Page 19 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

Morning Adjustments In The Faerie

~GWENIVERE~

T he new uniform fits me perfectly, which is both impressive and slightly unnerving.

I examine my reflection in the full-length mirror, turning to assess how the tailored black blazer accentuates my natural curves while maintaining a professional silhouette.

The golden embroidery along the lapels catches light with subtle shimmer, intricate patterns that suggest ancient runes woven into seemingly decorative design. The matching skirt falls to just above my knees, the pleated fabric moving with surprising fluidity despite its structured appearance.

Even the white blouse beneath the blazer feels custom-made, the material simultaneously crisp and comfortable against my skin. The royal purple tie adds the perfect accent, the color somehow enhancing the silver of my hair rather than clashing with it.

The entire ensemble screams elite education, paranormal prestige wrapped in deceptively mundane packaging. If normal humans glimpsed this uniform, they'd simply see expensive private school attire.

Only those with magical sensitivity would notice the subtle enchantments woven into every thread, protection and enhancement spells layered with such delicate precision that they're nearly undetectable.

I'm enjoying the rare privilege of wearing this uniform in my true feminine form, knowing that once I step beyond our dorm's threshold, Mortimer's clever warding will automatically trigger my transformation back to Gabriel.

The scholar's magic has proven both practical and surprisingly considerate.

"The wards not only protect us from potential threats or unexpected academy challenges," Mortimer had explained yesterday while showing us the intricate magical architecture surrounding our living space, "but they're also designed to conserve energy within these walls. Hence your automatic reversion to your natural form upon entering, Gwenivere."

The thoughtfulness behind this design touches me more than I care to admit.

After spending so much time and magical energy maintaining Gabriel's form, the ability to simply exist as myself within our shared space feels like unexpected luxury. The constant strain of holding a glamour — even one I've grown accustomed to — takes a subtle toll that becomes obvious only in its absence.

Yesterday had passed in a blur of much-needed rest. Despite obvious curiosity about the trial's aftermath and Year Two implications, everyone had respected my need for recovery.

Even Nikolai — correction, Nikki — had refrained from prodding for explanations or planning sessions. The unspoken agreement that strategy could wait until proper restoration had been achieved spoke volumes about how our dynamics have evolved.

Besides, as Atticus had pointed out with characteristic directness, planning might prove pointless given Year Two's unpredictable nature.

We could face immediate trials like those that dominated Year One, or experience something entirely different — regular classes, standard academic progression, challenges that build gradually rather than exploding upon arrival.

"Everything is very swift-paced in Wicked Academy," Mortimer had warned during one of my brief periods of wakefulness. "Time isn't foolishly wasted in paranormal realms."

His expression had grown thoughtful then, scholarly assessment replacing casual observation.

"That said, Faerie operates differently. Time moves significantly slower here compared to the upper world. We could spend what feels like a few short days attending classes as normal elite students, while above, time speeds by at alarming rate."

The implication hadn't escaped me — slower time might feel like blessing for us, but for Elena, whose condition worsens with each passing day, this temporal distortion could prove catastrophic.

The memory of her dream appearance, increasingly frail and translucent, sends fresh anxiety coursing through my system.

I had shared that dream with the others once I'd managed sufficient coherence, describing the withering flowers, the barrier between us, Elena's cryptic messages about "revealing the true purpose in the heart of the wicked" and "unraveling different realms."

Though I'd struggled with recalling certain details — especially something she'd mentioned near the end, possibly related to my shifting between forms.

"I could prepare a memory-enhancing remedy," Mortimer had offered with characteristic academic interest. "Something to help recover those missing fragments."

I'd declined, unwilling to waste his scholarly magic on what might be inconsequential dream details unless absolutely necessary. The chalice remains my priority — finding it, understanding its properties, using it to save Elena before time runs out.

A gentle knock at my bedroom door pulls me from these reflections.

"Breakfast is ready," Cassius's voice carries through the wood, his tone carrying that subtle warmth reserved exclusively for private moments. "Mortimer says we should discuss class schedules before departure."

"Coming," I call back, giving my reflection one final assessment before turning away.

The uniform really does look good .

I decide with faint satisfaction.

For all their faults, Wicked Academy's designers understand aesthetics that balance power with elegance. The overall effect manages to be both authoritative and subtly feminine — a combination I appreciate more than expected.

