I'm still ME.
My anger is ruthless.
Frustration that I can't speak translates into fury that this form eagerly amplifies. The hellhound's instincts don't distinguish between emotional sources—any intense feeling becomes fuel for the destruction that defines my current existence. I want to cry but only flames emerge. I want to plead but only roars escape.
I can't express.
Can't say the truth.
Can't make them understand that the monster they're abandoning still contains the man they knew.
That's probably the irony of all of this.
This whole journey, really.
Since she arrived at Wicked Academy, I sacrificed my voice to protect her in silence. Moved in shadows while she walked in light. Manipulated circumstances from positions she couldn't see, redirecting threats before she knew they existed. I did everything I could to shelter her from the machinations that were fighting to stack against her.
Even if it made me the villain.
Even if she hated me for years because I had to wear a mask that earned her contempt.
Even if the truth of my devotion remained hidden behind performances of enmity.
I gave up my voice long before this curse claimed it officially.
And this is the true end of that wickedness.
The final price of the path I chose.
Silence that has become permanent.
Protection that has transformed into prison.
I guess it really is the sacrifice made for redemption.
The thought carries the particular weight of acceptance that despair eventually produces. If this is my fate—if the cost of protecting Gwenievere through three years of Academy trials is eternal existence as a monster who can never explain why he did what he did—then so be it.
Better this than watching her die.
Better this than failing the mission I set for myself the moment I understood what Elena was planning.
Mortimer lands just inside the gates.
The dragon's massive form settles with the grace that his bloodline provides, wings folding against scaled sides that carry the others toward whatever comes next. They dismount with the particular urgency of people who want to put distance between themselves and the creature they're abandoning.
The others want to walk to Gwenievere.
I can see them trying—Cassius's shadows reaching toward her, Nikolai's body leaning in her direction, the pull of bonds demanding proximity that circumstances currently prevent. But she puts her hand up.
Stop.
The gesture carries authority that even bond mates don't argue with.
She looks over her shoulder.
Her attention turns toward me—toward the hellhound she trusted moments ago, the creature whose flames almost destroyed her, the monster who would have ended her existence if Professor Eternalis hadn't intervened with impossible speed.
I can't hear what's being said.
