Page 15 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

Shadows That Sing And Hymns Of Peace

~CASSIUS~

T he humming wakes me, a delicate minor melody winding through the edges of consciousness like smoke curling through an empty room.

The sound carries a strange innocence, a vulnerability that feels out of place in the world of shadows and secrets I inhabit.

My mind drifts, caught between waking and dreaming, and suddenly I'm a child again — crouched alone in the darker corners of our ancestral home, listening to the mockery of older Duskwalkers who found my interest in light and color shameful.

A weakness unbecoming of our lineage.

"The silver-eyed one watches flowers again," they would whisper. "Perhaps he should have been born Fae instead."

Their cruelty was a constant companion, but so was something else — a sound much like the humming that now draws me from sleep.

Back then, the melody came from a rare shadow being known as a Nachtlied — "night song" in the ancient tongue of our people.

Unlike most shadow creatures bred for battle and dominance, the Nachtlied were gentler souls, capable of shifting into forms that almost mimicked the mundane: cats with extra toes, birds with too many eyes, dogs with shadow-smoke for fur.

They were considered lesser by most Duskwalkers, their ability to take simple forms deemed unimpressive compared to the monstrosities others could manifest. But what made them truly unique — what drew my childhood fascination — was their singing. In moments of fear or perfect peace, they would hum to themselves, a sort of self-soothing that carried notes no other being could replicate.

I would seek them out when the mockery became too much, following their melodies to hidden gardens where shadow flowers bloomed under moonlight. They never spoke to me directly, these shy creatures, but their songs felt like acknowledgment. Like acceptance.

Like hope.

The humming continues, pulling me fully into consciousness now.

I open my eyes slowly, vision adjusting to the dim light of predawn that filters through nearby windows. The sound comes from my shoulder, and when I turn my head, I find Grim's miniature form perched there like a peculiar familiar.

His hollow eye sockets somehow convey contentment as he continues that haunting melody, tiny skull tilted slightly as if lost in memory or dream. I've never heard him make such sounds before — never knew he was capable of it. The realization sends an odd pang through my chest, a reminder of how little I truly understand about the shadow being bonded to my essence.

Or how they can be easily manipulated.

It’s a good lesson to learn, especially because it proves I need to get better in a magnitude of areas. Thankfully, Atticus isn’t deemed as an enemy, at least for as long as Gwenivere stays an ally in our eyes, but it also means my shadows can be easily morphed in others favor.

That can be used against us in the next trial. I have to learn to control it better.

After the discussion with Mortimer, I know the library is going to be a source of a lot of knowledge that can benefit us. I’d want to use the privilege to not only help locate legends regarding this chalice, but also more of what I can do with my capabilities that wasn’t taught to me.

Having to learn things on my own has made things tricky in a world that is so unpredictable, but maybe Mortimer can be of aid?

I can't help the smirk that forms, the expression feeling foreign on features more accustomed to careful neutrality as I return to reality, away from my thoughts. There's something disarming about this moment — this powerful entity of death and shadow, humming like a Nachtlied while perched on my shoulder in diminutive form.

My gaze drifts left, catching on something that transforms my smirk into an expression of genuine surprise.

An easel stands near the center of the room, upon it a canvas bearing an image of breathtaking detail and emotional depth. The painting depicts a dual portrait of Gwenivere — one half showing her as Gabriel, the other revealing her true female form.

I stare at the masterpiece, momentarily confused by its existence until I notice several of my shadow tendrils hovering near the canvas, each holding brushes still wet with paint. Understanding dawns with uncomfortable clarity — my unconscious mind channeled artistic ability through these extensions while I slept.

A childish pout forms before I can suppress it.

How long have I been asleep for my shadows to create something so intricate?

The level of detail suggests hours of meticulous work — the precise curve of Gabriel's determined jaw, the subtle vulnerability in Gwenivere’s eyes, the complex symbolism woven through both backgrounds.

The image perfectly captures the dream that had filled my sleeping mind. A vision of Gabriel descending onto an ancient throne, commanding attention from beings whose power radiated like physical heat.

Entities that typically acknowledge no authority found themselves bowing before this silver-haired hybrid whose presence bent reality itself.

