Page 3 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

Free Fall Into Uncertainty

~GWENIEVERE~

T he moment we step through the glowing entrance, reality shifts.

One instant, we're walking side by side on solid ground; the next, we're plummeting through open air.

"What the—" The words tear from my throat as my arms flail instinctively, seeking purchase where none exists.

The sudden freefall sends my stomach lurching into my throat, that unmistakable sensation of plunging from great heights. Wind whips past my face as I struggle to orient myself.

How did we get to such altitude?

The entrance gave no indication we'd be teleported skyward, yet here we are, hurtling downward at terrifying speed.

The same volcanic landscape stretches below us, lava fields glowing with malevolent light. Streams of purple mist shoot upward from the molten ground, while clouds of black and purple drift ominously above the hellscape.

Understanding dawns as I study their formations – the black must be volcanic ash from eruptions, while the purple carries the same hue as the toxic mist we saw earlier.

I scan the sky frantically, seeking Atticus.

My gaze finds him several yards above, his body positioned in a controlled descent, head swiveling as he assesses our surroundings with practiced precision.

Our eyes lock across the distance.

"The purple's poison!" I shout, my voice nearly lost to the rushing wind. "Black is volcanic!"

He frowns at this information, taking precious seconds to process before understanding registers on his face. His gaze shifts downward, and I follow it to see a massive purple cloud rushing up to meet me.

"Hold your breath!" he calls, his voice somehow cutting through the roar of our descent.

I obey instantly, pulling in a deep lungful of air before plunging into the toxic purple. The effect is immediate – my skin burns as if doused in acid, nerve endings screaming in protest. Magic responds instinctively, runes flaring to life across my exposed skin, ancient symbols of protection that shouldn't be visible while in Gabriel's form.

I force myself to ignore their manifestation, prioritizing survival over secrecy. Questions about these markings can be dealt with later, assuming we survive this initial challenge.

Right now, escaping this poisonous miasma takes precedence.

Breaking through the bottom of the cloud brings momentary relief.

I gasp, drawing fresh air into my starved lungs, only to see Atticus emerge mere seconds behind me. He's altered his position, arms locked to his sides to increase velocity, closing the distance between us with surprising speed.

His hand reaches out, grabbing my arm just as another purple cloud looms below. Together, we hold our breath, plunging through this second toxic barrier.

Fuck…this can become endless if we don’t figure things out.

When we emerge, both gasping for clean air, his grip remains firm on my forearm.

"What's the objective here?" he asks, the question practical despite our precarious situation.

"I'm not certain," I admit, brain working overtime to make sense of this trial. "We're only two, and based on the message, we likely need a team of seven for this challenge." A thought occurs. "Maybe we're meant to continue falling until we collect those seven participants?"

The words have barely left my mouth when a voice calls from above.

“Gabriel!”

Looking up, my heart stutters at the sight of three familiar figures descending toward us.

Mortimer, Cassius, and Nikolai.

The bond marks hidden beneath this new uniform respond instantly to their presence, pulsing with recognition. Cassius's cool shadows and Nikolai's golden warmth stir beneath my skin, reaching toward their retrospective sources even as my mind recoils from the connection.

I force the sensations down, burying them beneath layers of hurt and betrayal.

These men watched my humiliation without intervening, choosing points over protection. The memory of yellow liquid soaking my uniform, of laughter echoing through the cafeteria while they sat by and did nothing, hardens my resolve.

They don’t deserve my acknowledgement, even in forced circumstance.

My expression settles into a frown as they draw nearer.

Beside me, Atticus doesn't even bother acknowledging their approach, his attention deliberately focused elsewhere.

"Think we could just fall for a few hours?" he asks me dryly. "Wait for different students to show up?"

"We can hear you," Nikolai grumbles as their group reaches us, his golden hair streaming upward in our descent, glowing marvelously with the constant trigger of change in the atmosphere.

His fae magic must be going wild, attempting to figure out his surroundings that are tainted and manipulated, especially in this falling descent with no “end” in sight.

