Page 14 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

Whispers Of Truth In Wilted Fields

~GWENIVERE~

T he meadow stretches before me, endless and dreamlike, yet something is wrong.

Where vibrant colors should bloom, decay has taken hold.

Flowers — once magnificent in their beauty — now wilt beneath a sky that seems unable to decide between dusk and dawn. Petals fall in slow motion, their withering forms traced with veins of corruption that pulse with sickening familiarity.

Each step I take disturbs more dying blooms, releasing particles that float upward like dark snow in reverse. They cling to my skin, leaving trails of ashen residue that burn slightly before fading into my flesh.

The sensation isn't painful exactly, but carries warning — as if my body recognizes something my mind hasn't yet comprehended.

The air tastes wrong, carrying metallic traces that remind me of blood, yet sweeter. More ancient somehow, like sampling history itself. I breathe it in regardless, each inhalation sending tendrils of awareness through my system that sharpen my perception of this strange dreamscape.

This isn't an ordinary dream.

The realization comes with certainty that defies explanation. Something about the weight of the soil beneath my feet, the way the decaying petals seem to whisper as they fall, speaks of magic beyond mere subconscious wandering.

A flash of movement in the distance catches my attention.

My heart recognizes her before my mind can process the implications — making the beating organ in my chest constrict in agony.

Elena.

My sister stands amid the field of dying flowers, her slender form a stark contrast to the decay surrounding her. Even from this distance, I can see that she's wearing the same white nightgown she's worn since falling ill — the simple cotton garment now hanging loosely on her frame, emphasizing how much weight she's lost to her mysterious ailment.

"Elena!" I call, my voice sounding both too loud and impossibly distant in this strange space.

Without conscious thought, I begin running toward her, feet carrying me across the withering meadow with desperate speed. Each stride crushes more decaying blooms beneath my feet, releasing clouds of ash that trail behind me like a mourner's veil.

My sister turns slowly at the sound of my voice, her movements carrying the careful deliberation of someone conserving precious energy. The sight sends a pang through my chest — how many times have I witnessed that same measured motion at her bedside, her body too weak for sudden movements?

As I draw closer, details emerge with heartbreaking clarity. Her face, once full of vibrant joy, now appears gaunt, cheekbones too prominent beneath translucent skin. Dark circles shadow eyes that used to sparkle with mischief. Her hair — the same silver-white as my own — hangs limply around her shoulders, lacking the luster I remember from before her illness took hold.

Yet despite these changes, she smiles when she sees me. That smile – unchanged despite everything else she's lost — sends another ache through my heart, fiercer than the first.

"Gwenivere," she says, her voice carrying the same ethereal quality as our surroundings. My name in her mouth sounds like a spell, like something precious held between cupped palms.

I reach her — or try to.

Three feet from where Elena stands, I collide with something invisible but impenetrable. The barrier yields just enough to absorb the impact without injury, then firms again, an unyielding wall between us. I press my palms against it, feeling smooth resistance like glass warmed by sunlight.

"No," I whisper, frustration building as I push harder against the unseen boundary. "Elena, I'm right here. I'm so close."

My sister watches my struggle with sad understanding, making no move to approach the barrier from her side. Perhaps she already knows its nature, has already tested its limits and accepted what I'm only now discovering.

"I've missed you," she says simply, those three words carrying the weight of months spent apart while I searched for the chalice that might save her.

"I've missed you too," I respond, throat tight with emotions I can't fully process in this dreamlike state. "I'm sorry I've been gone so long. But I'm making progress… I'm at Wicked Academy now, working to find the chalice."

I hesitate, suddenly aware of how little I've accomplished toward my original goal.

Days have stretched into what feels like weeks, and I'm no closer to locating the artifact that brought me to the academy's walls. Instead, I've become entangled in bonds and trials, in survival and politics, in a game whose rules I still don't fully understand.

"I've been distracted," I admit, the confession painful but necessary. "Having to maintain my persona as Gabriel, male version of me…trying to survive the trials... it's been challenging. But we've made it through to Year Two now. I promise I'll focus on finding the chalice. I'll bring it back to you. I'll make you well again."

The words pour out in a desperate rush, as if saying them aloud might somehow make up for lost time, for objectives temporarily set aside in favor of immediate survival.