The hallway leading to our shared living area carries the same opulent aesthetic as my personal quarters, rich carpeting muffling my footsteps as I make my way toward the kitchen.

Morning light streams through strategically placed windows, illuminating artwork I hadn't noticed during yesterday's exhaustion-blurred observations.

Landscapes of impossible beauty line the walls — vistas that couldn't exist in mundane reality yet feel hauntingly familiar. Mountain ranges where peaks split to reveal star-filled skies despite daylight surroundings.

Forests where trees bear fruits that glow with internal luminescence. Oceans whose waters shift between liquid and crystalline states in rhythmic pulses.

Faerie realms.

I realize with sudden certainty.

These aren't merely artistic imaginings but accurate depictions of territories within this dimension. The recognition carries weight beyond mere observation — knowledge that settles into my awareness with unnerving familiarity.

As if I've seen these places before, though I know that's impossible.

Voices drift from the kitchen ahead, conversation carrying notes of casual banter that suggest topics less serious than academy challenges or world-altering revelations.

The normalcy of it — just roommates sharing a morning meal and conversation — sends unexpected warmth through my chest.

For all the chaos and danger surrounding us, these moments of ordinary connection feel precious in their simplicity. Breakfast shared between people navigating complex relationships and extraordinary circumstances, yet still finding room for laughter and mundane discussion.

The kitchen itself defies ordinary description, combining practical functionality with aesthetic elegance that would make professional chefs envious.

Gleaming countertops of some material resembling marble but subtly iridescent stretch across one wall, while state-of-the-art appliances hum with quiet efficiency. The central island provides both workspace and casual dining area, surrounded by comfortable stools currently occupied by my unusual companions.

They're all dressed in variations of the same Year Two uniform, though each outfit manages to reflect individual personalities despite standardized design. The sight of them gathered together, unified by matching attire yet distinctly themselves, creates a tableau that momentarily stops me in the doorway.

Cassius occupies a stool nearest the window, silver eyes catching morning light in ways that make them almost luminous. His uniform looks painted on rather than tailored, the precise fit emphasizing lean muscle and perfect posture that speaks of royal upbringing despite his casual pose. The shadows surrounding him seem more settled today, less agitated than I've grown accustomed to witnessing.

Nikki sits opposite him, golden-red hair cascading down her back in waves that catch sunlight like living flame. Her uniform has been subtly modified to better accommodate her transformed feminine form, the changes so seamless they appear intentional rather than adaptive.

Despite her apparent comfort in this altered state, occasional flickers of frustration cross her features when movements don't align with lifelong muscle memory.

Atticus lounges with casual grace that manages to make even the academy uniform look dangerously fashionable. He's added subtle personal touches — silver cufflinks shaped like ancient runes, a watch whose face reveals astronomical configurations rather than mere time.

His crimson eyes track my entrance immediately, lips curving in subtle appreciation that makes heat rise to my cheeks despite my best efforts at composure.

The most startling transformation belongs to Mortimer.

The scholarly "pet dragon" has undergone dramatic aesthetic shift that momentarily makes me question whether some other student has infiltrated our quarters. His usually practical, somewhat rumpled appearance has been replaced by immaculate styling that takes years off his apparent age.

His dark hair, typically left to its own devices in academic disregard for appearance, has been expertly arranged in a style that sweeps back from his forehead with deliberate precision.

The look emphasizes cheekbones I hadn't properly registered before, creating a more youthful impression that's both striking and slightly disorienting.

Most notable is his blazer, which differs significantly from our standard issue. The material appears similar, but additional design elements mark it as belonging to a different classification — upperclassmen status evidenced through intricate embroidery surrounding the academy emblem.

The combination of black leather with silk outlining in gold and royal purple creates striking visual impact, while subtle detailing along cuffs and collar appears to be actual gold thread.

Fourteen karat at minimum .

I estimate, remembering Elena's fascination with metallurgy and her insistence on teaching me to recognize quality at a glance.

I've apparently been staring longer than realized, because Nikki's voice cuts through my assessment with teasing precision.

"How long are you going to stare at Mortimer before you just accept this oddly 'younger' dress-up outlook of him?" she asks, amusement coloring her tone despite the slight edge that seems a permanent fixture of her speech since transformation.