Then the dream had shifted, transforming into a meadow where Gwenivere stood surrounded by shadow spider lilies — rare flowers that only bloom in the deepest regions of Duskwalker realms.

These particular blooms only appear when a significant power shift approaches, when a new royal will ascend to prominence in our shadowed world.

The forebearer of change.

The painting captures both aspects with unsettling accuracy, as if my unconscious mind understood connections my waking thoughts couldn't grasp. The symbolic duality between her forms, the subtle suggestions of destiny and transformation — all rendered with expertise I rarely allow myself to display.

I should be concerned about where my tendrils acquired the materials.

We haven't explored this new campus yet, which means my shadows must have ventured out alone while I slept, seeking pigments and canvas through means I'd rather not examine too closely. Such action suggests autonomous behavior that stretches the normal boundaries of Duskwalker abilities.

Yet another irregularity to add to the growing list of changes since Gwenivere entered our lives.

Deciding to worry about these implications later, I prepare to rise from my window perch. My body feels stiff from hours in one position, muscles protesting as I begin to shift. I turn my head toward the bed, intending to drag my exhausted form there for proper rest before dawn fully breaks.

The sight that greets me steals the breath from my lungs.

Gwenivere lies curled on my bed, silver hair spread across the dark pillows like moonlight captured in silk. She wears only an oversized dress shirt — deep blue fabric that has slipped to reveal one pale shoulder where the smooth skin appears almost luminescent against the shadowed bedding.

Her expression in sleep carries none of the wariness that typically guards her features, revealing a vulnerability she rarely allows the waking world to glimpse.

I freeze, afraid the slightest movement might shatter this moment of unexpected grace. My shadows respond to my stillness, withdrawing from the painting to hover protectively near the bed, their movements carrying a gentleness at odds with their usual predatory nature.

She looks smaller somehow, curled on her side with one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting lightly against her neck where I know my bond mark lies hidden beneath fabric. The realization that she bears my mark — that some essential part of me is woven into her very being — sends a wave of possessiveness through me so intense it's almost painful.

My Little Mouse.

The nickname forms in my mind with unexpected tenderness.

I've called her this from our first real conversation, finding something endearing in the way she scurried through Wicked Academy's dangerous halls, determined to survive despite overwhelming odds. But now the endearment carries deeper meaning — acknowledgment of her courage, resilience, and unwavering determination in the face of challenges that would break lesser beings.

Her eyelashes cast delicate shadows against her cheeks, dark crescents that flutter slightly with dreams I cannot share.

What visions visit her in sleep? Does she dream of her sister, of the chalice she still seeks? Or has her unconscious mind turned to more immediate concerns — the trials we've survived, the transformations we've witnessed, the strange new reality we now inhabit?

A strand of silver hair has fallen across her face, and I find myself fighting the urge to cross the room and brush it gently aside. Such tenderness doesn't come naturally to me — Duskwalkers are taught from birth that emotion is weakness, that vulnerability invites exploitation.

Yet something about her sleeping form awakens protective instincts I've spent centuries suppressing.

The bond mark on my neck pulses gently, responding to her proximity even in slumber. The sensation is still unfamiliar, this magical connection that defies the natural isolation of my kind. Duskwalkers bond rarely, if ever — our shadows too territorial, our natures too solitary for such intimate connection.

Yet here I am, bound to this impossible woman who crashed into our lives with fire in her eyes and determination in every line of her body. This hybrid who refused to accept limitations, who challenged us all to be more than the cold, calculated beings we'd become through centuries of careful control.

My gaze traces the curve of her jaw, the subtle arch of her exposed throat where her pulse beats slow and steady in peaceful sleep.

That vulnerable expanse of skin triggers memories I've tried to suppress — the taste of her blood on my tongue, rich with magic and life force unlike anything I've experienced in centuries of existence. The way she yielded to me in shadow-veiled darkness, trusting despite every reason to be wary.

Her quiet moans, those intimate touches and caresses. How so much passion and desire ignited between us, but that was so foreign for me, one who has never enjoyed the true depths of intimacy like the way she delivered it to me.

