Page 24 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

The Wicked Truth

~GWENIVERE~

T he Stellarum Archive's reading chamber we've settled in defies ordinary spatial logic.

Despite appearing modest in size upon entry, the room somehow expands to accommodate whatever materials we gather without ever feeling crowded. Bookshelves line walls that seem to recede rather than confine, creating the peculiar sensation of simultaneously being in an intimate study space and a vast repository of knowledge.

Several ancient tomes rest on the polished crystal table between us, their covers fashioned from materials I can't immediately identify – not leather or cloth but something that seems almost alive, responding to touch with a subtle warmth that suggests awareness beyond the mere object. The books practically vibrate with contained knowledge, magic humming beneath elaborately tooled surfaces that shift and change depending on the viewing angle.

I glance toward the ornate timepiece hovering near the entrance – a self-sustaining magical construct that tracks our remaining minutes with elegant precision.

Thirty minutes left to complete Professor Valerian's assignment which initially seemed straightforward but now reveals itself as far more challenging than anticipated. The aerial perspective of the academy available through the Archive's crystal dome provides the perfect vantage point required, but accessing the appropriate viewing platform while capturing the required image within the remaining time frame presents a significant logistical challenge.

"How will you be able to advance to the next Year?" I ask Zeke, a question emerging from an ongoing conversation about his peculiar status within the academy hierarchy.

The query has been forming since his earlier revelations about being "sacrificed" and the apparent inability to assume true form despite an environment that supposedly allows authentic self-expression.

Zeke carefully closes the ancient text he'd been examining, placing it atop a growing stack with a meticulous precision that suggests a reverence for knowledge contained within. His extraordinary eyes – that shifting gold-green with vertical pupils – meet mine with a directness that's become increasingly characteristic during our time together.

"I can't leave," he states simply, words carrying weight beyond their simplicity. No elaborate justification or emotional appeal accompanies this declaration – just factual acceptance of circumstance that would destroy most beings with its finality.

I frown, leaning forward across the table that separates us, unwilling to accept such a hopeless assessment without challenge.

"You can't possibly be stuck here forever," I counter, the very concept violating the fundamental sense of justice that persists despite witnessing countless examples of the academy's casual cruelty. "There must be some condition, some accomplishment or time limit that releases you from whatever obligation keeps you bound here."

His smile carries sadness so profound it creates a physical ache in my chest just witnessing it – ancient sorrow contained within youthful features, a contradiction that somehow perfectly encapsulates everything mysterious about this strange cat-boy who sees through disguises and navigates hidden pathways with practiced ease.

"Yes, as of now, I'll be stuck because I'm the sacrifice," he confirms, shoulders lifting in a slight shrug that suggests acceptance rather than resignation. "It's no different for Mortimer."

The unexpected comparison catches me completely off-guard, the connection between my scholarly dragon companion and Zeke's circumstances represents a puzzle piece I hadn't considered fitting into the emerging picture.

"What do you mean?" I ask, mentally retrieving everything I know about our academic companion – his evident age and knowledge, position among the Seven, and designation as "pet" that always triggered uncomfortable associations despite his apparent acceptance of the role.

Zeke sets aside the book he'd been holding, giving me his complete attention as if explaining a complex concept requiring full concentration from both parties.

"Why would a scholar of his attributes and knowledge be stuck at an academy for centuries?" he asks, the question clearly rhetorical yet demanding consideration of implications I'd somehow overlooked despite constant proximity to the ancient dragon shifter. "Someone with his power and wisdom could command respect in any paranormal community, yet he remains here, bound to students who casually refer to him as 'pet' despite his obvious superiority in both age and knowledge."

The assessment strikes uncomfortably close to observations I've occasionally entertained but dismissed as mere cultural differences between dragon hierarchies and other paranormal societies. Hearing them articulated aloud forces reconsideration of assumptions I'd allowed to persist without proper examination.

"But I met him at the beginning of Year One," I argue, remembering our first encounters when Mortimer presented himself as a scholarly companion assigned to Cassius and Nikolai. "He's their 'pet' – though I've never liked that designation. Wouldn't he accompany them when they unlock Year Three?"

Zeke's expression shifts to gentle disagreement, head slowly shaking as if correcting a misunderstanding made through no fault of my own but requiring adjustment nevertheless.

"Shifters like cats and dragons aren't meant to be students at Wicked Academy," he explains, voice taking on a teaching cadence that reminds me unexpectedly of Mortimer himself when sharing particularly important knowledge. "We are accomplices. Beings who are brought in."

The use of "we" confirms the suspicion that whatever classification Zeke belongs to shares fundamental characteristics with dragon shifters despite obvious physical differences.

"Mortimer may not remember, especially when he was appointed to be one of the Seven," Zeke continues, this revelation landing with particular force, giving implications of memory manipulation affecting a being of Mortimer's evident power and age.

