Betrayal comes from those you trust.
Support comes from those you despise.
And sometimes the villain you've been fighting was never the real threat at all.
I begin to take steps backward.
The motion is deliberate—retreat that carries purpose rather than defeat, distance that serves strategy rather than surrender. Each step takes me further from where I was standing, closer to where I need to be for what comes next.
"Professor Eternalis."
My voice carries across the distance that separates us—clear, commanding, carrying authority that I've earned through three years of trials that she apparently designed to kill me.
The ancient being turns at the sound of her name.
"Let's head to Year Four."
The declaration lands with implications that make her ancient features shift through confusion before settling into something that might be surprise, might be approval, might be the particular satisfaction of someone whose plans are finally reaching fruition.
She looks over her shoulder toward where I'm standing.
"You'll abandon the hellhound?"
The question carries weight that extends beyond simple curiosity—evaluation disguised as inquiry, assessment hidden behind the appearance of concern.
I meet her gaze with the particular steadiness of someone who has made their decision and refuses to second-guess it.
"If I don't learn to harbor his power," I explain, voice carrying the particular cadence of reasoning that sounds logical because it's been designed to sound logical, "I'll be bringing him into another year where others will be at risk."
My attention shifts toward Damien's hellhound form—toward the creature he's become, toward the bond mate I'm apparently choosing to leave behind.
"He will be at risk too," I continue, building the case that serves my actual purpose. "This is a rest area. I can come back... eventually... when I learn how."
I pause, letting the implication settle.
"This will be the safest place for him."
My eyes find Professor Eternalis again with the particular sharpness of someone who expects compliance.
"You'll explain to us how, won't you?"
The question is barely a question—more expectation than inquiry, demand disguised as request.
She nods.
The gesture carries the particular acquiescence of someone who believes they're winning, who thinks their plans are unfolding exactly as intended, who doesn't realize that the prey they've been hunting has been stalking them in return.
She walks toward us.
Her ancient form moves across the volcanic landscape with the particular grace that millennia of existence apparently provide—unhurried despite the chaos surrounding her, composed despite the circumstances that should concern anyone with survival instincts.
The hellhound cries one last time.
The howl that escapes all three of Damien's heads carries grief so profound that it shatters something in my chest—pain that I can't address, sorrow that I can't comfort, the particular anguish of someone who believes they're being abandoned by the only person who might have saved them.
I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry.
