see it as an opportunity?
The silence stretches on, each moment adding another layer to the suffocating tension. The only sound is Gwenivere's soft breathing and the faint hum of power emanating from her protective barrier.
And still, the Headmaster makes no move, says no word.
As if they've become a statue themselves, frozen by something even they didn't expect.
The runes beneath their feet have stopped spreading, frozen mid-pattern like a painting caught between brushstrokes. The very air seems to hold its breath, waiting to see how this impossible moment will resolve.
And through it all, I stand witness, my own power humming beneath my skin, ready but restrained. The crown above my head pulses with familiar weight, a reminder of responsibilities and powers I've spent centuries learning to control.
But control seems a fragile concept in this moment, as we all balance on the edge of something unprecedented.
The Headmaster's hand whips upward with devastating speed, summoning a gale force that should have shredded every thread of clothing from Gwenivere's body.
Instead, runes of darkness burst to life across her skin, swirling with shades of purple and green that form an ethereal armor.
Her uniform begins to disintegrate like paper caught in flame, the fabric turning to ash that drifts upward in elegant spirals. But before the destruction can complete its course, time itself seems to reverse. The ash reforms into threads, threads weave back into fabric, until her uniform sits pristine and untouched —— as if the assault had never occurred.
But we both saw it.
In that fraction of a second between destruction and restoration, the mark above her heart blazed like a captured star. At first glance, it might appear to be a simple symbol of royalty, but I can't suppress the smirk that forms on my lips.
How fitting that the being who questioned my intelligence now witnesses the depth of my cunning.
The mark is an infinity symbol, perfectly proportioned —— neither too delicate to overlook nor too bold to appear unnatural. What makes it extraordinary are the Eternalis flowers flanking each side, one crafted in pure darkness, the other in blinding light. The sight vanishes quickly beneath the reformed fabric, but the message has been delivered.
The game has changed, and I'm no longer playing by their rules.
The Headmaster's shadowed gaze turns back to me, heavy with unspoken questions.
"I suppose this interaction won't last much longer, will it?" I ask, crossing my arms. I allow my energy to thrum through my voice, deepening it further with a sense of vibrato.
They scoff, the sound rippling through reality.
"You've set yourself up for your own demise."
"When I find something truly fascinating," I admit, "I tend to claim it. Whether it becomes a blessing or curse is irrelevant."
I let my smile fade, my expression matching the emotionless void they project. But my magic surges, rising to heights I've kept carefully hidden for centuries. Each step I take toward them bends reality until we stand as equals rather than master and subject.
The tension between us shifts from oppressive to electric as we regard each other in silence.
"You mated a hybrid," they finally whisper, "whose very presence could destroy the order of this perfect institution. To prove what? That you enjoy risk?"
My smile returns, all teeth and ancient power.
"You see her value," I counter. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be here, attempting to steal the first woman to successfully infiltrate your academy. One who's fallen into the hands of the trio you've dismissed as worthless for centuries, and bound to a scholar you can't fully control because he belongs to us, not you."
I take one final step forward, bringing us face to face.
The realization that we stand at equal heights confirms my complete transformation —— my true Fae nature fully unveiled. The being who had inspired such primal fear now seems less overwhelming, and more...manageable.
"I saw through your game," I continue, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Watching to see how far she'd progress. It was entertainment at first, wasn't it? Until she got too close to the prize. Too close for you to deny the unique beauty of her existence in a world you've molded to despise anything that defies order. To crush any hint of femininity that might bring mercy and salvation to this hideous realm you're so proud of."
A dark chuckle escapes me, the sound resonating with power that defies mortal classification.
"You had every opportunity to interfere, but everything changed when she received Cassius's mark. That's why you implemented this trial. Not an annual event, but something that occurs every fifty years. You planted those souls from the last trial, made us believe this was routine, hoping we'd perish so you could collect our essences for your twisted experiments with unique beings."
My power pulses with each word, matching the intensity of their own aura.
"But our little Solstice figured you out. I knew the moment she needed power that Damien wouldn't suffice. That's why you tried to manipulate her, using your Malcolm puppet to corrupt her before attempting to reap her soul. But I couldn't allow that. Not when I recognized how precious my unexpected prize truly was. So I took matters into my own hands, even if it meant bonding with her myself."
A sliver of light manages to penetrate their hood, revealing eyes that could lay waste to nations with a mere glance. The sight would have terrified me once, but now it only confirms what I already know.
"No one will accept her as your Queen," they state, their voice heavy with certainty.
I simply grin, the expression carrying centuries of resigned solitude.
"Then let me die alone, as I was always destined to be."
The price of power has always been solitude, after all.