Blood rushes to my cheeks at being caught so blatantly studying our scholarly companion.

"He looks pretty good for an old guy dressing up as a youngling," I retort, the words emerging before proper consideration.

Feeling immediately defensive, I add with mock sweetness.

"Though you could try to look younger than a whore."

The gasps around the table are immediate and gratifying. Nikki's jaw drops in perfect indignation, golden eyes widening with shock that quickly morphs into outrage. Cassius chokes mid-sip on his tea, one hand rising to cover his mouth while his shoulders shake with what might be suppressed laughter or genuine surprise at my audacity.

Atticus has the most dramatic reaction, coffee spraying from his nose in undignified spray that completely undermines his usual composed demeanor. He coughs violently, crimson eyes watering as he struggles to recover both breath and dignity.

Mortimer's expression shifts through several emotions in rapid succession before settling on something between professional disapproval and personal amusement.

The slight cough he uses to cover what's clearly suppressed laughter only partially succeeds in maintaining scholarly decorum.

The most delightful reaction comes from Mini Grim, perched comfortably on my shoulder throughout my approach.

The tiny shadow being's skull face somehow manages to convey malicious glee as high-pitched giggles emanate from his ethereal form, the sound carrying notes of genuine delight at witnessed chaos.

Even more surprising is the reaction from Cassius's actual Duskwalker being, which has taken station behind my chair without my conscious notice. The larger shadow entity sways with obvious amusement, tendrils extending to play absentmindedly with my hair in a gesture that feels simultaneously proprietary and affectionate.

"I see you've recovered your energy," Mortimer observes dryly, passing me a cup of coffee with scholarly precision. "And your characteristic lack of filter."

"I slept for nearly twenty-four hours," I remind him, gratefully accepting the offered beverage. "I'm entitled to dramatic entrance."

Nikki sniffs dramatically, tossing her golden-red hair with practiced indignation that looks startlingly natural despite being recently acquired mannerism.

"Some of us maintain standards regardless of circumstances," she declares with aristocratic certainty that makes me wonder if Fae royalty receives specific training in looking down their perfect noses.

"Yes, I'm sure those standards were foremost in your mind when you were trying on my lipstick earlier," I counter, having noticed the faint traces of my favorite shade on her currently pursed lips. "The burgundy suits you, by the way. Brings out the gold in your eyes."

The unexpected compliment embedded within teasing throws her momentarily, confusion flickering across features still adjusting to new feminine arrangement.

Before she can formulate response, Atticus interjects with casual precision.

"Both of you look stunning in your uniforms," he states, crimson eyes carrying appreciation without objectification. "Though I imagine Gabriel will be equally impressive once the wards trigger transformation."

The casual reminder of my imminent return to masculine disguise brings momentary pang I hadn't anticipated.

After enjoying the freedom of my natural form within these walls, the thought of resuming Gabriel's identity — even with the efficiency Mortimer's wards provide — feels suddenly constraining.

"Speaking of which," Mortimer says, sliding a folder toward me with scholarly efficiency, "these are your class schedules. Year Two curriculum differs significantly from introductory coursework, with specializations based on both demonstrated aptitudes and future potential."

Grateful for the distraction, I open the folder to find several pages of elegant script detailing course listings, instructor names, and classroom locations. The organization appears logical enough, though certain subject titles suggest material far beyond standard paranormal education.

"Advanced Manipulation of Elemental Boundaries," I read aloud, finger tracing the unfamiliar course title. "Theoretical Applications of Cross-Dimensional Magic. Historical Imperatives in Blood Ritual Development." I look up, brow furrowing slightly. "These sound more like graduate-level research topics than standard classes."

Mortimer nods, scholarly satisfaction evident in his expression.

"Year Two curriculum assumes foundational knowledge has been established, allowing progression into more specialized and complex magical theory. Your schedule has been tailored to your specific abilities and demonstrated potential."

"What does that mean for practical purposes?" Cassius asks, voicing the question forming in my own mind. "Will we still train together, or does this represent complete separation during academic hours?"

"Both," Mortimer explains, lifting his coffee with deliberate precision that speaks of centuries refining simple movements into art forms. "Core physical training remains collective, ensuring baseline combat readiness across all specializations. Theoretical coursework diverges based on individual talents, then reconverges for practical application sessions where diverse approaches enhance collective problem-solving."