"Wait," I interrupt, connections forming with increasing clarity as I organize scattered information into a coherent narrative. "So you're saying Mortimer, being a dragon shifter, may have also been appointed to a royal family and brought into Wicked Academy as a challenge, only to be left behind by his owner or master, and then he's just been... stuck?"

Zeke nods, confirmation carrying neither triumph at my understanding nor sorrow at the situation's inherent tragedy – just simple acknowledgment of truth finally recognized.

"How can you be so sure?" I press, unwilling to accept such a devastating conclusion without absolute certainty, particularly given Mortimer's evident contentment with current circumstances that would seem incongruous with trapped or abandoned status.

Zeke's expression shifts to something more ancient than his apparent age should allow, wisdom behind those remarkable eyes suddenly undisguised by youthful appearance that typically contains it.

"Cats are beings of knowledge who have nine lives, Gwenivere," he explains, his voice carrying resonance that seems to vibrate at a frequency just beyond ordinary hearing. "We carry the memories of many, watching and observing, collecting what we deem important."

His gaze grows distant, focusing on something I cannot see – memories perhaps, or connections between events separated by time yet linked through patterns only his unique perception can recognize.

"I remember Mortimer," he continues, present once more rather than lost in whatever mental landscape momentarily claimed his attention. "But he probably doesn't remember me from before he ascended into his role as one of the Seven."

The implications send a chill through me despite the Archive's perfectly regulated temperature. For a being as ancient and powerful as Mortimer to have memories simply removed or blocked suggests institutional control far beyond what I'd previously attributed to the academy's administration.

"Why would they take his memories?" I ask, then pause as personal realization surfaces alongside the theoretical question. "Since I arrived, I can't remember much of my childhood. During class today, I tried, but it felt like hitting a blank wall."

The admission emerges without a conscious decision to share such vulnerability, words forming before strategic consideration can evaluate the wisdom of revealing this weakness. Something about Zeke's presence seems to bypass usual caution, encouraging honesty that might otherwise remain carefully guarded.

His response carries neither surprise nor dismissal, instead conveying the understanding that suggests my experience represents an expected pattern rather than a concerning anomaly.

"This is what truly makes Wicked Academy 'wicked,'" he states, lowering the book in his grasp to ensure my complete attention to what follows. His expression suggests importance beyond ordinary explanation – fundamental truth about the institution that changes everything once understood.

"Year One is meant to kill the unworthy," he begins, the assessment so blunt it momentarily startles despite obvious accuracy given the trial's explicit goal of eliminating weaker students. "Those who don't have the level of survival needed to move onward. That's why the trial ended with needing to kill two individuals – to prove that no matter what aspect of life, sacrifice in realms of life and death is necessary to create balance."

The explanation aligns with the observed reality of our trial's conclusion, though the coldness of institutional design still disturbs us despite having directly participated in its execution.

"Then it moves onto Year Two," he continues, hands gesturing to encompass our current surroundings within Stellarum Archive. "Knowledge and attributes. You strive for normalcy, to attend the academy like any other paranormal elite would, but do you know what's going to happen?"

I slowly shake my head, unwilling to interrupt what clearly builds toward the revelation of significant importance.

Whatever follows seems to require security beyond ordinary conversation, as Zeke glances around the room with sudden wariness before snapping his fingers in a precise gesture that triggers an immediate magical response.

Walls of dark purple energy materialize around us, humming with a protective resonance that suggests both containment and privacy shield against potential eavesdropping. The spell's sophistication exceeds what a typical student should command, further evidence that Zeke's capabilities extend far beyond what his apparent status might suggest.

"You'll begin to forget," he states once the shield settles into a stable configuration, words carrying the weight of prophecy rather than mere prediction.

I frown, confusion evident enough that he sighs before elaborating further.

"Time moves differently here in Faerie, yes?" he prompts, waiting for my acknowledging nod before continuing. "With this time shift, in real life – where you stem from – time moves faster. You've already spent two days here, which in the realm world could easily be two weeks or maybe even two months."

"Two weeks to two months?!" Horror floods through me at implications for Elena, whose deteriorating condition represents a constant race against time I hadn't realized accelerated so dramatically. Even a conservative estimate suggests she's suffered a significant decline during what felt like mere hours to me within Faerie's altered temporal flow.

Zeke nods slowly, expression conveying sympathy without false reassurance that would diminish the seriousness of the situation.

"The more days that pass," he continues, "the more time will begin to move into the real reality outside of Faerie."

"The more I'll forget," I whisper, realization crystallizing with terrible clarity. Memories already difficult to access will continue fading until what – or who – I was before the academy ceases to exist within conscious recollection.

The implications expand beyond personal tragedy as mental connections form between this revelation and earlier observations about the academy's student population.

