"I finally understand why people go to war for power."
The statement lands in the silence that has descended—heavy, loaded, carrying implications that extend far beyond its surface meaning.
"Makes sense," I continue, letting my satisfaction color every word. "When you have the ability to create or dispel whatever you wish."
I watch her.
Watch her ancient features shift through confusion as she processes my words, as she tries to understand how circumstances have changed so dramatically without her noticing.
Then she looks past me.
Her attention shifts to something—someone—behind me, and I feel the moment her gaze lands on whatever she's seeing there.
An arm wraps around my waist from behind.
The touch is familiar—the particular grip of someone I've come to know through circumstances that forced intimacybefore we were ready for it. The arm pulls me back slightly, possessive in ways that feel protective rather than controlling.
Weight settles lightly on my right shoulder.
A head resting against me, seeking connection that has been denied for too long, finding comfort in contact that curses tried to prevent.
My grin grows.
I use my left hand to pet soft black hair—Damien'shair, restored to its proper texture, evidence that whatever transformation I triggered through our mental connection has reversed the hellhound curse at least temporarily.
My expression proves my point.
He's back.
Damien is back.
Human—or vampire, or whatever combination his nature provides—but back.
Standing behind me.
Alive.
Mine.
"Did you really think I'd leave my bonded mate behind for you to deliver to that cunt of a bitch?"
The question carries venom that I don't bother moderating—contempt for the woman who has apparently been manipulating us since the beginning, fury at the games that have cost lives and sanity and years that should have been spent differently.
Professor Eternalis frowns.
"I don't understand."
The admission carries confusion that seems genuine—bewilderment at circumstances that have escaped her prediction, uncertainty about a situation she apparently believed she controlled.
I sigh.
The sound carries exasperation that borders on theatrical—the particular frustration of someone who has been waiting for others to catch up to conclusions that seemed obvious in retrospect.
"You wouldn't understand," I agree, the words landing with weight that extends beyond simple acknowledgment. "You wouldn't understand that I've known who the real villain is in all of this."
My voice hardens.
"The one weaving these foolish trials and fake academy nonsense," I continue, accusation building with each word. "Declaring it's a vision of what my parents yearned for."