Cassius remains silent, his silver gaze fixed on me with that penetrating intensity that once made my heart race. Now I avoid his eyes, turning instead to Mortimer, who adjusts his glasses with surprising dexterity despite our freefall.

He’s the only decent one in our lot, I guess when I think about it.

"Despite the obvious tension between this particular collaboration of students," Mortimer states calmly, "this may be our best option for surviving this specific trial."

The practical assessment is so typically Mortimer that I almost smile despite myself. Almost.

"Five of seven," I note instead, scanning the sky for additional falling figures. "We're still short."

"The sylph and the shifter were right behind us at the entrance," Nikolai offers, his tone carefully neutral. "They should be along shortly."

True to his prediction, two more forms materialize through a cloud above us – the crystalline sylph who spoke earlier and a broad-shouldered figure whose features seem to flow and change slightly with each passing second.

A shifter, as Nikolai identified.

"And then there were seven," Atticus murmurs, his fingers still wrapped around my forearm in a protective grip.

I notice Cassius tracking that point of contact, his shadows writhing subtly around his shoulders. Nikolai, too, seems fixated on our connection, his golden gaze narrowing as he takes in Atticus's proximity.

Too bad. They’re wasting energy worrying and acting as if they’re able to feel a sense of jealousy.

Can’t be jealous of someone you see no value in. Surely if I was valuable, they would have interfered.

Valuable enough to put that ego aside and fight to help me in any way he could.

The sylph reaches us first, his translucent body cutting through the air with graceful efficiency. Up close, his features are even more striking – skin like polished glass through which faint blue energy courses, hair flowing in crystalline strands that catch the light from the lava far below.

On first appearance, you’d assume he was a female by default. The only obvious premise that makes it hard to believe otherwise is the fact we’re an “All Boys Institute.”

"Gabriel," he acknowledges with a slight nod. "I am Lysth."

Okay…

I sure can’t be the only one freaked out by this individual’s ability to know who I am. It’s either that or he’s some sort of stalker “girlfriend” keeping me hostage with the premise of this Trial challenge.

The shifter arrives next, his form finally settling into something humanoid, though his features retain an unsettling fluidity, as if his face hasn't quite decided which configuration to hold.

"Mordax," he introduces himself without preamble, voice fluctuating between bass and tenor. "Is this everyone?"

"Seven in total," Mortimer confirms, adjusting his glasses again. "A perfect match for the prophecy's first line."

As much as I want to know how exactly he’s able to predict these things, we have more pressing matters to focus on first.

"So what now?" Nikolai asks, drifting closer to our loose formation. I note that he specifically positions himself between me and Cassius, as if trying to create some buffer between us.

The gesture comes far too late to matter.

"We keep falling and hope for instructions?" Lysth suggests, his crystalline voice tinkling like wind chimes despite the chaos of our descent.

"Or we could examine the objective before us," Mortimer counters, gesturing toward the landscape below. "Look closely at the pattern of those clouds."

Following his direction, I study the toxic purple formations we've been avoiding. From our altitude, a pattern emerges – they're arranged in concentric rings, creating what appears to be a massive target on the volcanic landscape.

At the center, barely visible from our height, stands some kind of structure.

"A landing zone," I murmur, understanding dawning.

"Precisely," Mortimer nods. "And I suspect our challenge is to reach it intact, as a complete team of seven."

"Through poison clouds and volcanic ash," Lysth adds, his crystalline brow furrowing. "Charming."

Atticus's grip on my arm tightens slightly, drawing my attention. His expression remains neutral, but I catch the subtle tension in his jaw, the calculation in his eyes as he assesses our newfound companions.

"We need a formation," he says, addressing the group but keeping his focus on me. "Something that maximizes our collective talents while minimizing exposure to those clouds."

"And what exactly are your talents?" Nikolai asks, his tone carrying just enough edge to make his suspicion clear.

Atticus finally acknowledges him, crimson eyes meeting gold in a clash of ancient powers that makes the air between them almost vibrate with tension.