"That means everyone here...or the majority of them," I begin, thoughts racing ahead of my ability to articulate them coherently, "they've been here acting like students, gathering money, getting food, doing challenges, building a foundation in Faerie Wicked... but beyond... beyond the academy... they're..."

"Long gone, Gwenivere," Zeke confirms, voice gentle but unflinching in delivering devastating truth. "Their physical bodies died months, years, or even centuries ago in the outside world while their essences remain trapped here, cycling through the academy's systems with no possibility of a return to realities that no longer exist for them."

The enormity of this revelation staggers me – not merely a cruel educational system but an elaborate soul trap disguised as a prestigious institution, capturing those who enter while erasing connections that might inspire escape attempts.

The multilayered deception suddenly clarifies with horrifying precision: the first level forcing physical survival that culls weaker participants, second level allows false normalcy while memories fade and outside time accelerates, ensuring no viable existence remains beyond the academy's boundaries by the time the student realizes their predicament.

"The first surrounded about survival, one you had to fight for," I articulate aloud, organizing understanding into a coherent structure. "But now, in this layer of the Wicked, you are allowed to survive, only for the sacrifice of who you are, what you were... and you'll never grasp who you'll become, because you're trapped in this time loop until your real self dies above, so you have nowhere to return to."

It sounds like a true nightmare. A horror movie you’d see in the plain of fiction and not true reality that us paranormals are experiencing in real time.

"Then most of these students are already dead," I whisper, implication unavoidable once the logic chain completes itself.

Zeke nods slowly, confirmation carrying neither pleasure in revealing hidden knowledge nor particular sorrow at its content – just acknowledgment of reality as it exists rather than as we might wish it to be.

"Their souls are trapped here," he confirms, "and that is the true punishment laid upon them because the throne is left empty."

The reference to the empty throne connects immediately to Professor Valerian's earlier lecture regarding the missing heir and subsequent punishment inflicted upon Faerie realms. What appeared as mere historical context suddenly reveals itself as central to the academy's true purpose and current corrupted state.

"How can we fill the throne?" I ask, my mind already racing toward a potential solution rather than dwelling on the horror of the revealed situation. "Can I find someone worthy to sit upon it and release these students and souls?"

Zeke studies me for an extended moment, assessment in his extraordinary eyes suggesting evaluation of both the question's validity and my capacity to utilize the answer should it be provided. Whatever he sees apparently satisfies his criteria, as he reaches for the specific book from a nearby stack – an ancient volume bound in the material that shifts between midnight blue and deepest purple depending on how light strikes its surface.

Opening it with careful movements that suggest familiarity with delicate pages, he turns to a specific section before rotating the book to face me. The illustration revealed seems to move even within the confines of two-dimensional representation – an elaborate throne room depicted in stylized yet somehow living art that conveys essence beyond mere visual representation.

The central figure sits upon the ornate throne, crown hovering above their head rather than resting directly upon it. Magic surrounds this central figure in swirling patterns that suggest both protection and emanation – power flowing inward and outward simultaneously in a perfect symbiotic exchange.

At the throne's foot sits a smaller figure clearly representing a feline entity, its position suggesting both independence and alliance rather than mere subservience. Background reveals a massive draconic presence, wings extended in a protective posture that encompasses the entire scene within their span.

Beside the throne stands a figure in the attitude of service yet carrying dignity that belies mere servant status – right hand to a ruler, position suggesting both an advisory capacity and executive authority to implement sovereign decisions.

Below these central figures kneel two warriors, postures indicating absolute loyalty while weapons suggest a capacity for enforcing royal will when diplomatic approaches fail.

The entire composition conveys a balanced power structure rather than a mere hierarchy – each position is essential to overall stability, with no single element capable of maintaining the system without others' complementary contributions.

"This needs to be done," Zeke explains, finger-tracing relationship lines between figures with practiced precision. "This is the true balance that has to transpire to release students of this realm into an afterlife while sending those who are stuck in a cycled loop into Year Three."

I study the illustration with renewed attention, understanding its significance extends beyond the mere historical records to a blueprint for potential resolution to the academy's corrupted state. The correspondences between depicted roles and individuals I know begin forming with surprising clarity.

"A cat," I begin, finger indicating a feline figure at the throne's base, then lifting to meet Zeke's gaze directly. "A familiar... that's why there's magic around the throne. That’s like you."

He nods slowly, confirmation accompanied by a slight smile that suggests an appreciation for quick understanding.

My attention shifts to the draconic presence dominating the background.

"Dragon...a protector of the kingdom?" I suggest, connections forming with increasing certainty. "Mortimer?"

Zeke's smile widens, though he tempers absolute confirmation with slight qualification.

"Possibility," he acknowledges, suggesting alternatives might exist though Mortimer represents a logical candidate given known information.

The figure standing beside the throne draws my attention next, the position suggesting authority second only to the ruler while attitude conveys a perfect balance between independence and loyalty.

