Fragments Of Truth
~ATTICUS~
"Gwenievere is stable."
The words land in the tense silence like stones dropped into still water, sending ripples of something that might be relief through my chest—if I allowed myself the luxury of such an emotion.
Professor Eternalis stands before us with the kind of composed authority that makes even immortal beings want to sit straighter. Her presence fills the medical chamber in ways that transcend simple physicality—an aura of ancient power that presses against the edges of my awareness like a hand resting against frosted glass. The walls of the chamber pulse with soft bioluminescence, veins of magical energy threading through obsidian stone, their rhythm syncing with the steady beep of whatever arcane machinery monitors Gwenievere's vitals.
My gaze finds her immediately.
Gwenievere.
She lies in a crystalline chamber at the room's center, suspended in viscous fluid that glows with opalescent light. The liquid catches the ambient illumination and scatters it into a thousand fractured rainbows across her pale skin, making her appear less like a woman and more like something divine—agoddess caught between sleep and death, awaiting worship or awakening with equal patience.
The incantations that crawl across her flesh pulse with steady rhythm, golden symbols writhing in patterns that suggest life rather than stasis. Her silver hair floats around her face in ethereal waves, catching currents in the preservation fluid, and even unconscious, evenbroken, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Mine.
The possessive thought surges through me before I can temper it.
Ours,I correct, acknowledging the bonds that tie her to the others scattered throughout this room—men I once called rivals, enemies, obstacles to be overcome. Men who have somehow become something closer to brothers through the crucible of loving the same impossible woman.
"She will need a few days in the chamber to stabilize her energy levels," Professor Eternalis continues, her voice carrying undertones that suggest this is both reassurance and warning. "The faint spells should subside once her reserves have had time to replenish."
My hands clench at my sides, crimson energy flickering beneath my skin in response to emotions I refuse to name.
"Why is that happening to begin with?" The question tears from my throat with more aggression than intended—but I've never been particularly skilled at tempering myself when she's involved. "She drank blood from us, and it didn't do much at all because she passed outagain."
The frustration in my voice isn't directed at anyone specific, though the room's other occupants might interpret it differently. It's directed at the situation itself—at watching the woman I love collapse repeatedly while I stand helpless, my blood apparentlyinsufficient to sustain her, my power useless against whatever is draining her essence.
We're supposed to be her strength.
Her anchors.
What good are we if our blood can't even keep her conscious?
A huff of derision cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
Prince Yoshiro—Prince Douche, as we've collectively decided to call him—leans against the far wall with his arms crossed, those impossible eyes glittering with amusement that makes me want to rip his throat out. His features shift in the chamber's uncertain light, sometimes appearing sharp and aristocratic, other times soft and almost playful, never settling into anything I can definitively identify. The wrongness of him scratches at my vampire senses like nails on slate.
"Well, what would you expect," he drawls, his tone carrying the kind of nonchalance that suggests he finds our ignorance personally entertaining, "when asolehybrid unlocks the final layer of an academy that's been vanquished for centuries, and her soul is the key to unlocking the gates of Wicked Academy's freedom?"
He says it like it's obvious.
Like we're children who've failed to grasp basic arithmetic.
Like the fate of our bond mate should be common knowledge that somehow escaped our notice while we were busybleedingfor her.
The silence that follows his declaration is absolute.
Damien's jaw clenches hard enough that I can hear teeth grinding from across the room. Mortimer's scholarly composure fractures around the edges, revealing glimpses of the dragon fire that always burns beneath his careful exterior. Zeke's feline stillness takes on a predatory quality, frost crystallizingalong his fingertips in response to tension he's not consciously controlling.
And Cassius?—
Gods, Cassius.
The Duskwalker's shadow tendrils have multiplied exponentially since the prince began speaking, dark appendages coiling and uncoiling with agitation that suggests violence barely contained. They weave through the air around him like living things, some extending toward Prince Douche with obvious hostile intent, others curving protectively around the space where Gwenievere's chamber sits. The darkness they exude isn't the comfortable shadow of moonless nights—it's something deeper, something that exists in the spaces between stars, something that remembers the void before creation itself.
