Page 76 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

I see why immediately.

Cassius moves to stand directly in front of Nikolai, a wall of shadow and deadly intent. The protective gesture is deliberate,unmistakable. He's claiming Nikolai as under his protection, warning off threat before it can materialize.

But I know who approaches. Know why Nikolai has retreated into himself. Know exactly what memories are surfacing to destroy his hard-won peace.

Damien.

The memory crashes through me with enough force to trigger physical reaction.

I'm on my feet before conscious thought, protective fury transforming me from tired traveler to weapon aimed at threat.

He arranged it.

The mockery that became torment. The public humiliation designed not just to hurt but to destroy. The systematic destruction of someone whose only crime was existing in a form others couldn't accept. He orchestrated it all with the particular cruelty of those who find entertainment in others' agony.

And he hurt Nikki.

Not Nikolai—though the pain translates through both forms.He hurt the part of them that was already vulnerable, already questioning their right to exist. Turned uncertainty into shame, doubt into self-hatred, confusion into conviction that the world would be better without them in it.

The fury that rises in me has nothing to do with ancestral rage against Fae.This is personal.Protective. The particular rage that comes from seeing someone you care about threatened by someone who's already proven they'll follow through on implicit threats.

Zeke's eyes open slightly, feline attention finally drawn by the electric tension building in the air.

He watches me stomp forward, fury probably visible in every line of my body.

Cassius's tendrils catch me before I can close the distance, shadow-binding that's gentle but unmovable. He's protectingme from myself, from the consequences of attacking before understanding the full situation.

Damien stands at the head of his group with that same smug smile that makes me want to remove it along with the face it's attached to. He looks exactly as I remember—perfectly groomed despite the realm's hostility, clothes unmarked by trials that left us bloodied and exhausted. The particular pristine appearance of those who find ways around rather than through difficulty.

"Well, well, would you look at this," he declares, voice carrying the theatrical projection of someone who assumes everyone wants to hear them speak. "You guys managed to get down to the realm of the dead and burning. How coincidental."

The pronunciation makes my teeth ache.

Con-see-den-tay-ul.

Wrong on purpose, the kind of deliberate mispronunciation that's meant to seem charming but just reveals willful ignorance.

Atticus steps forward, vampire authority radiating from every movement.

"How did your lifeless ass even manage to get down here with your posse? Can’t you simply die or something?"

The insult is perfectly delivered—casual enough to seem unconsidered but cutting enough to draw blood.

Damien's smug expression flickers for a moment before reasserting itself.

He rolls his eyes with exaggerated exhaustion.

"Must I explain everything to those who can't keep up? Your royalty card must have expired since you clearly took the 'long' route down here."

He pauses for effect, clearly loving the sound of his own voice.

"Those of true royal heritage are guided down here. Obviously."

The superiority drips from every word like poison from a blade—sweet on the surface but corrosive beneath.

To prove his point, he snaps his fingers with the particular arrogance of those who've never had to work for anything.

My eyes widen as I realize who their guide is.