Elena tilts her head slightly, her expression softening into something between affection and pity. The look sends another pang through my chest — I don't want her pity . I want to be her savior, her protector. The sister who finds a way when all others have failed.

"You're so selfless to do all that," she says gently, her voice barely carrying across the space between us. "But you don't remember the real purpose of entering Wicked Academy, do you?"

I frown, confusion replacing some of my desperation.

"What do you mean? My goal was always to retrieve the chalice and save you from the disease plaguing you. That's why I infiltrated the academy in the first place." The statement feels like bedrock, the foundation upon which I've built every decision since receiving news of her worsening condition.

Yet even as I speak, something tugs at the edges of my certainty — a whisper of doubt I can't quite silence.

Elena looks back at me, smiling sadly, seeming impossibly pale and weak in the strange half-light of this decaying meadow.

The sight makes my heart ache anew, fueling my determination to break through this barrier, to reach her, to somehow fix everything that's gone wrong.

I slam my fist against the invisible wall, frustration giving way to desperation.

"I'll work even harder," I promise, the words emerging as both pledge and prayer. "I'll find the chalice faster. I'll bring it to you before---"

The thought remains unfinished, my mind refusing to acknowledge what my heart fears most: that time is running out . That each day I spend navigating Wicked Academy's trials and politics is another day Elena grows weaker, another day the disease tightens its grip on her fragile form.

Elena shakes her head slowly, the movement careful and measured like everything else about her now.

"When flowers are destined to wilt, all they have is time on their side," she says, voice carrying unexpected strength despite her frail appearance. "You have a bigger purpose, Gwenivere. The chalice is simply the catalyst missing to reveal the true purpose in the heart of the wicked."

Her words carry weight beyond their surface meaning, resonating through me with uncomfortable familiarity.

Have I heard this before?

The thought flickers through my mind, elusive as smoke, gone before I can grasp its significance.

"Discover the legend," Elena continues, each word seeming to echo across the dying meadow. "Unravel the different realms, and cut through the illusion they're so desperate to ensure you remain lost in."

The flowers around her feet begin to fade, not just dying but becoming translucent, as if reality itself is thinning around her. I press harder against the barrier, panic rising as I sense our time together drawing to a close.

"Those you've encountered and made bonds with will further aid you along your journey," she says, her own form starting to shimmer with the same translucency affecting the flowers. "Follow the path of the wicked, and pay mercy to the cat that will crave your company. It will lead you to the next step towards your salvation and allow you to remember what you've obviously forgotten."

"Elena, wait!" I cry out, both palms flat against the barrier now. "What are you talking about? What have I forgotten?"

But she's already beginning to fade, her outline blurring at the edges like watercolors left in rain. The sight sends fresh waves of panic through me, my fists pounding against the invisible wall with renewed desperation.

"Hold on!" I beg, each impact against the barrier sending ripples of resistance through my arms. "When I wake up, I'll return immediately. I'll bring the chalice. Just hold on a little longer, please!"

Elena's smile turns impossibly tender, full of love and something else — a knowledge or acceptance that makes my chest ache with foreboding. She lifts one translucent hand in farewell, already more ghost than person, more memory than present reality.

"Remember..." she whispers, the word traveling across the barrier even as she fades from view. "Remember who you...Gabe…rem…"

The rest is lost as both she and the meadow dissolve into cascading particles of light, the dreamscape collapsing around me like a theater set at the end of its final performance.

I reach out, trying to grasp even one of those fading motes of light, as if capturing it might somehow preserve this connection. But my fingers close on emptiness, on the absence left when something precious is torn away too soon.

Darkness rushes in, filling the void left by the meadow's dissolution. It sweeps over me like a tide, not malevolent but inevitable, carrying me away from this strange place of wilting flowers and half-truths.

I try to call Elena's name one more time, but the darkness swallows the sound before it can form.

Hold on. I'll find the chalice. I'll save you.

I promise.

The thought follows me through the gathering shadows, a mantra against forgetting, against failure, against the growing certainty that something essential remains just beyond my understanding.

The darkness thickens, becoming almost tangible, pressing against me from all sides. For one disorienting moment, I feel suspended between worlds --- neither fully in the dream nor fully awake, caught in the liminal space where reality's rules lose their hold.

Then, with jarring suddenness, the darkness shatters.

I bolt upright with a gasp, my consciousness hurled back into my physical body with force that leaves me disoriented. Sweat coats my skin, plastering fabric against my trembling form as I struggle to orient myself in this sudden return to wakefulness.