"Sounds unnecessarily complicated," Nikki mutters, examining her own schedule with faint distaste. "Though I suppose 'Fae Diplomatic Leveraging in Multi-Realm Negotiations' might prove useful eventually."

"If you ever return to court," Atticus points out with casual precision that carries subtle barb. "Assuming they haven't replaced you with a more cooperative heir during your extended absence."

The comment strikes nerve judging by Nikki's suddenly rigid posture, though she maintains admirable composure.

"My position remains secure regardless of temporary educational commitments," she states with practiced certainty with a pinch of assertive magic, though that “confidence” doesn't quite reach her eyes.

Sensing potential conflict brewing, I redirect attention to practical matters.

"How do we find these classrooms? This doesn't look like any wing of the academy I've glimpsed so far."

"The Year Two campus exists in a separate dimensional pocket," Mortimer confirms, academic interest momentarily overriding social awareness. "It's technically still contained within academy grounds, but accessible only to those carrying proper advancement tokens."

I touch the pendant at my throat reflexively, feeling its subtle pulse of recognition against my fingertips. The connection feels more personal than simple magical verification, as if the token responds specifically to my essence rather than mere presence.

"Will transportation be provided, or are we expected to discover these locations through trial and error?" Cassius inquires, shadows coiling slightly tighter around him as he contemplates unknown territories ahead.

"The main administration building contains a transportation nexus," Mortimer explains, slipping naturally into lecture mode that feels comfortingly familiar amid so many uncertain variables. "Your tokens will guide you to appropriate departure points, which reconfigure based on daily schedules to maximize efficiency."

"How very organized," Atticus observes with faint amusement. "One might almost forget the academy regularly sacrifices students to maintain its prestigious reputation."

The casual reminder of dangers lurking beneath civilized veneer sends chill through our conversation, momentarily silencing breakfast banter. We've survived one major trial, but Year Two undoubtedly holds challenges designed to eliminate those deemed unworthy of advancement.

"Two will fall," I murmur, recalling the prophecy that accompanied our trial completion. "We all survived that initial challenge, but the warning remains valid for whatever comes next."

"Precisely why we should approach this educational opportunity with appropriate seriousness," Mortimer states, adjusting his cuffs with scholarly precision. "Knowledge gained during classes may prove crucial during subsequent trials. The academy designs curriculum specifically to provide tools necessary for survival, though rarely with explicit instruction regarding their application."

"Learn the theory, figure out practical application under pressure," Nikki summarizes with aristocratic disdain that doesn't quite hide underlying tension. "Typical academy methodology."

"Speaking of theory," I interject, returning to an earlier topic that continues to trouble me, "what exactly happens with time differential between here and the upper world? If we're experiencing slower temporal flow in Faerie, does that mean months could pass outside while we're attending a few weeks of classes?"

Mortimer's expression turns thoughtful, academic assessment replacing casual conversation.

"The exact ratio fluctuates based on several factors, including proximity to certain ley lines and current alignment of paranormal realms. Generally speaking, a week here might represent approximately three weeks in upper world, though the calculation isn't precise."

"Three to one," I repeat, anxiety tightening my chest as I think of Elena's worsening condition. Three weeks of deterioration for every week I spend here seeking the chalice that might save her seems like a cruel cosmic joke. "That's significant enough to be concerning."

"It also means we must be particularly efficient in our search for information regarding your sister's chalice," Mortimer acknowledges with uncharacteristic gentleness. "The academy library contains extensive collection on magical artifacts, including those with healing properties. With proper research approach, we might identify potential locations or historical references within a reasonable timeframe."

The practical suggestion eases some of my immediate panic, though underlying concern remains.

Elena's mysterious illness had progressed steadily despite medical intervention; how much worse might it become with temporal acceleration added to equation?

"We'll find it," Cassius states with quiet certainty that catches me by surprise. His silver eyes meet mine across the table, shadows briefly reaching out to brush against my hand in a gesture too subtle for others to notice. "The chalice is here somewhere. Everything you've described suggests a powerful healing artifact that wouldn't be casually discarded or forgotten."

"Agreed," Atticus adds, crimson eyes carrying calculated assessment rather than mere reassurance. "Artifacts of significant power leave distinctive magical signatures. Between Mortimer's academic knowledge and our collective abilities, tracking it should be feasible once we narrow potential locations."