"Someone who will always be on the right-hand side," I note, Atticus immediately coming to mind with his protective determination and ancient power carefully contained beneath the seemingly ordinary exterior. "Could Atticus do?"

Zeke considers this suggestion with thoughtful expression, assessment appearing to weigh factors beyond my current awareness.

"If he pledges alliance in aiding the royal who sits on the throne," he finally responds, "then yes."

Satisfaction at this confirmation flows through me as the remaining pieces fall into place with increasing clarity. The two kneeling figures at the composition's base present obvious correspondence to my remaining bond mates.

"These can be anyone who also pledges allegiance to the one who sits on the throne," I observe, already envisioning Cassius and Nikolai in these positions – their royal backgrounds providing perfect preparation for roles requiring both strength and diplomatic understanding.

Zeke nods agreement, adding qualification that suggests a deeper requirement than mere physical presence in required positions.

"They would need to have a strong bond with one another," he explains, emphasis suggesting a connection between participants represents a fundamental requirement rather than merely desirable addition.

I smile with growing confidence as visualization completes itself – bonds already established between us creating a foundation for arrangement depicted in the ancient illustration.

"I and Cassius can fit perfectly," I state, certainty growing as pieces arrange themselves into a coherent whole. The dynamic between us – established through blood exchange, strengthened through shared experiences, complicated yet ultimately strengthened through recent reconciliation – provides exactly the foundation required for the position depicted.

My eyes finally drift to the central figure – the throne itself and its occupant, crown hovering rather than resting directly upon their head. The position clearly requires someone of particular significance, power flowing both to and from this central figure in the illustration.

"The throne," I murmur, tracing the ornate depiction with a careful finger. "It has to be a born royal, doesn't it?"

I look to Zeke, sudden realization forms as an obvious candidate presents itself. "Can Nikolai...or I guess Nikki work?"

Zeke considers this suggestion with a thoughtful expression, weighing possibilities with evident care before responding.

"As a royal... yes. He can sit upon the throne," he finally acknowledges the confirmation carrying peculiar hesitation that suggests qualification rather than a wholehearted endorsement.

"But?" I prompt, recognizing the unspoken reservation behind his careful phrasing.

A slight smirk forms on Zeke's lips, an expression carrying a knowing quality that suggests assessment based on deeper understanding than mere theoretical possibility.

"But does Nikolai have the will to sit upon the throne?" he challenges gently. "Or the confidence in carrying such responsibility into Year Three?"

The question strikes with unexpected precision, forcing consideration beyond mere eligibility to a deeper question of suitability.

Nikolai certainly possesses royal lineage and training required for such a position, but his behavior since entering the academy has demonstrated a complicated relationship with responsibility and authority. His transformation into female form within Faerie's realm adds additional complexity to the already uncertain equation.

"What happens if we set the souls free and enter Year Three?" I ask, mental focus shifting from specific candidates to larger implications of successfully implementing arrangements depicted in the ancient illustrations. "What would Year Three center on?"

Zeke's expression turns contemplative, hinting at knowledge limitations even his remarkable information-gathering capabilities cannot overcome.

"I don't know," he admits with a refreshing directness that suggests complete honesty rather than strategic withholding. "All I know is that the next world revolves around the Duskwalkers."

His gaze turns distant, as if envisioning a realm we have yet to encounter.

"Desolation, darkness, uncertainty, and unpredictable circumstances," he continues, painting pictures with words that carry the weight of genuine concern rather than mere academic description. "We would break the cycle, yes, but whatever challenges come next, I wouldn't be able to unlock those until I enter the sameness and discover the library designated to it."

His phrasing triggers a connection that had been forming in my mind since his earlier revelations about cats carrying memories across multiple lives.

"Wait... you can store information...like an encyclopedia of sorts," I suggest, concept solidifying as I articulate it. The peculiar knowledge he's demonstrated throughout our interactions suddenly makes sense if viewed through the lens of a being who accumulates and preserves information across extended lifespans.

He nods, confirmation accompanied by a slight smile that suggests an appreciation for my understanding rather than pride in capability.

"Yes. Me and Mortimer actually," he elaborates the connection between them clarifying with new significance. "Why do you think Mortimer was appointed to the Seven? It wasn't necessarily because of his power in sorcery, because he isn't the strongest in magical combat. It's because of the level of knowledge he carries from centuries of reading, obtaining, and gathering such knowledge."

The explanation shifts my understanding of Mortimer's position within the academy hierarchy – not merely powerful being assigned arbitrary designation, but specifically selected for information preservation capabilities that complement institutional structure in ways I hadn't previously considered.

"How do the Seven then apply to all of this?" I ask, attempting to integrate this new understanding with existing knowledge regarding the academy's peculiar administrative structure. "Will we get to encounter them?"