Elena. The barrier. The wilting flowers.

The dream images remain vivid, refusing to fade like ordinary nightmares. Each detail stands out with unnatural clarity, as if witnessed with all senses rather than merely imagined.

My heartbeat thunders in my chest, each pulse sending blood rushing in my ears with deafening force. I draw in deep, shuddering breaths, trying to calm the panic still coursing through my system.

Remember what you've forgotten.

The words echo in my mind, carrying Elena's voice with perfect fidelity.

But what has been forgotten? What purpose beyond finding the chalice could possibly matter when my sister's life hangs in the balance?

I press the heels of my palms against my eyes, trying to force clarity through physical pressure. The gesture does nothing to organize my chaotic thoughts or silence the questions multiplying with each passing second.

Discover the legend. Unravel the different realms. Cut through the illusion.

Cryptic instructions that feel simultaneously vital and impossible to interpret. The frustration of it tightens my chest, making each breath a conscious effort.

The room around me slowly comes into focus as my eyes adjust to the darkness. Unfamiliar surroundings register gradually — this isn't Damien's chambers where I first arrived, nor the shared space I'd briefly occupied with Cassius and Nikolai.

Where am I again?

It takes a long moment for things to come back to me, the trials that lead to us walking into Year Two, and the various challenges that ended up being victorious enough for us to arrive at the gates of this new found part of Wicked Academy.

In Faerie no less…

This must be our new accommodations in Year Two, though my racing mind can't recall how I got here or when I lost consciousness. The last clear memory I have is of the trial's conclusion, of Year One completion, of transformations and revelations that seemed impossible to process through exhaustion's heavy fog.

What happened after that?

The question forms just as I become aware of another presence in the room — the subtle shift in air currents that speaks of someone breathing nearby. I tense instinctively, hand moving toward the knife I habitually keep beneath my pillow, only to find empty space where the weapon should be.

Defenseless in unknown territory.

The thought sends fresh adrenaline coursing through my system, sharpening senses already heightened by dream-panic. I scan the darkness, seeking the source of that subtle presence while keeping my own breathing carefully controlled.

There.

A shadow darker than the surrounding gloom is positioned near the room's far wall. Not moving, not threatening, but undeniably present and watching.

Who...?

I tense, muscles coiling in preparation for whatever confrontation might come. In this unfamiliar territory, I'm acutely aware of my vulnerability — no weapons close at hand, no clear escape routes memorized.

Just me and my magic against whatever waits in the darkness.

Before I can gather my power to strike, the shadow moves — not toward me as I feared, but upward. It detaches from the wall, hovering midair like a fragment of night-given independence from its greater whole.

"GREE!"

The cheerful sound breaks the tension like sunlight through storm clouds. I freeze, relief washing through me in dizzying waves as recognition dawns.

Mini Grim floats toward me, his tiny skull-like visage somehow conveying joy despite its fixed features. Hollow eyes gleam with unmistakable delight as he rides a small cloud of darkness across the room.

"Grim!" I exclaim in a hushed squeal, immediately extending my hands to offer him a landing platform. The tension drains from my body, replaced by warmth that feels almost childlike in its purity. "You scared me half to death, you little terror."

He settles onto my outstretched palms, his miniature form light as a feather yet somehow carrying the comforting weight of familiarity. The shadowy essence comprising his being feels cool against my skin, like dipping my fingers into evening air.

"I missed you," I admit, smiling down at his tiny form. "And thank you for what you did during the trials. I don't think I would have survived without your help."

Grim preens at the praise, his skull tilting in what I've come to recognize as his version of pleasure. The sight makes me smile wider, grateful for this moment of normalcy amid so much confusion.

My body reminds me of more practical concerns as the adrenaline fades, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Despite the bone-deep weariness, I feel the need to at least visit the washroom before attempting to sleep again.

I take a curious sniff at myself, expecting the unpleasant aftermath of our trials — sweat and grime and whatever else we'd endured.

Instead, I'm met with the clean scent of lavender and something citrusy, as if I'd recently bathed.

"Did I shower already?" I wonder aloud, genuinely confused by this evidence of care I don't remember providing for myself. "I must have been more out of it than I realized."

Grim floats up from my palms, his tiny head shaking in negation. He hovers before me, darkness swirling around his form as he concentrates.

