Page 26 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

Frozen Time And Forming Bonds

~ATTICUS~

" T he Seven have arrived," Mortimer states with uncharacteristic gravity, "And they've brought the Headmaster."

The announcement lands like a stone in still water, ripples of tension spreading through our impromptu gathering.

"Why are the Headmaster and Seven here?" I question, keeping my tone deliberately casual despite internal alarm systems activating at full capacity. The timing feels too precise to be coincidental – the convergence of powerful figures at the exact moment we're discussing thrones, bonds, and the academy's true nature suggests either surveillance more extensive than anticipated or cosmic timing with a particularly perverse sense of humor.

Gwenivere looks at Zeke, that peculiar feline-energy boy who's claimed more of her attention today than I find entirely comfortable with.

Personally, at first glance, I don’t like him and the very obvious clinging nature he carries when it comes to my Queen of Spades.

I’m the one who vowed to be at her side.

No one else is deserving of such.

"Isn't the Seven supposed to be the final boss?" she asks him, gaming terminology revealing an unexpected glimpse into interests I hadn't previously known she possessed. The casual way she phrases questions suggests a comfortable rapport developed during my absence that triggers a possessive instinct I immediately recognize as both irrational and counterproductive.

Do I care though? No. I can be as over-possessive as need be.

Mortimer arches a scholarly eyebrow in her direction, expression mingling amusement with mild offense at being categorized among potential adversaries.

"Not you," she adds hastily, correction bringing a satisfied smirk to the dragon shifter's features that somehow transform his typically bookish appearance into something decidedly more predatory.

Cassius, ever the practical one, redirects the conversation to the more immediate anomaly.

"Why is Gwenivere in her usual form instead of Gabriel?" he asks, silver gaze shifting between her and Zeke with sharpened interest that suggests protective instinct matching my own, albeit expressed with characteristic Duskwalker restraint.

"We're jumping topics," Gwenivere protests with slight exasperation, clearly recognizing the deflection strategy for what it represents — postponement of more immediate concerns in favor of personal curiosities.

"You didn't answer Cassius's question," I point out, unable to completely suppress the territorial edge creeping into my voice despite intellectual recognition of its potential counterproductivity.

Prison teaches many things, but eliminating possessive instinct toward those who matter isn't among them — quite the opposite, in fact.

Gwenivere sighs with familiar frustration that somehow manages to be both irritating and endearing simultaneously.

"You're choosing favoritism on his side," she accuses, a statement carrying enough truth to sting despite its oversimplification.

"This part of the Archives can only present everyone's raw form," Zeke explains with a casual ease that suggests complete comfort with information that should represent closely guarded institutional secrets rather than common knowledge. "But if it makes you feel better, I was aware Gabriel was a woman from the beginning."

"That doesn't make me feel better at all," I respond truthfully, the casual admission that he perceived through disguise apparently designed specifically to prevent such recognition only heightening wariness regarding his true capabilities and potential threat level.

Gwenivere groans with exaggerated exasperation that somehow maintains genuine charm despite theatrical delivery.

"You can be overprotective later," she instructs with a familiar blend of irritation and affection that makes something in my chest tighten with unexpected intensity. "We have more pressing concerns."

I huff slight acknowledgment of valid criticism, allowing myself a small concession to emotional impulse by lifting her hand to press a brief kiss against knuckles — a gesture both territorial and genuinely affectionate in equal measure.

"What's the game plan?" I ask, strategic assessment overriding personal concerns with practiced discipline. "At this point, we're not going to make it to our designated places before the fifteen minutes is up."

"We have fifteen minutes as well," Gwenivere reveals, confirmation of parallel assignments suggesting a coordinated structure designed to force interaction between previously separated groups — institutional manipulation rather than coincidental overlap.

If all this is planned, what’s the end game? Why split us all day but make it so we somehow cross paths in the midst of our missions?

Zeke looks toward Mortimer with an expression suggesting shared knowledge not yet revealed to the rest of the group.

"Maybe we'll be able to access the Sphere," he suggests, the casual reference clearly significant between them while meaningless to the remainder of our gathering.

"The Sphere?" Cassius, Gwenivere, and I question in perfect unison, the synchronized response drawing slight smile from Mortimer as he observes our collective confusion.

His scholarly composure returns with practiced ease, lecture mode engaging with familiar precision that somehow manages to convey both academic detachment and personal investment in the subject.

"The Sphere is a space in the Archives that freezes time within its boundaries temporarily," he explains, hands gesturing slightly to emphasize key concepts with characteristic scholarly enthusiasm. "Every realm has one, but there's always one within any grand library. They had one in Year One's library as well, but it's almost impossible to access."

