Page 11 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

Unraveling Reality Of The Betrayed

~NIKOLAI~

T he massive dorm suite stretches before us, its opulent grandeur a sharp contrast to the absolute chaos swirling in my mind. Gilded fixtures catch the late afternoon light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting dancing patterns across marble floors that probably cost more than some small kingdoms.

Any other time, I might appreciate the extravagance—the way ancient magic hums through the very walls, how each piece of furniture seems crafted not just with skill but with power woven into its very essence.

But right now, all I can focus on is the foreign weight on my chest, the way my center of gravity has shifted, how even my magic feels... different.

My golden aura, usually a constant companion flowing around me like sunlight given form, now moves with altered purpose. It swirls and eddies in unfamiliar patterns, responding to emotional currents I'm only beginning to understand. The change isn't just physical—it's fundamental, as if some core aspect of my being has shifted on an atomic level.

Professor Eternalis's words echo through my mind:

"Year Two reveals truths rather than imposes falsehoods. What appears as transformation may simply be revelation of what always existed beneath convenient facades."

The implications make my head spin.

As a Fae royal, I've spent centuries learning to control every aspect of my presentation. Each gesture, each word, each flicker of power carefully calibrated to project exactly what others expect to see. But this transformation strips away those careful facades, leaving me raw and exposed in ways I never anticipated.

My fingers clench into fists, nails — longer now, more delicate — digging into my palms. The pain helps ground me, but it doesn't silence the storm of questions raging through my thoughts.

If this is about revealing truth, then what truth lies in my current female form? Gabriel's situation makes sense — he's actually Gwenivere, a woman hiding behind carefully crafted glamour to infiltrate an all-male academy. But me? What hidden aspect of myself could possibly explain this transformation?

Unless...

The thought sends a chill down my spine.

In Fae culture, gender has always been more...fluid than in other realms. Our true forms often transcend simple binary classification, though we usually maintain whatever presentation feels most natural. But I've never felt any disconnect with my male form, never questioned my identity in that way.

Have I?

The nagging headache intensifies as I try to sort through centuries of memories, looking for any sign I might have missed.

Any hint that this transformation was more revelation than random magical effect. My mind races through countless court appearances, diplomatic missions, the careful dance of power and presentation that has defined my existence.

Had there been moments, subtle signs that this aspect of myself existed beneath the surface? Times when the strict masculine role of Fae heir felt more like a costume than my true nature?

The questions pile up, each one bringing fresh waves of uncertainty.

A movement catches my eye — Gabriel shifting restlessly near one of the suite's many archways. He looks pale, exhaustion evident in the shadows beneath his eyes and the slight tremor in his hands. The sight of him sends another kind of pain through my chest, remembering how he'd suffered during the trial while we were forced to watch.

While I was forced to watch.

The memory of his pain, his isolation during those moments, claws at my insides. The bond mark pulses beneath my skin, a constant reminder of connections forged and promises made.

Promises that circumstances forced us to break, even if only temporarily.

As a male, it’s so easy to suppress my emotions. To coil them up like a hidden present that must be concealed, knowing that I’ll have to confront its existence in the midst of the night when the world is asleep and I’m wide awake, lost in the tumbling pile of thoughts that would assault me through my insomnia.

As a female, however, everything is far different. Harder to conceal and contain. It’s almost overwhelming to admit, realizing how vulnerable I feel and understanding that the actions I did prior to us being thrown into the trial that locked in Year Two makes me want to puke in disgust.

Disgust in my own behavior.

Lack of interference leading to the implications that unraveled before everyone in that cafeteria.

Despite being a villain in Gwenivere’s eyes, Cassius knew the true implications of our inability to interfere.

The blackmail behind it all…

Yet, we never had the chance to confront the situation.

No…we did…but my pride took over.

I’m coming to realize that my pride and ego hidden behind walls of perfection in impending royalty makes me hide my true emotions that I feel Gwenivere has earned in experiencing the raw truth behind the masked wall I project to the rest of the world.

At least before I fucked it all up.

Acting on instinct, I reach for his hand, needing to bridge this sudden distance between us. The bond mark urges connection, reassurance , anything to ease the obvious strain he's under.

My golden aura reaches out instinctively, seeking to wrap around him in familiar comfort.

He jerks away from my touch as if burned.

I don’t know why the movement angers me. Makes me feel like I’ve been rejected. I shouldn’t care if he wants his space all of a sudden.

But it does…

Enough for me to say something.

"What the fuck?"

The words escape before I can stop them, my voice higher now but carrying the same aristocratic inflection it always has. The rejection stings more than it should, a sharp pain that has nothing to do with physical transformation.

Gabriel gives me a sidelong look that freezes the blood in my veins. Gone is the warmth I'd grown accustomed to seeing in those eyes. The expression that sought for us to be equals in this true game of survival and wickedness.