"Survival," he answers simply. "I'm very good at surviving things that should kill me."

The loaded statement hangs in the air between us all, charged with implications none of them could possibly understand. None except me, who knows exactly what Atticus survived.

What he sacrificed, what he became in the process.

"Well," Mortimer interrupts the tense silence, ever the pragmatist, "survival skills will certainly prove valuable in our current predicament."

Another purple cloud approaches below, larger than the previous ones. We all inhale simultaneously, holding our breath as we plunge through the toxic mist. The burning sensation returns, less surprising but no less painful than before.

I feel the runes activate again, magical protection flaring beneath my skin.

When we emerge, gasping collectively, Atticus hasn't released his hold on me, but his other hand now grips Mordax's shoulder, keeping our group connected. Nikolai has linked arms with Lysth, who in turn grasps Mortimer's hand.

Only Cassius remains unanchored, his shadows serving as tendrils that reach toward our loosely formed chain without quite making contact.

"Dragon…" Nikolai states, which I can only assume he’s addressing Mortimer, "can you still transform mid-air?"

The casual revelation of Mortimer's true nature startles both Lysth and Mordax, their expressions shifting to wary respect. I'd almost forgotten that most students aren't aware of the "pet" dragon in their midst.

I wasn’t much different, but the idea of seeing him in dragon form does ignite a hint of thrumming excitement.

"Theoretically," Mortimer replies, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Though the resulting size change would create significant aerodynamic challenges in our current formation."

"Translation: I'd crush you all," I take the honors to translate, which encourages a thin smile to form on his lips. "What about partial transformation?" I suggest. "Just wings?"

Mortimer considers this, his expression thoughtful.

"Possible, though maintaining stability with seven passengers would be...complicated."

"We don't need to fly," Atticus interjects. "We just need to control our descent and navigate those cloud rings to reach the center."

His strategy makes sense – flying would make us a larger target in a possibly hostile environment. Better to maintain our current trajectory while adjusting our course toward the central target.

"Duskwalker," Atticus addresses Cassius directly for the first time, his tone neutral but commanding. "Your shadows, can they form a barrier against the poison?"

Cassius stares at him for a long moment, silver eyes unreadable. I can feel the tension radiating from him, not just from being addressed by a stranger, but from witnessing my connection with said stranger.

"Temporarily," Cassius finally answers, his voice carrying that familiar cool detachment. "Though sustaining it around seven people would drain me quickly."

"Then we use it strategically," Atticus decides. "Only when absolutely necessary, for the thickest cloud layers."

The authoritative way he takes charge should probably irritate the others, especially Nikolai and Cassius, who are accustomed to leading rather than following. To my surprise, neither argues.

Perhaps they sense what I already know – Atticus possesses the kind of hard-earned survival instinct that can't be taught in royal courts or academic settings.

He learned it fighting for his life in prison, among the most dangerous paranormal criminals in existence. Learned it by transforming from victim to victor through sheer force of will.

"The sylph's natural composition should provide some resistance to the toxins," Mortimer observes, nodding toward Lysth. "Perhaps he could scout ahead, identify the clearest path through the cloud rings."

Lysth nods, his crystalline features shifting to something more aerodynamic. "I can manage that. The poison stings but doesn't penetrate my outer layers."

"And the shifter?" Nikolai asks, eyeing Mordax with professional assessment.

Mordax's features ripple slightly, skin hardening into something scale-like.

"I can adapt to most environmental hazards, given sufficient time to shift my cellular structure."

"Which leaves the rest of us vulnerable," I summarize, looking down at the approaching cloud rings. "We'll need to coordinate our breaths, move quickly through the toxic zones."

"We should link up more securely," Atticus suggests. "Form a chain that won't break no matter how much turbulence we encounter."

The idea of physically connecting with Nikolai and Cassius, of touching the men who betrayed my trust so thoroughly, makes my stomach clench.

But survival takes precedence over personal feelings…at least for now.

