I let my hand drop from Damien's hair.
My finger rises to tap my temple—gesture that draws attention to the mind that has been processing information throughout our entire Academy experience.
"With rebirth comes clarity."
The statement carries weight that extends beyond simple philosophy.
"Which brought me to a beautiful field," I continue, remembering the vision that accompanied my temporary death, the glimpse of paradise that I experienced when my soul briefly separated from my body. "So wondrous and pure that I thought for sure I was in the afterlife."
The memory surfaces with the particular vividness of experiences that transcend ordinary perception.
"But then I realized," I say, voice softening with understanding that still feels new despite the certainty it carries. "It was a glimpse of what my parents wanted. A mere taste of what they sought for the Academy of Wickedness."
I pause, letting the revelation settle.
"Only they wanted me to realize that the wickedness isn't what we do to one another."
The words land with the weight of truths that reframe everything.
"It's theweedingof the wickedness embedded in our hearts by the trauma we've experienced."
My voice carries conviction that comes from genuine understanding rather than performed certainty.
"Sometimes predetermined," I continue, building the picture that my parents' vision painted. "Like having individuals tell you you're going to be worthless in your life. Or hurt you with spitting nonsense that you're useless and will never be as powerful as the gender you're born in."
The examples land with personal weight that I don't try to hide.
"Wickedness isn't born."
The statement carries the particular certainty of truths that explain everything that came before.
"It's raised and embodied like seeds," I explain. "Planted and waiting to grow until it's overflowing and bearing fruit that yearns to be eaten and devoured. Tainting all those who accept their hanging fruit."
Professor Eternalis's ancient features shift through expressions I can't fully read.
"What does this have to do with me?"
The question carries urgency that her usual composure doesn't permit—pressure building as lava drops onto her shoulder, molten rock burning through ancient flesh with the particular indifference of elements that don't care about age or power or the beings they're consuming.
Time is running out.
For her.
Not for us.
I turn my head.
Just enough to confirm what I already know—that Damien stands at my side, restored to a form that can communicate, can participate, can bepresentin ways that his hellhound nature didn't allow.
His eyes meet mine.
Mismatched.
One red—the vampire crimson that has always been part of his nature.
One burning orange—like the very lava spewing against the barrier across from us, like hellfire given permanent residence in his gaze, evidence that the curse hasn't been fully reversed, just... transformed.
He gives me a kiss.
