“Please, Miss Maleficent,” Headmaster Kirk begged, his voice cracking with desperation.
He was on his knees, groveling on the cold stone floor of the underground dungeon. Between him and the prisoner stood a wall of iron bars, glowing faintly with runes and pulsing with a low hum of contained magic. Sweat soaked his cravat, trailing down the collar of his pristine coat, which clung to his back from the damp air and panic.
Gripping the iron bars tightly, he pressed his forehead against them despite the flickers of magic biting into his skin. The faint sizzle of spell-infused electricity wracked his body, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t care. He was too consumed by anguish, by guilt, by the horror of what was unfolding in the three realms above.
Tears streamed from his reddened eyes, but