"Agreed," Mortimer says. "I suggest a formation with Lysth at the forepoint, followed by myself, then Gabriel and his...friend." He hesitates over what to call Atticus, clearly sensing there's more to our relationship than mere “acquaintance”.

"Atticus," he supplies smoothly. "And I stay with Gabriel."

"Of course," Mortimer acknowledges with a slight nod. "Then Nikolai, Cassius, and Mordax as anchor, since his adaptable form can best handle the rear position's turbulence."

The arrangement seems logical enough, though I note how it deliberately separates me from direct contact with either Nikolai or Cassius.

Thank goodness…

Maybe it’s cowardly, even as a male, but the idea of being touched by them in the most simplistic gesture gives me the “ick”.

Whether Mortimer did this out of consideration for the tension between us or some other calculation, I'm grateful.

Lysth doesn't wait for further discussion, adjusting his descent to take point position. His crystalline body catches the red light from below, refracting it into a thousand tiny rainbows that dance across his surface.

Despite the dire circumstances, the effect is breathtaking.

Mortimer positions himself behind him, reaching back to offer his hand to me.

I take it after only a moment's hesitation, my other hand still firmly gripped by Atticus. The chain forms rapidly – Nikolai behind Atticus, then Cassius, with Mordax taking the rear position as suggested.

Connected this way, we begin adjusting our descent, aiming for the center of the concentric cloud rings. Lysth calls back information about thinner sections, guiding our human chain through the treacherous aerial obstacle course.

Another purple cloud approaches, this one thicker than previous formations.

I draw a deep breath, preparing for the burning sensation that follows. Cassius's shadows stretch forward just before impact, creating a thin barrier that partially shields us from the worst effects.

Even with this protection, the passage through the poison is agonizing. My lungs burn with the effort of holding my breath, skin prickling despite the shadow shield. The runes activate again, their protective magic flowing across my body in waves of ancient power.

We emerge gasping, the chain momentarily stretching as each of us reacts to the painful transition. But our grips hold, keeping us connected through the turbulence.

"The center structure," Lysth calls back, his voice carrying easily despite our speed. "I can see it more clearly now – some kind of platform floating above the lava."

"Our destination, presumably," Mortimer notes. "Though how we're meant to land without becoming smears on its surface remains an open question."

"Maybe that's part of the challenge," Nikolai suggests, gold eyes scanning the approaching landscape. "Finding a way to slow our descent before impact."

"Or maybe they just want to see which of us survives the landing," Atticus says darkly. "Two will fall, remember?"

The grim reminder of the prophecy silences us momentarily.

Seven will rise, but two won't continue beyond this challenge. The question of who those two might be hangs unspoken between us, adding another layer of tension to our precarious alliance.

As we continue our controlled plummet toward the central platform, I can't help wondering how this temporary team will fare once we're on solid ground again.

Atticus clearly has no intention of playing nice with the princes who failed to protect me. Nikolai and Cassius seem equally wary of this newcomer who holds my hand with such familiar confidence.

We plunge through another cloud, this one a sickly yellow-green unlike the purple formations we've encountered so far. The difference becomes immediately apparent as microscopic assailants materialize on our skin.

Fire ants.

Not the ordinary terrestrial variety, but magical constructs that materialize from the mist itself. They skitter across exposed skin with merciless efficiency, tiny mandibles sinking into flesh with burning precision.

"What the hell?!" I cry out, slapping frantically at my arms where dozens of the minuscule tormentors have already begun their assault.

Around me, the others react with varying degrees of control. Cassius's shadows whip outward, sweeping across his skin in undulating waves that send the magical insects flying into the void. The display of power is effortless, almost elegant – a reminder of the formidable abilities I once found so captivating.

Nikolai takes a different approach. Golden light emanates from his perfect skin, creating a shimmering barrier that the ants cannot penetrate. Those already attached sizzle and disintegrate into sparks, unable to withstand the raw fae energy pulsing beneath his epidermis.