Instead, they hold something colder, harder—like fortress walls built too high to scale. The sight reminds me of how he looked in those first days at the academy, before bonds and intimacy complicated everything.

"I don't get why you're trying to reach out as if things are supposed to go back to normal just because we survived the trial," he says, each word precise and cutting. The bond mark aches at his tone, responding to the pain beneath his careful control.

I start to argue, to explain, to try and bridge whatever chasm has opened between us. The words pile up behind my teeth—explanations about point systems and survival and choices that felt impossible in the moment.

But before I can voice any of it, Cassius steps forward, somehow radiating both authority and concern despite his usual stoic demeanor.

"Are you tired?" he asks Gabriel directly, shadows writhing with barely contained agitation. The way his darkness moves betrays his worry more than his expression ever could.

Gabriel's frown deepens, but he remains silent as Cassius approaches with careful deliberation.

When the Duskwalker prince reaches to press his hand against Gabriel's forehead, our companion tries to flinch back—only to collide with the shadowy being that's materialized behind him.

"You don't need to sandwich me like that," Gabriel grumbles, though the usual fire in his voice sounds dampened, almost slurred. The weakness in his tone sets off warning bells in my mind.

Cassius's lips twitch slightly.

"I could have just held you down with my tendrils," he points out, "but maybe that wouldn't be good with an audience."

The comment makes Gabriel cringe, but I notice how he doesn't pull away from Cassius's touch this time. Something in my chest tightens — jealousy maybe — though whether at Gabriel accepting Cassius's concern or at Cassius being able to offer it so freely, I'm not sure.

My new form makes these emotions feel sharper somehow, as if the transformation has stripped away some barrier between feeling and experiencing.

Everything seems to cut deeper, resonate stronger.

"You have a fever," Cassius announces, concern sharpening his usually controlled tone. His shadows coil tighter, responding to his worry.

"I'll drink some water," Gabriel dismisses with a weak wave of his hand. "Maybe have some blood in the morning. Too fucking tired right now to do much of anything."

The casual mention of blood needs sends another spike of guilt through me.

How long has it been since he fed properly? The trials and their aftermath have left little time for basic necessities, and we all know Gabriel's particular requirements when it comes to blood consumption.

He needs to drink from one of us. Packets still won’t do…and now he’s not simply bonded to me and Cassius.

I briefly look to Atticus, our new “companion,” whom we still don’t know enough about, where exactly he came from and his past.

Or how he is even connected to Gwenivere.

They clearly have a strong enough relationship based on how they performed in the trials. He acted as if she was some sort of lover, his self-sacrificing tendencies like a puppy desperate to return to its owner.

He turns away, clearly intending to find his room and collapse, but something's wrong. His movements lack their usual grace, steps uncertain as if the floor keeps shifting beneath his feet.

The sight triggers memories of how he looked after Damien's "prank" in the cafeteria — disoriented, vulnerable in ways that made my heart ache.

We all watch in stunned silence as he walks directly into a wall.

Oh shit…

The impact isn't hard — more of a confused bump than a collision — but the way he steps back and glares at the obstruction as if it's personally offended him would be comical under different circumstances.

He turns, probably aiming for another doorway, only to walk straight into a different wall with considerably more force.

The silence in the suite grows heavier as Gabriel stands there, clearly trying to process what just happened. My hand rises instinctively, golden aura gathering as if to guide him, but I force myself to wait.

After everything that's happened, my help might not be welcome.

When he spins around to return to our group, my heart leaps into my throat as he manages to find yet another wall to crash into. At this point, we’re either all hallucinating, or a wall just appeared out of nowhere for him to crash into.

The impact sounds painful this time, solid enough to make even Mortimer wince from his position near the kitchen area.

This impact proves too much for his clearly compromised balance.

As he starts to fall backward, my body moves on instinct—but Atticus is faster. He appears in a blur of vampire speed, catching Gabriel before he can hit the ground.

My fingers clench again, nails drawing blood this time as I watch Atticus cradle Gabriel with such careful precision. The protectiveness in his crimson eyes makes my chest ache with recognition.

He looks at Gabriel the same way I’d want to if I was allowed.

The same way Cassius does when no one is looking...

Like she's everything.

The realization settles heavily in my stomach as I stand here in this transformed body, watching the aftermath of choices we all made.

Choices that led us here, to this moment of reckoning where nothing is quite what it seems — not our forms, not our bonds, not even the very nature of what we've become to each other.

My gaze drifts to the windows again, taking in the way afternoon light paints everything in soft gold.

The massive suite suddenly feels too small, too confined for all the unspoken things hanging in the air between us. The silence is even more deafening, but I don’t want to be the first to break it.

Not when it seems like I’m some sort of enemy in Gwenivere’s story.

