Chapter 6 Fragments Of Truth
Fragments Of Truth
~ATTICUS~
"Gwenievere is stable."
The words land in the tense silence like stones dropped into still water, sending ripples of something that might be relief through my chest—if I allowed myself the luxury of such an emotion.
Professor Eternalis stands before us with the kind of composed authority that makes even immortal beings want to sit straighter.
Her presence fills the medical chamber in ways that transcend simple physicality—an aura of ancient power that presses against the edges of my awareness like a hand resting against frosted glass.
The walls of the chamber pulse with soft bioluminescence, veins of magical energy threading through obsidian stone, their rhythm syncing with the steady beep of whatever arcane machinery monitors Gwenievere's vitals.
My gaze finds her immediately.
Gwenievere.
She lies in a crystalline chamber at the room's center, suspended in viscous fluid that glows with opalescent light.
The liquid catches the ambient illumination and scatters it into a thousand fractured rainbows across her pale skin, making her appear less like a woman and more like something divine—a goddess caught between sleep and death, awaiting worship or awakening with equal patience.
The incantations that crawl across her flesh pulse with steady rhythm, golden symbols writhing in patterns that suggest life rather than stasis.
Her silver hair floats around her face in ethereal waves, catching currents in the preservation fluid, and even unconscious, even broken, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Mine.
The possessive thought surges through me before I can temper it.
Ours, I correct, acknowledging the bonds that tie her to the others scattered throughout this room—men I once called rivals, enemies, obstacles to be overcome. Men who have somehow become something closer to brothers through the crucible of loving the same impossible woman.
"She will need a few days in the chamber to stabilize her energy levels," Professor Eternalis continues, her voice carrying undertones that suggest this is both reassurance and warning. "The faint spells should subside once her reserves have had time to replenish."
My hands clench at my sides, crimson energy flickering beneath my skin in response to emotions I refuse to name.
"Why is that happening to begin with?" The question tears from my throat with more aggression than intended—but I've never been particularly skilled at tempering myself when she's involved. "She drank blood from us, and it didn't do much at all because she passed out again."
The frustration in my voice isn't directed at anyone specific, though the room's other occupants might interpret it differently.
It's directed at the situation itself—at watching the woman I love collapse repeatedly while I stand helpless, my blood apparently insufficient to sustain her, my power useless against whatever is draining her essence.
We're supposed to be her strength.
Her anchors.
What good are we if our blood can't even keep her conscious?
A huff of derision cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
Prince Yoshiro—Prince Douche, as we've collectively decided to call him—leans against the far wall with his arms crossed, those impossible eyes glittering with amusement that makes me want to rip his throat out.
His features shift in the chamber's uncertain light, sometimes appearing sharp and aristocratic, other times soft and almost playful, never settling into anything I can definitively identify.
The wrongness of him scratches at my vampire senses like nails on slate.
"Well, what would you expect," he drawls, his tone carrying the kind of nonchalance that suggests he finds our ignorance personally entertaining, "when a sole hybrid unlocks the final layer of an academy that's been vanquished for centuries, and her soul is the key to unlocking the gates of Wicked Academy's freedom? "
He says it like it's obvious.
Like we're children who've failed to grasp basic arithmetic.
Like the fate of our bond mate should be common knowledge that somehow escaped our notice while we were busy bleeding for her.
The silence that follows his declaration is absolute.
Damien's jaw clenches hard enough that I can hear teeth grinding from across the room.
Mortimer's scholarly composure fractures around the edges, revealing glimpses of the dragon fire that always burns beneath his careful exterior.
Zeke's feline stillness takes on a predatory quality, frost crystallizing along his fingertips in response to tension he's not consciously controlling.
And Cassius—
Gods, Cassius.
The Duskwalker's shadow tendrils have multiplied exponentially since the prince began speaking, dark appendages coiling and uncoiling with agitation that suggests violence barely contained.
They weave through the air around him like living things, some extending toward Prince Douche with obvious hostile intent, others curving protectively around the space where Gwenievere's chamber sits.
The darkness they exude isn't the comfortable shadow of moonless nights—it's something deeper, something that exists in the spaces between stars, something that remembers the void before creation itself.
His inability to read the prince's essence has been driving him mad since this whole disaster began.
I can see it in the tension along his shoulders, the way his silver eyes track every micro-movement Prince Yoshiro makes, the barely perceptible narrowing of his gaze each time those impossible features shift into a new configuration.
Cassius has never encountered something he couldn't sense.
Something his shadows couldn't taste, identify, categorize.
The absence of that information is eroding his composure like acid against stone.
No one responds to Prince Douche's bombshell.
What could we possibly say?
We didn't know. None of us knew. Here we are—men who have bled and fought and died for Gwenievere—and this smirking stranger apparently possesses more knowledge about her purpose than all of us combined.
When the silence stretches past uncomfortable into agonizing, Professor Eternalis decides to take mercy on our collective inadequacy.
"What happened is linked to the chalice," she declares, moving through the chamber with the fluid grace of someone accustomed to commanding attention without demanding it.
The hem of her robes brushes against stone that seems to bow slightly in her wake, magical residue responding to her presence like plants turning toward sunlight.
"It had to be used to unlock the gates of Year Four. "
Damien's brow furrows, his scarred features twisting with confusion that mirrors my own internal chaos.
Despite everything—despite the scars we now know he carries, despite the betrayals we're still untangling, despite the complicated knot of emotions that defines our relationship—I find myself moving closer to his position.
Solidarity, perhaps. Or simply the instinct that says divided we fall.
"Isn't the chalice the artifact that was going to heal that sister of hers?" he asks, crimson cloak shifting around his shoulders as he adjusts his stance.
I snort at the description—sister—because that word seems entirely too benign for the nightmare we faced.
"Yeah," I interject, unable to keep the venom from my voice, "that psychotic death-driven bitch who literally killed us back there for a few seconds."
The snicker that erupts from across the room has us all turning toward the culprit.
Prince Yoshiro's face has transformed into something almost childlike—features soft with barely contained glee, eyes sparkling with the particular light of someone holding secrets they find absolutely delicious.
He looks like a kid who's just discovered the location of hidden candy, all innocent excitement wrapped around something that probably portends disaster.
"What are you giggling about?" I snap, every instinct I possess screaming that his amusement means danger.
He just grins wider, one elegant finger rising to press against his lips in the universal gesture of not telling.
The motion should be infuriating—is infuriating—but there's something in his expression that suggests he's not being malicious so much as genuinely entertained by possessing knowledge we lack.
I still want to punch him.
Repeatedly.
Until that knowing smirk becomes something more appropriate, like terror or unconsciousness.
"The pull that temporarily killed all of you," Professor Eternalis continues, either ignoring Prince Yoshiro's antics or choosing not to acknowledge them, "or more so split your souls out, was actually a chain reaction."
She pauses, letting the weight of that statement settle.
Split our souls out.
The memory resurfaces with visceral clarity—that moment when existence itself seemed to tear, when I watched my own body from outside like a stranger observing someone else's flesh.
The sensation of being unmade and remade in the same eternal instant, consciousness fragmenting across dimensions that shouldn't exist.
I thought I was dying.
We all thought we were dying.
"All the chalice really did was slow time to almost a standstill," she continues, her voice taking on the particular cadence of someone explaining complex magical theory to laypeople.
"The retrieval of your bodies and bringing them to that safety zone before my arrival was due to Prince Yoshiro's assistance. "
The words land like blows.
Prince Yoshiro saved us.
This cynical, smirking, unreadable bastard dragged our souls back from the brink and deposited us somewhere safe.
Why?