The confident assertions from both Cassius and Atticus — typically so different in approach and demeanor — creates unexpected warmth in my chest. Their willingness to prioritize Elena's chalice amid all other concerns feels like a precious gift I haven't properly earned.

"Thank you," I say simply, the words inadequate for depth of gratitude bubbling beneath surface composure.

Mini Grim chooses this moment to float from my shoulder, performing an elaborate aerial somersault before manifesting a tiny parchment scroll between skeletal fingers. The miniature document unfurls with theatrical flourish, revealing flowing script that glows faintly against shadowy material.

"Gree!" he announces, pointing emphatically at a specific line that appears to indicate time.

"Eight-thirty," Mortimer translates, glancing at his watch with sudden sharpening of attention. "We should depart within the next fifteen minutes to ensure punctual arrival at orientation session."

The mundane concern — being late for class — seems almost comically ordinary amid discussions of time differentials, magical artifacts, and life-threatening trials.

Yet there's something grounding about embracing such normal considerations, about playing the role of students despite extraordinary circumstances surrounding our presence here.

"Then we should finish breakfast," I decide, reaching for the plate Cassius slides toward me with silent understanding of my preferences.

The simple gesture — remembering I prefer fruit and protein in the mornings rather than heavier options — touches me more deeply than grand declarations might have.

As conversation shifts to more practical matters of navigating first day logistics, I allow myself momentary fantasy of normalcy — just students preparing for classes, sharing meal and casual conversation before facing academic challenges rather than life-threatening trials.

The illusion won't last, of course. Wicked Academy ensures no peace remains undisturbed for long. But for this brief interlude, surrounded by companions whose connections to me defy simple classification, I embrace temporary comfort of routine and shared purpose.

Mini Grim returns to my shoulder, tiny skull tilting against my neck in gesture that somehow conveys affection despite his fearsome origins.

Behind me, Cassius's Duskwalker being continues its gentle manipulation of my hair, shadows weaving silver strands into intricate patterns that likely carry meaning I don't yet understand.

I catch Cassius watching this interaction with expression I can't quite decipher — something between satisfaction and contemplation, as if witnessing confirmation of theories he's been developing.

When our eyes meet, he offers that rare smile that transforms his typically stoic features into something approaching warmth.

Before I can return the gesture, Nikki makes an exaggerated gagging sound that breaks the moment with adolescent precision.

"If you two are going to make eyes at each other across the table, at least wait until after I've finished eating," she protests with aristocratic distaste that doesn't quite hide underlying amusement.

"We weren't—" I begin automatically, only to be interrupted by Atticus's knowing chuckle.

"They absolutely were," he confirms with casual certainty that makes heat rise to my cheeks again. "Though you're hardly one to criticize, considering how you've been watching Mortimer since breakfast began."

"I have not!" Nikki protests, golden eyes widening with genuine indignation that quickly transforms into embarrassment as everyone turns to assess her reaction. "I was merely noting the stylistic differences in upperclassmen uniforms for future reference."

"Of course," Mortimer agrees with scholarly neutrality that might be convincing if not for the subtle quirk at the corner of his mouth. "Purely academic observation."

The teasing exchange continues as we finish breakfast, normal dynamics of roommates preparing for our day ahead, temporarily overshadowing greater challenges looming in our futures.

For these precious minutes, we're simply students sharing a meal before classes, the bonds between us complicated but real, the connections growing despite — or perhaps because of —extraordinary circumstances that brought us together.

Soon enough I'll step through that warded threshold, Gabriel's form replacing Gwenivere’s with magical efficiency.

We'll face whatever trials Year Two has prepared for those deemed worthy of advancement and the search for Elena's chalice will resume with renewed urgency against temporal disadvantage.

But for now, in this pocket of ordinary routine amid extraordinary circumstances, I allow myself to simply be present — neither focused on past traumas nor future challenges, but experiencing this unexpected moment of connection with companions who've somehow become essential despite all logical reasons they shouldn't have.

Mini Grim hums his strange melody against my neck, the sound carrying notes of contentment that resonate with something long dormant within me.

Perhaps this is what hope feels like when surrounded by the right individuals who can lead you on a path that fulfils destiny.

The realization is both terrifying and precious in its fragility.