Mortimer moves with surprising grace for someone typically so bookish, crouching down beside where Atticus cradles Gabriel. His pale eyes narrow with scholarly focus as he examines our collapsed companion.

"He needs rest," Mortimer states, though something in his tone suggests there's more to come. "Though I'd like to try snapping him out of being Gabriel first."

"Why?" Atticus demands, his arms tightening protectively around Gabriel's unconscious form. The gesture speaks volumes about their connection—one I'm still struggling to understand or accept.

Mortimer adjusts his glasses, a habit I've noticed he uses when preparing to deliver potentially controversial information. I’m only now realizing he’s wearing them again, since they were absent after his return shift back from his dragon moment.

"The trial heavily manipulated the magical elements in Gwenivere," he explains carefully. "I noticed when I pulled her out of her physical body into a temporary space so I could perform that trick while you were all attempting the blood prison."

The casual mention of such complex magic makes me pause.

My new form doesn't diminish centuries of magical knowledge—if anything, this transformation seems to have heightened my sensitivity to magical theory.

"How did you even notice that?" I challenge, my higher-pitched voice carrying notes of suspicion. "To delve into such a personal layer of review would require physical connection. That shouldn't have been possible when you were in dragon form and possessed."

A slight smile tugs at Mortimer's lips — the kind that always makes me want to punch him, regardless of what form I'm in.

"I'm rather knowledgeable outside of the battlefield," he says with infuriating calm. "Though I seemed to easily clam up in the last trial."

"Shut up," I snap, golden aura flaring with irritation. "I had a lot on my mind and couldn't perform to my best."

"And if it wasn't for me," Mortimer counters smoothly, "the trial would have ended in defeat and your bonded Queen dead."

The words hit like physical blows, but pride makes me strike back.

"She's not my mate," I declare, though the bond mark burns in protest at the denial.

Atticus's laugh cuts through the tension—a dark, knowing sound that sets my teeth on edge.

"You're fully bonded with her," he states, crimson eyes gleaming with something dangerous. "Why would you allow that if you're now going to deny it like some sort of lost fool who doesn't know how good he’s got it?"

My magic surges with newfound volatility, responding to emotions that feel sharper, more immediate in this female form.

"Where the fuck did you even come from?" I demand. "What right do you even fucking have when you're not bonded with her?"

His smile turns predatory.

"Maybe you should check for the double bonding mark on Gabriel's body instead of talking shit," he suggests with lethal sweetness. "Especially in that female form that is nowhere near attractive, by the way."

The insult shouldn't sting—I'm a Fae royal, centuries old and far above such petty jabs. But something about this new form makes everything feel raw, unfiltered.

"If you're just in love with Gwenivere," I snarl, "the only female you probably ever had the chance to have a relationship with because you're so fucking distasteful, you can just say that instead of trying to insult me as though I'm some insecure bitch."

"You have to be insecure in that form," he counters, never losing that infuriating smile, "or else you wouldn't be so threatened at the idea of being rejected by Gabriel who's clearly fine with Cassius and me, but doesn't want to be near 'her' aka you."

The words strike deeper than they should, touching fears I haven't even had time to process about this transformation.

About what it means for my relationships, my identity, my place in all of this.

Before I can form a suitable retort, Mortimer snaps his fingers. The sound carries power—pure, undiluted magical force that ripples outward in a visible wave. We all flinch as it passes through us, the energy feeling like static electricity against skin.

When I open my eyes, the first thing I notice is that Gabriel's form has shifted. Gwenivere lies unconscious in Atticus's arms, her silver hair spilling over his forearm like liquid moonlight.

The sight makes my heart stutter, but that's not the only change.

"Was this really necessary?" Cassius groans, the sound drawing my attention—and then freezing me in place.

Where the stoic Duskwalker prince once stood, a woman now commands the space.

The transformation hasn't diminished the aura of lethal grace that always surrounds him, but everything else has shifted. His usually sharp jawline has softened into elegant curves, while his silver eyes seem larger, more striking against feminine features.

Even his shadows move differently, curling around a form that somehow maintains its deadly precision despite the dramatic change.

The sight sends an odd ripple of recognition through me—seeing another prince transformed this way makes my own situation feel simultaneously less isolating and more real.

My gaze drifts to Atticus, expecting to find him similarly altered, only to stop short.

He remains completely unchanged.

"How the hell aren't you affected?" I demand, my voice carrying that higher pitch I still haven't adjusted to. The unfairness of it burns—why should he alone remain stable while the rest of us navigate these impossible transformations?

Mortimer glances at Cassius, something like an apology crossing his scholarly features.

"Sorry about that," he murmurs before snapping his fingers. The magic ripples again, and Cassius returns to his male form with enviable ease.