The shadows expand, taking shape with surprising detail — a miniature cloud of darkness crowned with vampire fangs.

"Atticus?" I guess, watching Grim nod enthusiastically in confirmation.

The realization that Atticus tended to me while I was unconscious should probably feel intrusive, but instead, it brings a strange comfort. The image of him caring enough to ensure my comfort, to see to basic needs I couldn't manage in my exhausted state, warms something in my chest that had gone cold during the trials.

"Well, I appreciate that," I tell Grim, smiling at the thought. "Though I should still probably use the washroom. Care to wait for me?"

Grim performs a tiny somersault in apparent agreement, then settles onto my shoulder like a peculiar pet. His weight is barely noticeable, but his presence feels like an anchor amid all the uncertainty pressing in from every side.

The moment I reach the bathroom door, he floats in wait, following my previous request.

“Thank you,” I share my gratitude feeling like he’s a mini guardian now in this newfound place. I know it’s still “Wicked Academy” but it does feel like whole new territory, especially when unexplored.

I make my way to the adjoining bathroom, taking the opportunity to truly look at my surroundings for the first time. The bedroom itself is surprisingly spacious, decorated with elegant furnishings that speak of wealth without crossing into ostentation. The color scheme leans toward rich earth tones with occasional accents of deep purple — a combination that feels simultaneously grounding and mysterious.

After relieving myself, I pause before the mirror, studying my reflection with critical assessment. My face shows signs of the stress we've endured — slight shadows beneath my eyes, a tenseness around my mouth that wasn't there before. Yet there's something else too — a subtle shift in my features that's difficult to pinpoint.

Have I changed?

The question forms as I lean closer, studying the silver depths of my eyes, the curve of my cheekbones, and the set of my jaw. Nothing obvious, yet something feels fundamentally altered as if the trials have rewritten something beneath the visible layers of my being.

Odd…I feel as if I’m slightly more balanced. But that doesn’t make much sense, does it?

Shaking off the unsettling thought, I return to the bedroom and look for something more comfortable to wear. The male pajamas currently clinging to my form feel restrictive, a physical reminder of the constraints I've been operating under since infiltrating the academy.

I locate a dress shirt in a nearby wardrobe — soft fabric in a deep blue that feels cool and pleasant against my fingertips. The garment is clearly designed for someone larger than me, but that only makes it more appealing as sleepwear. I change quickly, relishing the airy freedom the oversized shirt provides compared to the confining pajamas.

Though exhaustion still weighs heavily on me and hunger nags at the edges of my awareness, I feel restless. The dream of Elena — so vivid, so urgent — has left me too agitated for immediate sleep despite my body's demands for rest.

"Shall we see if any of the others are awake?" I ask Grim, who bobs in what I interpret as agreement.

He returns to his perch on my shoulder as I move toward the door, steps quiet against plush carpeting. The hallway beyond my room is dimly lit, with soft golden illumination providing just enough visibility to navigate without disturbing those who might be sleeping.

I pause at a large window, drawn by the vista spread beyond the glass.

Outside, Wicked Academy's Year Two domain stretches in breathtaking grandeur — towering spires and elegant arches forming a landscape more akin to art than architecture. The structures seem to glow with subtle inner light despite the darkness, suggesting night still holds sway over this new realm.

Faerie.

The realization settles like a weight in my chest. We're truly in Faerie now, evident in the impossible beauty of the structures and the way even darkness here seems to shimmer with potential magic.

The implications of this transition remain to be seen, but instinct warns that challenges in this realm will differ fundamentally from those we faced in Year One.

Finding the living room empty of occupants, I continue my quiet exploration, eventually making my way to the kitchen. The space is impressive — gleaming countertops and state-of-the-art appliances integrated seamlessly with design elements that whisper ancient magic.

Thirst draws me to the sink, where I fill a glass with water that tastes sweeter and more vibrant than any I've encountered before.

The simple act of drinking feels rejuvenating as if the water itself carries subtle enchantment.

As the glass empties, exhaustion returns in a heavy wave, my shoulders slumping beneath its weight. Perhaps now sleep will come more easily, the immediate needs of my body addressed and the sharp edges of the dream somewhat dulled by wakefulness.

I'm about to return to my room when movement catches the corner of my eye — a slight shift in the ambient light spilling from a partially open door down the hall. Curiosity overrides weariness, drawing me toward the source like a moth to a flame.