Cassius frowns slightly, shadows coiling with what I've come to recognize as his expression of thoughtful skepticism rather than outright rejection.

"If it's impossible to access," he points out with characteristic precision, "how are we going to reach it here?"

Mortimer turns an expectant gaze toward Zeke, who extracts an identification card with casual confidence that suggests familiarity with procedures most students would find incomprehensibly complex.

"I have access," he states simply, the words carrying neither pride nor particular emphasis despite clearly representing extraordinary privilege within the academy hierarchy.

"Is he the master key of the realms or something?" I mutter, the question emerging before a diplomatic filter can engage properly. The comment carries more jealousy than intended, revealing an emotional response I'd prefer to keep better concealed from both allies and potential adversaries.

Gwenivere smiles with a knowing expression that suggests she reads my reaction with unfortunate accuracy.

Ugh. I have to stop being such an open book here.

"Don't be jealous," she warns with a teasing lilt that somehow manages to both acknowledge concern while simultaneously dismissing it as unnecessary. She’s giving me those set of doe eyes that has my cock twitching at the wrong time.

The two of us are staring long enough at one another that Cassius clears his throat.

It takes me tugging my eyes away from my taunting Queen of Spades to force us back into present matters.

"Then let's go there," I respond, deliberate redirection toward practical action rather than emotional territory I'd prefer not to further explore before this particular audience. Not like I’m embarrassed to admit I’m completely turned on right now and just want to fuck my woman the way I should have when we first settled here. "How far is it?"

Zeke gestures toward the room next to us, expression carrying casual confidence entirely at odds with the apparent contradiction his indication represents.

"Just enter," he encourages with a slight nod toward a familiar doorway. "And follow instructions."

Gwenivere tilts her head with a characteristic expression that combines curiosity with slight skepticism.

"We just came from that room," she points out, confusion evident in a slight furrow appearing between her brows.

Zeke nods with easy confirmation that suggests he finds nothing particularly unusual about the apparent paradox.

Why were they in a room together in the first place? It’s a classroom. They could be just studying. Ugh. I need to calm down and stop being so territorial.

"Don't worry," he reassures her. "Just follow instructions."

"I hope we're not walking into a trap," Cassius murmurs, shadows coiling with an evident wariness that reflects my own internal calculations regarding potential risk factors.

"I trust the feline," Mortimer states with surprising certainty from being typically given to careful qualification and scholarly reservation. The absolute confidence in his tone suggests a relationship extending far beyond casual acquaintance or recent alliance

How do they know each other?

From what I gathered from my on-and-off conversations with Cassius today, Mortimer doesn’t mingle with many, if at all.

But knows this feline…hmm?

T hat’s the problem with living centuries versus reborn. They carry secrets feeling the need to explain details later because they have “all the time” to do exactly that versus us reborn into this grand world through blood and bonds that feel the endless tie to urgency when meaningfully due.

"Thanks, old friend," Zeke responds with a slight smile that carries warmth transcending mere politeness, confirming a suspected history between them that apparently extends beyond current circumstances.

We enter the room once more, identical to the space we just left yet somehow carrying a subtle difference in atmosphere impossible to articulate through mere sensory observation.

Zeke closes the door with careful precision before holding the identification card against the keyhole with practiced movement suggesting frequent repetition of this particular procedure.

A hovering screen materializes before us, a translucent interface comprised of what appears to be pure energy rather than physical construction.

The card floats from his hand to orbit the central nexus, triggering cascading spell formations that glow with intertwined gold and purple light, their patterns suggesting mathematical precision beyond ordinary magical constructions I've encountered previously.

Light engulfs the entire chamber, transformation encompassing not merely visual elements but fundamental properties of space itself. An ornate clockwork mechanism materializes above our heads, its components moving with impossible precision despite apparent age suggested by patina-coating gears and springs.

"Time has stopped outside," Zeke announces with a practiced calm that suggests familiarity with the phenomenon that would leave most paranormals speechless with awe. "But we only get fifteen minutes inside before detrimental things happen to those who remain, so the sooner we plan, the better."

"What detrimental things?" Cassius inquires, practical concern overriding academic fascination with remarkable temporal manipulation surrounding us.

"Decay and melting suffering thanks to alternating temperatures," Mortimer answers with scholarly precision that somehow manages to make horrific consequences sound like merely interesting theoretical considerations rather than potentially lethal threats.

Silence follows this casual description of temporal violation's consequences, the collective processing of risk we've accepted by entering this extraordinary space.

Ouch…

Having personally witnessed similar effects during particularly creative interrogation techniques employed in prison's deepest levels, I find the description disturbingly accurate rather than hyperbolic — time manipulation's consequences on physical forms rarely receive sufficient attention in academic discussions of theoretical magical applications.