"Why wasn't I changed back to Nikolai?" I ask, lifting my hands in exasperation. The gesture feels wrong—too fluid, too graceful in ways my male form never moved.

Each reminder of this transformation sends fresh waves of uncertainty through me.

Mortimer shrugs, though his eyes carry that analytical gleam that usually precedes uncomfortable revelations.

"If my spell…which is centuries old, mind you…didn't work on you but affected Cassius, it proves this transformation is Wicked Academy's doing."

"Similar to when we first met Gwenivere in male form," Cassius observes, his shadows coiling thoughtfully. The comparison makes my stomach clench — Gabriel's glamour was intentional, a means to an end.

Or maybe it wasn’t and she’d been telling the truth?

This feels more like the academy rewriting my very essence.

Mortimer nods before turning to Atticus.

"Take her to bed," he encourages, gesturing toward Gwenivere's unconscious form.

The vampire moves with predatory grace, lifting her as if she weighs nothing.

Something in my chest constricts watching him carry her into one of the master bedrooms—the intimacy of the gesture, the obvious comfort between them, sets off waves of emotions I'm still learning to process in this form.

By the time we follow them into the room, Atticus has already changed her clothes and apparently cleaned her up—her silver white hair lies across the pillow in nearly-dry waves, skin free of the day's ordeals. The efficiency of it all feels like another slight, another way he's proving his connection to her runs deeper than we realized.

"Did you just shower and change her in the time it took us to walk down a hallway?" I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice. The idea of him handling her so intimately, even with practical intentions, makes something hot and uncomfortable curl in my stomach.

I won’t dare admit the off chance I’m jealous…because I’m not.

I’m confident that I’m the better option, despite this road block.

Am I even an option when she doesn’t want to be near me…then again, this is my fault. I haven’t properly apologized yet either. I need to…but…fuck.

I don’t want to do it in this form.

Then again, I may not have a damn choice in the matter.

Atticus shrugs, the gesture carrying centuries of casual confidence.

"What would knowing that do for you?" he asks, crimson eyes meeting mine with clear challenge.

"You piece of shit," I hiss, golden aura flaring with newfound volatility. These female emotions feel sharper somehow, harder to control—or maybe that's just another convenient excuse for feelings I've never learned to properly process.

His lips curve into that infuriating smirk.

"I'm not threatened by you," he states simply, "whether male or female, to be blunt."

The casual dismissal makes me want to show him exactly how threatening I can be, regardless of form.

I start forward, magic gathering with intent, but Cassius's shadowy companion suddenly manifests between us. The being's hollow eyes somehow manage to convey stern warning despite their emptiness.

"Why don't we talk outside?" Cassius suggests, his tone making it less question and more command. "We have a lot to discuss."

We exchange looks — Atticus with his insufferable confidence, Mortimer radiating scholarly curiosity, and me still struggling to reconcile this new reality where even my own magic responds differently.

The weight of everything we need to address hangs heavy in the air: transformations, bonds, betrayals both real and perceived, and whatever consequences our trial victory might bring.

My gaze drifts back to Gwenivere's sleeping form.

She looks peaceful now, the strain of recent events smoothed from her features by unconsciousness. The bond mark pulses gently, responding to her proximity even in this altered form.

What will she think when she wakes to find me like this as a potentially permanent situation until we get through Year Two?

The thought sends fresh anxiety coursing through me.

Will this transformation affect our connection? Change how she sees me?

We've barely had time to explore what exists between us, and now everything's shifted again. Such fears and uncertainties also feel foolish of me when I’ve obviously fucked up.

I have to fix shit…but how? What opportunity will I have?

Swallowing the lump forming in my throat, I ignore the heaviness of dread rushing through me, wondering in the depths of my mind, is this how Gwenivere normally feels?

The burden of these constantly changing emotions or the overwhelming wonder of whether you’re doing something right or wrong.

The others are already moving toward the door, clearly ready to hash out whatever revelations and accusations await. I linger a moment longer, watching the steady rise and fall of Gwenivere's chest.

In sleep, she looks like exactly what she is — a woman of impossible strength who's survived more than anyone should have to. Someone who fought her way into our lives out of chance and changed everything, whether we were ready for it or not.

And now I stand here in this female form, facing changes I never anticipated, wondering if I'm strong enough to weather the obvious storm brewing upon the horizon.

"Coming?" Cassius calls softly from the doorway, his shadows reaching toward me in what might be comfort or concern.

I straighten my shoulders, trying to find that royal bearing that's served me for centuries. It feels different in this body—not wrong exactly, but like instrument strings tuned to a new key.

"Yes," I answer, turning away from Gwenivere's sleeping form.

I can’t let these minor challenges stop me. I'll face them as I've faced everything else in my centuries of existence. Despite this, I have a throne to claim, and that will require me returning to my roots.

Even if I have to do it in a form I never expected to wear.