Lysth vibrates his entire molecular structure at a frequency that sends the insects scattering. His translucent body oscillates like a tuning fork, creating ripples in the air that distort the light around him.

Mordax struggles more visibly, his shape-shifting abilities working furiously to adapt to the attack. His skin ripples and flows, attempting to find a composition the ants cannot penetrate, but they seem particularly drawn to his left arm and leg, congregating there in writhing masses.

My own defense manifests without conscious thought – runes blazing to life across my skin in intricate patterns of ancient magic. The symbols glow with internal fire, sending the magical insects scurrying away from their protective perimeter. They retreat from the marked territory, abandoning their attack with what almost seems like reluctance.

Watching how they resort to jumping off my flesh to “save” themselves is even more questioning, but I’m more relieved that their presence is absent, taking that burning nagging sensation away with their erupting departure.

Strangest of all is Atticus.

The ants simply don't approach or try to land on him. They materialize on his clothes but immediately drop away, as if encountering something so fundamentally hostile they dare not attempt contact. His expression remains neutral, though the slight quirk of his eyebrow indicates he's well aware of his unusual immunity.

Momentarily distracted from my own predicament, I find my attention drawn to Mortimer. The transformation beginning across his exposed skin is mesmerizing – scales forming in overlapping patterns of deep crimson, with hints of orange and gold gleaming at their edges.

These aren't the pristine scales of a young dragon, but ancient ones that speak of centuries weathering the elements. Each one carries micro-patterns, almost like fingerprints, telling stories of battles won and lost, of magic encountered and absorbed. The coloration suggests fire alignment, though the golden undertones hint at something rarer – perhaps a hybrid lineage combining multiple draconic bloodlines.

My fascination must show on my face, because Mortimer notices my stare and offers a slight, knowing smile. The partial transformation stops at his forearms, containing itself like a controlled experiment rather than a full metamorphosis.

"Impressed?" he asks quietly, just for my ears.

"I've never seen dragonscales up close before," I admit, momentarily forgetting the chaos of our descent in the wonder of this revelation.

"Few have," he acknowledges. "Fewer still live to tell about it."

Nikolai's voice interrupts our exchange, his tone sharp with something that might be jealousy or simply concern.

"The runes, Gabriel. When did those appear?"

I follow his gaze to the glowing symbols decorating my arms, now fully visible through the torn sleeves of my uniform. The ancient magic pulses with protective energy, still dispelling the last of the fire ants.

"Of course the runes are going to appear when I'm in my own domain," I retort, the lie coming easily.

At least, the purpose is to make them believe something they surely wouldn’t accept otherwise.

Nikolai's eyes narrow suspiciously.

"This is Faerie," he counters. "If anything, this is my domain."

Clearly taking the bait…

"Gabriel's probably getting conceited after beating the first trial," Mordax interjects with a gravelly chuckle, still working to remove the last ants from his shifting flesh. "Word spread quickly among the shifters. I guess he can boast as he wishes, since it was something never accomplished before."

The casual mention of my achievement – breaking a fifty-year streak of failure – comes with uncomfortable complications. Drawing attention to myself was never part of my plan at Wicked Academy. Being infamous for the trial victory puts unwanted scrutiny on Gabriel, scrutiny that might eventually reveal Gwenivere.

From just finding a chalice and being on my way back to Elena and now here I am, falling to my potential doom with a man from the past who went to jail for me while messing with royal princes who ignored my existence when I needed them the most.

Ironic.

Before I can formulate a response that won't further complicate matters, Atticus squeezes my hand. Our eyes lock in a moment of silent communication – his warning clear.

Don't reveal too much.

His intervention comes just in time.

Ahead looms a massive cloud unlike any we've encountered so far. Where the previous formations were merely threatening, this monstrosity radiates active malevolence. Pitch black at its core, the periphery crackles with purple electricity that arcs between floating spines like nervous systems gone haywire. Noxious fumes escape in hissing jets that suggest internal pressure seeking release.