Then came her pain, her disgust at our inaction during Damien's cruel display. The memory of her expression — betrayal cutting deeper than mere disappointment — makes my shadows writhe with agitation.

I should have protected her, consequences be damned.

The fact that mysterious forces prevented our intervention feels like a hollow excuse rather than valid justification.

It feels almost childish now that I review my own behavior. Revolving around the lack of my involvement all because of the hidden threats that lingered to break us apart.

Yet, wasn’t that exactly what it did?

If it hadn’t been for this trial that forced our groups together once more, we wouldn’t be in this shared space. She wouldn’t so easily be willing to dwell within the depths of my room, sleeping so soundly knowing I’m present.

I’m unsure if that means I’ve earned a hint of her forgiveness, especially with my utmost desire to express my regret for my lack of action.

Now she sleeps in my bed, beautiful and vulnerable, unaware of the storm of emotions her mere presence evokes.

The contradiction is almost painful — wanting her close while knowing I've lost the right to such intimacy, needing her forgiveness while understanding I must earn it through actions rather than mere words.

The faint light filtering through the windows casts her in gentle illumination, highlighting the silver of her hair and the subtle curve of her cheek. She seems almost ethereal in this half- light, more dream than reality. Yet the steady rise and fall of her chest grounds her in the physical world, a reminder that beneath all the magic and mystery beats a heart as real as my own.

One of my tendrils drifts closer to the bed, moving with careful deliberation as if drawn by instinct rather than conscious command. It hovers near her sleeping form, not quite touching, maintaining a respectful distance despite the obvious yearning in its movement.

Another joins it, then another, until a protective circle forms around the bed where she lies — my shadows standing sentinel over her slumber.

I should leave.

Find another room, grant her privacy, respect boundaries still fragile from recent breaches of trust.

Yet I remain frozen by the window, unable to tear my gaze from this unexpected tableau of silver hair against dark sheets, of light embraced by shadow.

Grim's humming continues, the melody shifting subtly into something that carries notes of protection and possession. The sound vibrates through my very being, resonating with emotions I lack proper names for — feelings Duskwalkers aren't supposed to acknowledge, let alone embrace.

She murmurs something in her sleep, the words too soft to catch but carrying a tone of distress that makes my shadows surge protectively.

A tendril extends before I can stop it, brushing against her cheek with gossamer gentleness. The touch seems to soothe whatever troubled her dreams, her expression relaxing once more into peaceful slumber.

I swallow hard, confronted by evidence of my own vulnerability where she's concerned. This isn't merely protective instinct or possessive territoriality.

Something I'm not ready to name, even in the privacy of my own thoughts.

Her presence in my bed — innocent though it may be — feels like both gift and torture. Having her so close yet knowing the distance between us extends beyond mere physical space. Wanting to cross that distance while understanding that patience, not pursuit, is what's needed now.

The light outside strengthens imperceptibly, dawn approaching with steady inevitability. Soon she'll wake, and whatever strange magic this moment holds will dissolve into the complicated reality of our current circumstances. But for now, in this liminal space between night and morning, I allow myself to simply watch over her.

To memorize the peaceful curve of her lips, the delicate arch of her brow, the way her silver hair catches even the faintest light.

My Little Mouse, momentarily free from the burdens she carries with such determined strength.

My bonded, whose mark I bear as she bears mine, connecting us in ways that transcend ordinary understanding.

My Gwenivere , whose presence has shattered the careful isolation I maintained for centuries.

The realization that I think of her as mine should probably disturb me more than it does. Possessiveness isn't a trait I've indulged in or assumed I could experience in this world where loneliness is embraced and welcomed — such emotions run too hot, too unpredictable for Duskwalker sensibilities.

Yet with her, the feeling seems as natural as breathing, as inevitable as shadow following form.

Another strand of silver hair falls across her face, and this time I can't resist. Rising silently from my window perch, I approach the bed with careful steps, each movement measured to avoid disturbing her rest. Reaching her side, I pause, suddenly uncertain despite my resolve.

She appears even more delicate from this closer vantage — the fine bones of her wrist where her hand rests against the pillow, the subtle shadow beneath her bottom lip, the sweep of silver lashes against pale skin.

