Page 37 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

The path to the Academy stretches before us, painted in shadows and possibilities.

I'm still scared. Still uncertain.

Still carrying memories that might not even be mine and hatred that definitely isn't.

But I'm not alone.

For now, that will have to be enough as we walk into the depths of this plague of wickedness…

That all started with Elena.

Revelations In The Shadows

~ATTICUS~

We've been walking for what feels like hours through this realm of living darkness.

The landscape shifts constantly—one moment we're traversing fields of crystallized shadow, the next we're navigating paths that seem carved from solid night. My position beside child Gwenivere has become natural, with Cassius flanking her other side like a matching bookend of protection.

Behind us, Zeke, Nikolai, and Mortimer maintain their own formation. I can hear their footsteps—Zeke's near-silent padding, Mortimer's measured stride, Nikolai's slightly irregular gait that speaks of exhaustion he won't admit.

"We should take a break," Zeke announces suddenly.

I pause mid-step, turning to assess our companions. The cat shifter's expression carries that particular certainty I've learned to trust—feline intuition rarely steers wrong.

"Tired already?" I ask, though the question lacks any real mockery. We've all been through hell, literally and figuratively.

Nikolai straightens his shoulders with visible effort. "I can go a bit longer."

"As can I," Mortimer agrees, though I catch the slight tremor in his voice. Dragon pride won't let him admit weakness easily.

But Zeke shakes his head, those extraordinary eyes focused elsewhere. "Look up."

We follow his gaze collectively, and I immediately see what prompted his concern. The barrier above us—that strange membrane between realms—sizzles with patterns that weren't there before. Energy discharges in irregular bursts, like lightning trying to form but failing.

"Why is it doing that?" I frown, looking to Zeke for answers. His knowledge of these strange phenomena has proven invaluable.

Instead of explaining, he simply tilts his head to his left. Following the gesture, I see what I should have noticed immediately.

Gwenivere's head bobs with each step, the universal motion of a child fighting sleep. Her small form sways slightly, caught between exhaustion and stubborn determination to keep moving. How did I miss this? The answer comes with uncomfortable clarity—I've been thinking of her as Gwenivere-in-small-form rather than acknowledging she's currently, functionally, a six-year-old child.

Children need rest. Need care. Need things we haven't been providing in our rush to reach the Academy.

She nearly stumbles, eyes fluttering closed before snapping open again. Cassius notices immediately, dropping to one knee beside her with fluid grace.

"Are you tired, Little Mouse?"

She blinks at him, confusion warring with obvious exhaustion in those too-large eyes. The irises still shift through impossible colors, but slower now, like a music box winding down.

"No," she insists, shaking her head with enough force to make her silver hair fan out. "Time is ticking. We need to?—"

A yawn interrupts her protest, tiny hand rising to cover her mouth. The gesture is so perfectly childlike it makes something in my chest constrict. When she rubs at her eyes with both fists, the image completes itself—exhausted child pushing past all limits because the adults haven't been paying attention.

Cassius doesn't hesitate. He scoops her up with careful efficiency, settling her against his shoulder with practiced ease that makes me wonder about his past. Has he held children before? Younger siblings in the Duskwalker realm? The thought brings unexpected jealousy—not of him, but of missing these moments of vulnerability with her.

"Why don't we walk," he suggests gently, "and you can rest your head for a bit?"

She huffs against his shoulder, the sound muffled by his jacket. "I'm not sleepy. My head is just heavy and needs to rest just a bit."