Approaching quietly, I peer through the narrow opening, careful not to disturb whoever might be inside. The sight that greets me is so unexpected, so utterly incongruous with everything I know of its creator, that for a moment I simply stare in disbelief.

Cassius sits perched on a window sill across the room, his head resting against the glass, eyes closed in apparent slumber. But it's not his sleeping form that captures my attention — it's what's happening in the center of the room.

Shadow tendrils extend from his unconscious form, dancing with surprising grace around an easel positioned near the bed. These living extensions of darkness hold brushes that move with deliberate precision across a canvas, each stroke applying pigments that seem to glow with inner light. The brushes themselves appear magical, their tips shimmering with essence that shifts and changes with each application to the painting's surface.

And what a painting it is.

The canvas reveals an image that steals my breath — a portrait divided diagonally, two halves representing starkly different aspects of a single subject.

Me.

One half depicts Gabriel in all his masculine precision, a crown of light adorning his head as he gazes upward, features set in solemn determination. The background behind him glows with warm tones — oranges, reds, and golds that speak of fire and transformation. His stance suggests oath-taking, a sacred pledge made before unnamed witnesses.

The other half shows Gwenivere — my true self — adorned with a crown of flowers unlike any I've seen in the mortal realm. Dark blooms with petals that seem almost metallic, their centers pulsing with subtle luminescence.

This version of me gazes not upward but outward as if seeing beyond normal perception into realms hidden from ordinary sight. The colors surrounding her form trend cooler — midnight blues, deep purples, and silvery greens creating an atmosphere of mystery and potential.

The craftsmanship is breathtaking, far beyond what I would have expected from the stoic Duskwalker prince. Each brushstroke carries precision that speaks of centuries of practice, yet the emotional resonance of the piece suggests something deeper than mere technical skill.

Is this how he sees me?

The question forms unbidden, sending an odd flutter through my chest. This duality captured with such care, such understanding — as if he perceives not just my physical forms but the essence that connects them.

I enter the room with careful steps, mesmerized by the ongoing creation. The shadow tendrils pause momentarily at my presence, seeming to sense the intrusion despite Cassius remaining asleep.

I freeze, holding my breath, worried I've somehow disrupted this unconscious artistry.

Instead of retreating, one tendril detaches from the artistic endeavor, rising upward in a graceful arc before approaching me. It moves with deliberate gentleness, lightly patting my head in greeting before nudging Grim's miniature form in apparent recognition.

My little shadow being on my shoulder offers a muted "Gree!" in response, the sound barely audible yet carrying obvious delight.

The tendril then gestures toward the bed, patting the surface in clear invitation. The movement carries such unexpected hospitality that I find myself smiling despite my exhaustion. Even unconscious, operating through extensions of his shadow self, Cassius manages to surprise me with these glimpses of consideration that contradict his typically aloof demeanor.

Deciding not to fight the invitation, I cross to the bed and settle against its plush surface. I grab a pillow to cuddle against my chest, making myself comfortable as I continue watching the magical creation unfold. The shadow tendrils resume their work, brushes moving in hypnotic patterns across the canvas to add further depth and detail to the already stunning portrait.

The sight is fascinating — not just the painting itself, but the process of its creation. These extensions of Cassius's unconscious mind seem to work with purpose and vision as if accessing artistic skill he keeps carefully hidden during waking hours. I wonder how many other talents and aspects of himself he conceals beneath that carefully maintained stoicism.

The sounds of the brushstrokes carry their own soothing rhythm — soft whispers of bristles against the canvas, occasional clicks as brushes exchange pigments, and the barely perceptible hum of magic infusing each application of color. Combined with the peaceful atmosphere of the room and the comfortable embrace of the bed, the effect is powerfully soporific.

I fight against heavy eyelids, wanting to witness more of this unexpected glimpse into Cassius's hidden depths. But exhaustion proves stronger than curiosity.

The last thing I register before drifting off is the gentle shadow of one tendril adjusting a blanket over my form, the gesture carrying unexpected tenderness from one who presents himself as anything but gentle to the outside world.

Peace settles over me like a physical weight, drawing me down into slumber unmarred by wilting flowers or cryptic messages.

Just darkness, warm and welcoming, offering respite from the questions that await in waking hours.