I'll have to return to Faerie.
I'll have to face the King who wanted me into existence.
I'll have to decide whether ruling a kingdom under such a feign of leadership is truly worth the cost of compliance.
The thoughts spiral with the particular intensity of issues too long suppressed finally demanding attention. Maybe that's why Wicked Academy was created—not simply to train beings in magic and survival, but to force recognition of truths we'd rather ignore. To make us realize that wickedness exists among us in forms we don't want to acknowledge.
It's not simply an awakened trait born from trauma and mayhem.
It's there from the beginning.
Woven into the fabric of our existences by those who created us, by circumstances we didn't choose, by expectations we can never fully meet.
Her hand touches mine.
The contact pulls me from spiraling thoughts with force that feels almost physical—anchor thrown into stormy waters, lifeline extended to someone drowning in depths they created themselves. Her fingers are warm against my skin, carrying the particular heat that speaks to Fae magic now flowing through her hybrid veins.
But it's her eyes that truly arrest me.
Those impossible pink and gold irises meet mine with intensity that suggests she can see right through me—past the masks I've cultivated for centuries, past the defenses I've constructed against exactly this kind of vulnerability, past everything I've built to protect myself from the pain of being truly known.
"Nikolai." Her voice is soft, carrying concern that makes my throat tight. "Are you okay?"
Am I okay?
The question deserves consideration beyond reflexive deflection.
I think about it.
Long.
Hard.
Examining the hollowness in my chest with the clinical attention of someone assessing wounds they've been ignoring. Cataloging the ache that has lived behind my sternum since waking, the emptiness that fills spaces where Nikki's presence used to reside, the particular grief that comes from losing parts of yourself you didn't know you possessed.
The truth is...
I'm not okay.
The admission arrives with weight that threatens to break whatever composure I've maintained through this conversation.
I'm not okay at all.
My heart hurts.
Aches with the particular pain of loss that can't be reversed or remedied.
Feels broken in ways that might never fully heal.
The grief has been living in my chest like an uninvited guest, taking up residence in spaces I didn't know existed until they were filled with sorrow. Every breath carries its weight. Every heartbeat acknowledges its presence. Every moment of consciousness includes awareness of the emptiness where Nikki used to be.
It feels like my heart has been left in a field of frost.
The metaphor surfaces with the particular clarity of images that capture truth better than literal description.
Frozen landscape where nothing grows.
Ice that preserves the ache rather than numbing it.
