Page 57 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

"I guess... once I experienced what it feels like to be ridiculed and shamed without anyone to stand up and save you from turmoil, did I realize how painful it can really be."

His smile attempts genuineness this time, though tears continue their steady progression.

"If the Academy has a gift shop, I'll get you a gift as apology. A cute teddy bear or something, even if we're in this oddly wicked world."

The absurdity of the statement—a gift shop in the Infernal Academy—makes me want to laugh and cry simultaneously.

He strokes my head once more, then gently encourages: "Go back to sleep with Cassius. You need rest."

He turns to lie down, clearly ending our conversation with the kind of finality that suggests he needs to be alone with his thoughts.

I walk slowly back toward Cassius, but can't help looking over my shoulder.

Nikolai lies on his side, hands wiping at tears that won't stop falling. The sight makes my chest ache—this Fae prince who was full of pride and power, now seeming so brittle and sad. As if he's watched his whole world be taken away in a heartbeat and only just realized it might have been empty all along.

A poke to my cheek interrupts my observation.

One of Cassius's shadow tendrils hovers beside me, and somehow—impossibly—it's holding something. A blanket that seems woven from elemental darkness itself, shadow given substance and form. It should be wrong, but when I take it in my small hands, it's softer than wool. Heavier than it appears, but warm in a way that has nothing to do with temperature.

I look at the tendril, then at Cassius. He appears deeply asleep, but I know better. This is his way of helping without intruding—assistance offered through proxy so neither Nikolai nor I have to acknowledge its source.

I nod to the tendril in thanks, then begin the arduous task of carrying the blanket to Nikolai. It's almost comically large compared to my child-form, dragging behind me like a cape made of night.

But determination makes up for what size lacks.

Nikolai stills when I drape it over him—muscles tensing with surprise before deliberately relaxing. I pat it into position withthe particular focus children bring to important tasks, making sure it covers him properly, that no cold can creep through gaps.

Then, decision made, I climb beneath it and snuggle against his side.

"When I'm sad," I explain, my voice muffled by the shadow-blanket, "I hide under my blanket and cry because it hides my emotions from the rest of the world. So only I get to be sad and no one else will see why."

I look up to see his tear-stricken face—this man who seems to wish to live despite a world that rejects his existence at every turn.

"So cry all you want," I tell him, trying to make my voice stern despite its childish pitch. "And I'll hug you... just this once... since you did apologize."

I pout to show this is a special dispensation, not a new normal.

Then I wrap my small arms around him as best I can, offering comfort that transcends the inadequacy of my reach.

"I forgive you, Nikolai," I whisper against his shoulder. "So don't be sad anymore."

His arms come around me carefully—neutral, respectful, acknowledging the gift being offered without taking more than given.

"Thank you, little Solstice."

We stay like that as his tears continue to fall—two broken people offering comfort neither knows how to fully accept. The shadow-blanket holds us in darkness that feels like safety, like privacy, like permission to be vulnerable without witness.

I feel him shake with sobs he's probably held back for years. Feel the way his body wants to curl inward, but doesn't because I'm here, requiring space. Feel the moment when exhaustion finally wins and his breathing evens into sleep's rhythm.

Only then do I let myself think about what this means.

The anger I've carried—it's still there. The ancestral rage against the Fae burns in my blood, probably always will. But maybe Nikolai isn't the target. Maybe he never was. Maybe he's just another casualty of prophecies spoken by those who should have stayed silent, of destinies decided before we could choose our own.

Gabriel saved him tonight.

My brother—who I'm only beginning to know as separate from myself—chose to save someone our shared body instinctively rejects. That has to mean something. Has to point toward possibilities we haven't imagined yet.

The mark on my neck pulses gently—Cassius's mark, reminding me of bonds that transcend current circumstance. But I wonder now about other marks, other connections. About what it means that Gabriel bears Nikolai's mark when Nikki wears mine.