"We should get to planning," Zeke suggests with a practical focus that cuts through potential paralysis extended contemplation of risks might otherwise induce.

Gwenivere rises from where she'd settled against the nearby table, fingers slipping from mine as she steps toward the center of the chamber with a characteristic determination that somehow transforms her diminutive form into a commanding presence demanding attention from everyone present.

"First," she announces with quiet certainty that carries more weight than shouted declaration ever could, "I need to make a bond with both Mortimer and Zeke."

The idea of her declaring that so boldly makes me frown, forcing myself to tame the inner burning of anxiety and worry about the implications.

I try to remain calm on the surface, noticing how she's specifically looking my way as if to gauge my reaction before shifting her gaze to Cassius, who seems even more relaxed about the implications as he asks, "Who are we saving?"

Gwenivere actually looks relieved, the tension I clearly didn't notice in her frame seemingly leaving as she appears more frail. Whatever bubbling nerves and worries deflate, prompting me to stand up and walk over to her, wrapping her up in a hug.

"A-Atticus," she stammers, surprise evident in both her voice and the slight stiffening of her shoulders before she relaxes into the embrace.

"I get your nerves and tension, but keeping all that in your limbs as a hybrid isn't good for you, especially in stressful situations like these," I coach her, fully aware that I'm probably the essential contributor to her worry. "Sorry, Queen of Spades. I've been a bit needy of you and my jealousy is on a higher level than my usual tamed calm."

She pulls back to give me a look, her silver eyes widening with surprise.

He can read minds?

The thought forms clearly in her consciousness, transparent to my perception in ways she clearly didn't anticipate.

I smirk and nod.

"Yes," I confirm aloud, watching the blush spread across her cheeks before I chuckle audibly and add, "We'll have to do a little 'catchup' when we've gotten out of Year Two since we clearly have to leave sooner rather than later."

She frowns, confusion evident in the slight furrow appearing between her brows.

"What do you mean by that?"

Cassius sighs, shadows coiling with evident discomfort about the information he's about to share.

"One of the seniors here is a sloth shifter," he declares, drawing everyone's attention before continuing, "This is his one-thousandth time taking this class."

All our jaws dropped, including mine, because I'd only walked into the conversation midway after coming back from the washroom.

The implication hits with staggering force – not just distorted time, but actual imprisonment within repeating cycles extending far beyond what even I'd anticipated.

"1-1000?!" Gwenivere gasps in horror, stating the numerical values before turning to look at Zeke, who sighs with evident resignation. I have a strong feeling he knows who we’re talking about.

"For a sloth shifter, that should make sense," he explains, expression suggesting unfortunate logic rather than mere speculation. "His genetic makeup is so slow in this world showing his true self that the time difference isn't affecting him."

Cassius nods, shadows shifting with what I've come to recognize as confirmation of a particularly unpleasant truth.

"This trial is the only chance we're going to get to be 'together,'" he continues, expression grimmer than his typically stoic demeanor usually permits. "The sloth shifter explained that when he failed with his comrades and the day ended, the next day was the same. Again and again, the same classes, and the same potential trial, but the only difference was that he was partnered with another set. For 1000 times."

"No fucking way," I whisper, fully processing the horror of such perpetual entrapment within the academy's distorted temporal systems.

Gwenivere looks between Zeke and Mortimer, that analytical mind of hers already processing implications beyond mere emotional reaction.

"What's the end game? Like the premise of the repetition? Is it so he ends up with the same team members before they can try again and be successful?"

Mortimer's scholarly expression turns contemplative, hands steepling in characteristic gestures that suggest a deep analysis of a complex problem.

"That could be the goal, but think of the probabilities of that happening. Slim to none. Which means..." He trails off, gaze shifting to Zeke as if passing off a theoretical baton to someone with a complementary perspective.

"By the time he's finally matched with those he started with, there's a high probability they're dead," Zeke completes the thought, blunt assessment carrying the weight of certainty rather than mere speculation. "Meaning he's trapped in this cycle forever unless he somehow manages to be matched with a team that's successful in completing the trial."

"Which is basically impossible because if the trial is like ours where we have to find the throne and get a Fae to sit in it to temporarily activate it," I declare, the apparent futility of the situation triggering familiar prison-based assessment of rigged systems designed to maintain control rather than permit advancement.

Gwenivere looks up at me, eyes widening with immediate comprehension of the connection between separate assignments.

"Your challenge is to make someone activate the throne?"

I nod, Cassius doing likewise beside me, his shadows shifting with academic interest now that parallel assignments have been recognized.

"It doesn't need to claim the Fae," Cassius elaborates, precision characteristically important to his explanations. "It will simply react to the similar Fae wavelengths, which is enough to win the trial."

