Page 115 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

"We're not fighting," they say in unison, which would be more convincing if they weren't still sizing each other up like predators deciding if the effort of combat is worth the prize.

"We're... assessing," Atticus finishes.

"Evaluating," Mortimer agrees.

"Measuring," Atticus adds with a smirk that shows just a hint of fang.

"Oh my gods, stop," I interrupt before this devolves into increasingly obvious innuendo. "Mortimer, explain the plan while I still have patience for you both."

Mortimer shifts into scholarly mode, though the effect is somewhat undermined by his current appearance. It's hard to take someone seriously as an academic when they look like they should be on the cover of a romance novel titled "The Dragon's Desire" or something equally ridiculous.

"You'll need to seek the remaining companions on your own," he explains, moving toward a floating book that opens itself to reveal what looks like a map that keeps rewriting itself. "In the meantime, Atticus needs to rest. That blood loss was significant, and he'll need to be at full strength when everyone is retrieved."

"The labyrinth will get more aggressive as you collect more people," he continues, golden eyes serious despite his otherwise distracting appearance. "It doesn't want to release us—it feeds on isolation, on keeping us trapped in our own mental loops."

Atticus nods, sinking onto the bed with visible relief at being able to rest.

"Be careful," he tells me, reaching out to catch my hand. "But don't hesitate to call for us if you need help. We'll find a way to reach you, heartbeat or not."

The reference to vampire speed makes me smile.

I lean down to kiss him, gentle but thorough, tasting my own blood still on his lips.

"I'll be back with Cassius," I promise. "I have a feeling he's next."

As I move toward the door, Atticus calls out.

"Wait."

He holds out his hand, and shadows gather in his palm—but not his shadows. These are smaller, more playful, carrying the particular energy of something that exists between life and death for fun rather than purpose.

"Grim!"

The tiny reaper materializes with his characteristic "GREE!" sound, tiny scythe spinning in excitement at being summoned. He immediately floats toward me, orbiting my head like a particularly morbid satellite.

"So you're not truly alone," Atticus explains, and the thoughtfulness of it makes my chest tight.

"I'll provide guidance as well," Mortimer adds, tapping his temple. "Mental connection remains stable as long as you don't enter another trial space. I can help navigate, warn of dangers, generally be annoying in your thoughts."

"You're already annoying in my thoughts," I tease, but blow him a kiss to soften it.

Both men watch me leave with expressions that suggest they'd rather be going with me, but we all understand the nature of these trials. Some things have to be faced alone, even when you're never truly alone anymore.

The labyrinth greets me with its impossible architecture, more aggressive now as Mortimer predicted. Stairs build themselves under my feet only to dissolve the moment I step off them. Doors appear in walls that weren't there seconds ago, leading to rooms that exist in dimensions I can't name.

Grim proves surprisingly helpful, his tiny form zipping ahead to check paths, returning with excited "GREE!"s when he finds something interesting or warning "gree..."s when danger lurks.

Turn left at the intersection of astronomy and alchemy,Mortimer guides, his mental voice warm with dragon fire.There's something... odd ahead. Not Cassius, but significant.

The pull isn't toward any of my bonds but something else—a resonance that makes my chest ache with recognition I don't understand. I follow it against better judgment, drawn by instinct older than memory.

The door is different from the others.

Smaller, for one thing. Painted bright yellow with hand-drawn flowers that look like a child's artwork. The handle is lower than standard, positioned for someone much shorter than adult height.

I push it open carefully, Grim hovering at my shoulder with unusual wariness.

The room beyond is a nursery.