I walk.
The corridor branches and reconnects in patterns that suggest architectural design by someone who valued aesthetic over efficiency. Doorways appear at irregular intervals—some marked with symbols I don't recognize, others bearing words in languages that might be ancient Infernal or might be something else entirely. The bioluminescence continues throughout, veins of soft light threading through walls and floor and ceiling, casting everything in that same blue-white glow that makes shadows seem deeper than they should be.
It's not until I catch the smell that everything changes.
Steak.
The aroma hits with a force that makes my stomach growl so loudly it echoes off the walls.
Perfectly seared steak.
With something like rosemary and garlic and butter and?—
My mouth floods with saliva as hunger transforms from abstract discomfort to urgent, consumingneed. The scent is incredible—rich and savory and everything the disappointing blood pack failed to be. It speaks to appetites beyond vampire hunger, promises satisfaction that extends past simple sustenance into genuine pleasure.
Where is it coming from?
I follow the smell like a predator tracking prey, instincts overriding caution as my body demands attention to its needs. The corridor turns, branches, turns again, and the aroma grows stronger with each step—joined now by other scents that make my hunger sharpen into something almost painful.
Fresh bread.
Something sweet, maybe a dessert.
Wine, rich and aged.
More meat—multiple preparations, different flavors layered over each other in complexity that suggests a professional kitchen or something close to it.
My stomach commits what feels like the opening salvo of world war three.
The growl that emerges from my abdomen is genuinely embarrassing—loud enough that anyone within several rooms would hear it, aggressive enough that it sounds like an actual threat rather than simple biological function.
I huff at my own body's betrayal and continue forward.
The path leads me to a door marked with a single word:Library.
A library that smells like a five-star restaurant.
Sure. Why not. Nothing about this place makes conventional sense anyway.
I press against the door, easing it open with the particular caution of someone who has learned to expect surprises behind every threshold.
The scent that floods through the gap is overwhelming.
If the corridor carried hints of the feast beyond, the actual room delivers the full symphony. Every savory note, every sweet undertone, every complex layer of professional cooking—it all crashes into my senses with force that makes my knees weak. The space smells like a Fae celebration feast, like the kind of meal I've never actually experienced but have heard described in tones of reverent nostalgia by those who remember the old courts.
I peer through the opening.
And my breath catches.
The library is exactly what its name suggests—shelves stretching toward a ceiling lost in darkness, books bound in leather and magic and materials I can't identify, scrolls and tomes and artifacts scattered across surfaces with the particular organization of someone who knows exactly where everything is despite the apparent chaos.
But dominating the center of the space, impossible to ignore, is atable.
A massive table laden with more food than I've seen in one place since arriving at Wicked Academy.
Platters of perfectly prepared meats—steaks still steaming, roasted fowl glistening with juices, cuts I don't recognize but that make my mouth water regardless. Bowls of vegetables roasted to caramelized perfection. Fresh bread in varieties ranging from crusty sourdough to soft, pillowy rolls. Cheeses arranged like artwork, fruits that seem to glow with internal light, desserts that look too beautiful to eat but that my stomach insists I devour immediately.
And at the far end of the table, seated with the particular posture of someone who has been waiting for exactly this moment, is a figure I recognize.