Gwenivere frowns, fingers tapping against her thigh in a gesture I've come to recognize as indicating active problem-solving rather than mere frustration. "Then what's the aerial picture of us overlooking Faerie for?"

The question hangs in our time-frozen space, connections forming with almost audible clicks as information previously compartmentalized suddenly aligns into a coherent pattern.

The separate assignments – aerial perspective and throne activation — clearly represent complementary rather than competing objectives, suggesting a design intended to force cooperation beyond individual groups.

We’re only lucky that we like one another. Other groups may not be so lucky…

The probability makes me realize something like a flick of a switch.

"They're the same assignment," I realize aloud, certainty growing as mental connections solidify. "Just presented differently to different groups to ensure we'd have to work together. One potentially leads to the other."

Mortimer nods, scholarly satisfaction evident in his expression.

"A common Academy approach," he confirms. "Separate but interlocking challenges designed to test both individual group capabilities and collaborative potential."

"So we need both the throne activated and the aerial perspective captured simultaneously?" Gwenivere summarizes, a practical focus cutting through potential theoretical discussion.

"With photographic evidence including at least one person from each group," Zeke adds, remarkable knowledge of assignment parameters suggests information access extending beyond what's been directly shared with either team.

“I think the aerial dynamics involved in finishing your mission will then lead to you meeting up with us to join at the throne coordinates so that we can watch Nikolai claim the throne,” I elaborate.

“Like the picture,” Gwenivere points out, looking at us though neither I nor Cassius in the matter know what she’s referring to, which is why she adds, “We found a picture of the throne or something revolving around the legend in one of the ancient books. It needs six individuals, Mortimer and Zeke will be behind the throne, with Cassius and me in front of the throne, and Atticus on the side of the throne. Right side I’m assuming. Then Nikolai is the one sitting on the throne to activate it.”

Seems simple enough.

"Which means we need to coordinate location, timing, and positioning with Nikolai," Cassius points out, shadows coiling with increased purpose now that strategic objectives have been clarified. "Assuming we can find him if he’s located the throne."

“We can locate him if Gwenivere is bonded to him,” Zeke announces. “I’ll assist when the time comes, but I feel if she really seeks him, she’ll be able to feel the pull from her marking.”

“How do you know she has bond marks?” I figured I’d ask.

“It’s very visible,” Zeke counters, not seemingly offended by my commentary. If anything from the glint in his eyes, he looks amused. “It’s very noticeable. Like a hickey attempting to be hidden beneath thin cloth.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Gwenievere whines.

Gwenivere's expression shifts to determined resolve I've come to both admire and occasionally fear for the single-minded focus it represents.

"First things first," she states with characteristic directness. "The bonds with Zeke and Mortimer need to happen now before we proceed further."

Here we go.

The suggestion sends a territorial spike through me, though I force it back down. My Queen of Spades has never made decisions without careful consideration, even if I occasionally disagree with her conclusions.

Mortimer's scholarly features contort into a pronounced frown as the realization strikes him.

"You can't possibly be considering bonding with both of us," he objects, adjusting his glasses with a nervous precision I've rarely witnessed in his typically composed demeanor. "Zeke makes logical sense given your need to bring him forward, but I can move between realms due to my position among the Seven. There's no practical necessity."

Interesting. The dragon refuses. That's...unexpected.

I watch Mortimer carefully, assessing this uncharacteristic reluctance. Bond-reluctance isn't common among paranormals — most would kill for the opportunity to form such a connection with someone of Gwenivere's power and lineage.

The rejection suggests either remarkable self-control or knowledge of potential consequences we haven't yet considered.

Zeke steps forward, those unnervingly cat-like eyes scanning Mortimer with what appears to be genuine concern.

"That may be true about your movement between realms," he acknowledges, voice carrying that strange musical quality I'm beginning to find increasingly irritating, "but unlike anything I've observed in past cycles, the Seven and Headmaster have never personally involved themselves. Their presence changes everything."

Wait. What?

"What?" Gwenivere's voice cuts through the tension, articulating my thoughts exactly. "This is the first time they've interfered?"

So even the cat is surprised. That's...worrying.

Zeke nods slowly, uncertainty evident in his normally confident demeanor.

"Yes. In all the cycles I've witnessed, they've maintained distance, setting parameters but never directly intervening. I've been trying to determine what's different this time, but nothing immediately comes to mind."

A dark suspicion forms in my mind. In prison, authority figures only broke established patterns when something threatened the larger system. Their appearance suggests we've inadvertently triggered protocols beyond standard academy operations.

Cassius frowns, shadows coiling with what I recognize as strategic calculation rather than mere concern.