"Good." She looks past us to where Damien's group still stands frozen. "I have other matters to attend. Don't wander tonight—the grounds are still settling your arrival. They can be...aggressive toward new presences until properly introduced. You may follow me until you reach your designated spaces."
Designated spaces….
With that cryptic warning, she moves past us, encouraging us to follow swiftly unless we wish to be left behind.
"Well," Atticus finally says, "I think we can officially say Year Three is going to be different."
The understatement makes me laugh, though it comes out slightly hysterical.
As we begin walking toward our designated dormitory—the building that seems to breathe in rhythm with our approach—I can't shake the feeling that we haven't seen anything yet.
The real education begins now...or will there be newfound trials awaiting for our guards to be down?
Based on our introduction, it's going to be written in blood, delivered through violence, and graded on a scale where failure means more than death.
Welcome to Year Three indeed.
The Stairs Between Reality
~GWENIEVERE~
We follow Professor Eternalis through the Academy grounds, but something doesn't feel right.
The sensation creeps in gradually, like fog at the edges of vision that you don't notice until it's already surrounding you.
At first, I attribute it to exhaustion—we've been through trials that would break most people, witnessed casual execution, entered a year of education that promises to redefine everything we thought we knew about survival.
But this is different.
The structures around us aren't... stable.
One moment, I'm looking at a building that breathes with its own life—walls expanding and contracting in rhythm that matches no heartbeat I recognize. The architecture is impossible but solid, defying physics while maintaining presence that makes my teeth ache with proximity to power.
Then I blink.
The same building is burning…
Not on fire—burning. As if the structure itself is made of flame given form, each brick a coal, each window a portal into inferno that shouldn't exist but does. The heat washes over mein waves that make sweat bead instantly on skin, then evaporate before it can fall.
Another blink.
The building is normal again.
If 'normal' can apply to architecture that shouldn't be able to stand but does through will alone.
I wonder if it's just me experiencing this disconnect. Maybe the trials have damaged something fundamental in how I perceive reality. Or transforming between child and adult, between singular and shared existence with Gabriel, has left cracks in my consciousness that let other possibilities leak through.
A hand slips into mine.
The touch makes me flinch—I'd been so absorbed in watching reality flicker that I'd forgotten I wasn't alone. Atticus's fingers intertwine with mine, his grip cool and steady in a way that should be grounding but somehow emphasizes how ungrounded everything else feels.
He leans close, vampire grace making the movement seem casual rather than concerned.
"What's wrong?"
His whisper carries directly to my ear, too quiet for others to overhear but weighted with genuine worry. We share a look—his crimson eyes searching mine for answers I'm not sure I have.
Behind us, I can hear Cassius and Nikolai walking together. Their footsteps are synchronized without trying, the particular rhythm of those who've learned to move as unit through necessity. Further back, Mortimer and Zeke discuss something about the Academy's architecture—their voices a low murmur of scholarly observation mixed with feline certainty.
