Page 25 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

"You're not going to stay by my side," she declares with six-year-old certainty, "so why should I help you out?"

The accusation hits unexpectedly hard. Not because it's true, but because it reveals hurt deeper than any physical wound.

"Why do you believe I wouldn't stay by your side?" I ask instead of defending. Questions often work better than statements with the wounded.

"No one ever stays." The words emerge flat. Factual. As if she's stating that water is wet or fire burns. "It's always been that way."

The weight of that certainty—the crushing acceptance in such a young voice—makes something in my chest constrict. How many betrayals does it take to forge such armor? How many abandonments before a soul simply stops expecting anything else?

I shake my head slowly, deliberately. "I'm here for you, aren't I?"

She frowns, but curiosity flickers through the defensive walls. Children are curious by nature. Even ancient children wearing young faces.

I make a calculated decision. Spreading my arms wide, I make myself vulnerable in this space where vulnerability could mean annihilation. "I have nowhere to go. These trials were a test in the beginning, yes. But I'm here to help you seek what you need."

Her head tilts. The motion is perfectly childlike yet carries weight of ages. Watching. Evaluating. Judging.

"So the real question is," I continue, maintaining eye contact with those shifting rainbow depths, "what do you desire?"

The silence stretches. In the suspended darkness, I can hear my own heartbeat. Can feel my shadows breathing in rhythm with hers. Can taste the moment balanced on a knife's edge between salvation and damnation.

When she finally speaks, her voice is smaller. Younger. As if my question stripped away layers of defense to reveal something raw beneath.

"Freedom from Wickedness."

Three words. Simple. Devastating.

I don't understand—not fully. But understanding isn't required. Only action.

"Then show me," I say, nodding slowly. "Show me how I can help you discover freedom from wickedness. If that's what I need to do to prove my loyalty to you... so be it."

Something changes.

The mark at my neck—her mark, burned into my essence during our first blood exchange—suddenly flares with warmth. Not painful butalive, pulsing with renewed connection.

Her eyes widen as her own mark responds, glowing through the thin fabric of her shirt. We share a look of mutual surprise. The bonds we've formed aren't just magical constructs—they're deeper. They recognize each other across forms, across realms, across whatever divide currently separates us.

She walks toward me.

Each step is deliberate despite her small legs. The darkness parts for her, creating a path that exists only as long as her feet need it. Her hair flows behind like a silver river, never quite touching the void we inhabit.

When she stops, she has to crane her neck to look up at me. The height difference should make her seem vulnerable. Instead, I feel like I'm the one being measured.

Up close, I can see details impossible to notice from a distance. Flecks of starlight caught in her impossible eyes. The way her markings aren't just glowing butbreathing, expanding and contracting with her heartbeat. The faint scent of moonflowers and copper that clings to her—Gwenivere's scent translated into something more primal.

She extends one small hand. The gesture is formal despite her apparent age. An offer. A test. A bridge.

"Show me, Little Mouse." I use the nickname deliberately, watching her reaction. Something flickers across her features—surprise, warmth, recognition. "Show me who's been wicked to what's mine."

Deep in those shifting depths, I see it. A glimmer of hope so fragile it might shatter at a harsh word. But it's there. Real. Possible.

I take her hand.

Her fingers are tiny in my grasp, but her grip carries strength that has nothing to do with physical force. The moment our skin touches, the marks on both our necks blaze with synchronized light.

She squeezes my hand—gentle, testing. I squeeze back—firm, reassuring.

"Hold tight," she whispers, and despite her child's voice, I hear echoes of the woman I held this morning. The woman I've sworn to protect. The woman whose complexities continue to unfold like some infinite origami.