But I know better than most how deceptive such apparent fragility can be.

This woman fought her way through trials that have claimed countless lives before her. She's faced humiliation and betrayal without breaking. She carries burdens that would crush lesser beings, yet still finds strength to continue forward.

There is nothing fragile about Gwenivere except the trust I must now rebuild.

With infinite care, I reach down and brush the errant strand of hair from her face, fingertips barely grazing her skin. The contact sends a jolt through my system despite its briefness — a surge of connection that makes the bond mark at my neck pulse with renewed intensity.

She stirs slightly at the touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips, but doesn't wake. My relief at this small mercy wars with unexpected disappointment — part of me longs for her eyes to open, to see recognition and perhaps forgiveness in their silver depths.

Patience…

I have to remind myself.

Some things cannot be rushed, especially healing.

It’s a first for me. To think this way. To give another such a chance and opportunity, especially when I’m the culprit of such lingering trauma that needs time to heal.

I straighten, preparing to withdraw and seek rest elsewhere, when her hand suddenly moves. Still deep in slumber, she reaches out, fingers catching the edge of my sleeve with surprising strength. The gesture lacks conscious intent but carries unmistakable meaning all the same — a wordless request for presence, for closeness.

For the first time in centuries, I find myself utterly uncertain of the correct course of action. Leave as planned, extracting myself from her unconscious grip? Or yield to this unspoken invitation, this chance to guard her sleep more directly?

Her fingers tighten slightly on my sleeve, decision made for me before conscious thought can fully form. With careful movements, I settle onto the bed's edge, maintaining a respectful distance while remaining close enough to fulfill her unconscious request.

Grim's humming grows softer, the melody shifting into something that feels like approval. My shadows respond by dimming slightly, creating a cocoon of gentle darkness around the bed. The effect is oddly peaceful — a sanctuary carved from shadow and silence, illuminated only by the faint blue glow that accompanies Duskwalker magic at its most unthreatening.

Here in this bubble of quiet, with dawn approaching and Gwenivere’s breathing providing gentle rhythm, I allow myself to acknowledge what I've been avoiding since the cafeteria incident.

The cold truth that settled in my chest when I watched her walk away, drenched in humiliation while I remained immobile.

I failed her.

The admission burns, acid-sharp against carefully maintained pride. I, who prided myself on control and calculation, on seeing paths others missed, failed to anticipate the depth of Damien's cruelty or its perfect aim at Gwenivere’s hidden vulnerabilities.

Worse, I failed to act when action was needed most.

The reasons — blackmail, threats against her safety, the academy's twisted system of rewards and punishments — feel hollow in the face of her pain. Explanations without weight, justifications without merit.

The truth is simpler, harder to bear: when she needed protection most, I chose inaction. When faced with her suffering, I remained still.

When our bond demanded defense, I offered none.

Now she lies sleeping in my bed, unaware of these bitter reflections. Unaware that my failure has become a binding oath in my mind — a promise to never again choose safety over her wellbeing, never again allow threats to prevent me from standing between her and those who would cause harm.

Never again will I watch her walk away alone.

My shadows swirl with renewed purpose, responding to this internal vow with a surge of protective intent. They form a more visible barrier around the bed now, no longer merely hovering but actively guarding against potential threats.

The darkness deepens, not with menace but with something closer to sanctuary. Here in this shadow-veiled space, with Gwenivere’s fingers still loosely gripping my sleeve and Grim's melody weaving through the silence, I find an unfamiliar sensation settling over me.

Peace.

How strange that it comes now, amid uncertainty and unresolved conflict.

Yet there's no denying the quiet contentment that fills me as I watch over her sleep, as I guard these precious moments of vulnerability she unconsciously entrusts to my care.

Perhaps this is part of the bond's true purpose — not merely connection but mutual protection, a sharing of strength when one partner falters.

A balance of light and shadow, each complementing rather than consuming the other.

Dawn approaches with steady certainty, but for now, in this moment suspended between night and morning, I allow myself simply to be. To watch over her. To cherish this strange, unexpected peace that comes from proximity to my Little Mouse.

To hope that when she wakes, the path to redemption will become clear.