Page 109 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

"I'll be in your mind," he promises. "Guiding when I can, silent when you need to focus. Trust your instincts—they're stronger now, enhanced by our bond."

I nod, hand on the door handle, taking a moment to center myself.

When I open it, the impossible library sprawls before me, more intimidating now that I understand what it represents. Not just collapsed space but collapsed knowledge, centuries of learning scattered and scrambled, trying desperately to reorganize itself into something useful.

The first step out of my room is the hardest.

The floor isn't exactly floor—it's a suggestion of solidity that holds only because I believe it should. The moment doubt creeps in, it becomes less solid, more theoretical. I have to walk with confidence, I don't feel, projecting certainty that the universe accepts as temporarily true.

Turn left at the floating astronomy section,Mortimer's voice guides, warm in my mind like whispered secrets.Then up—yes, up, gravity is negotiable here—toward the cluster of red books.

Following his directions feels like those trust exercises where you close your eyes and let someone guide you through obstacles. Except the obstacles are violations of physics, and the guide is a centuries-old dragon prince I just blood-bonded with in ways that definitely weren't scholarly.

The floating books part as I pass, some following in my wake like curious pets. One particularly insistent tome keeps bumping against my shoulder until I grab it. The title shifts as I look at it—sometimes reading "Dimensional Navigation for Beginners," sometimes "Why Your Academy Collapsed: A Primer," sometimes just "HELP" in increasingly frantic fonts.

I tuck it under my arm. Might be useful, might be sentient, cry for assistance.

Either way, abandoning it feels wrong.

Good instinct,Mortimer approves.Books choose readers as much as readers choose books. That one wants to be helpful.

The warmth of his approval makes the bond mark pulse with pleasure that's entirely inappropriate for the situation. I force myself to focus on navigation rather than how different everything feels with dragon blood warming my veins, dragon magic tingling at my fingertips, dragon scholar whispering guidance directly into my thoughts.

"How do I know which room is whose?"

Feel for your bonds. Each one resonates differently. Cassius will feel like shadows given form. Nikolai like spring wind carrying winter's memory. Atticus?—

Like blood and copper and violence barely contained,I finish, already sensing it.

The pull is different from the others—my wrist mark burning with specific frequency that draws me toward a door floating at a perpendicular angle to my current orientation.

You'll have to jump,Mortimer warns.Trust the space to catch you.

"Easy for you to say," I mutter, but take the leap anyway.

The sensation of falling sideways is nauseating until suddenly it's not falling at all—it's standing on a new surface thatinsists it's always been the floor, that my previous orientation was the weird one.

The door is in front of me now, carved from wood so dark it seems to absorb light. Iron bands cross it in patterns that hurt to look at directly, and the handle is shaped like a fang.

Definitely Atticus's room.

Be careful,Mortimer warns.His trial will play on his nature—vampire impulses, ancient pride, the constant battle between control and hunger. You might not like what you find.

"I can handle it."

The conviction in my voice surprises me. But it's true—I've seen Atticus at his worst, blood-drunk and violent. I've seen him at his best, protective and devoted. Whatever lies beyond this door, it's still him.

"Besides," I add, hand on the fang-handle, "I have dragon fire now if things get too intense."

Mortimer's mental laughter is warm honey poured directly into my thoughts.

Please don't set Atticus on fire.

"No promises."

I turn the handle before I can lose my nerve.

The door swings open on silent hinges, revealing darkness so complete it makes the void between stars look bright.