"Holy fuck," Mordax mutters, his voice modulating through several octaves as his form instinctively tries to find a configuration that might withstand what's coming.

"Whatever's in there," Cassius observes quietly, "is going to hurt when we come out."

The understatement hangs between us as we hurtle toward the ominous formation, our chain of linked bodies maintaining course despite individual reservations.

"Now or never," I declare, scanning the distance between this final obstacle and the platform that awaits beyond. "Time to execute the plan. Mortimer needs to shift and aim for the landing zone."

Mordax glances between us uncertainly. "You actually expect to ride a dragon through that electrical deathtrap?"

"Got a better idea?" Atticus counters without looking back.

Mortimer clears his throat, adjusting his glasses in that scholarly way that seems increasingly incongruous with the scales spreading across his skin. "I should warn you that taming a dragon to abide by your orders once I've shifted may prove... tedious."

"Rest assured," Nikolai interjects with casual arrogance, "you're our 'pet' after all. You'll abide by our commands."

"Indeed," Cassius adds, his tone carrying that cool certainty of royalty accustomed to obedience.

The presumption might have rankled me once, but now it simply highlights the disconnect between these princes and reality. Their certainty that Mortimer will obey, based solely on his designated status as their "pet," showcases the entitlement that allowed them to watch my humiliation without intervention.

And I was falling madly in love with them…ugh.

Love is truly blind.

Mortimer's expression remains impassive, but when his gaze meets mine, a tiny smirk forms at the corner of his mouth. His eyes twinkle with mischief – a silent communication that suggests their confidence may be misplaced.

I can't help but return that smirk, a moment of conspiracy passing between us. Whatever Mortimer has planned, it seems it may not align perfectly with the princes' expectations.

Then again, as long as I survive with Atticus, it’s not my problem.

"Let's do this," I announce, focusing on the approaching electrical nightmare before us.

Mordax and Lysth exchange glances, clearly recalculating their odds of survival now that they've attached themselves to our chaotic group. The sylph's crystalline features remain difficult to read, but there's a resignation in the set of his translucent shoulders that suggests he's committed to our course of action, however dubious it might be.

"On my signal," Mortimer instructs, his voice deepening as the transformation accelerates. Scales now cover his neck, creeping up his jawline in a pattern that suggests the change will be complete within moments. "Release the chain and position yourselves on my back once the shift completes."

The imminent transformation forces us to adjust our strategy. Our human chain begins to spread out slightly, maintaining contact but allowing room for what comes next.

"Duskwalker," Mortimer addresses Cassius directly, though I’m coming to realize he’s using their titles for some sort of reasoning. Maybe a professional reminder, especially with how his voice now carries harmonic undertones that vibrate the air around us. "Your shadows will need to shield us through the cloud. Can you maintain coverage for approximately fifteen seconds?"

Cassius nods, his silver eyes narrowing in concentration as his shadows begin to thicken around him.

"Fifteen seconds," he confirms. "Not a moment longer."

"Fae," Mortimer continues, turning to Nikolai. "Your golden light should counteract some of the electrical discharge. Focus it outward, create a field that dampens the energy without attracting the lightning."

Nikolai's expression suggests he's not accustomed to taking orders, but he inclines his head slightly.

"I can manage that."

"Sylph, your crystalline structure will refract any light-based attacks. Position yourself at the dorsal ridge once I transform. Shifter, adapt for electrical resistance – silicon-based if you can manage it."

Mordax and Lysth nod their understanding, their expressions showing newfound respect for the scholarly "pet" who now commands with the authority of an ancient being.

"Hybrid and..." Mortimer hesitates, his gaze shifting between me and Atticus with that same calculating assessment he applies to complex magical theorems. "...Pureblood.”

Wait a damn minute. Pureblood?

I’m already looking at Atticus with curiosity, but he simply smirks, knowing damn well everyone is looking his way at the obvious revelation. If Mortimer is acknowledging it, that means it’s legit.

Duskwalker, Fae, Dragon, and a Pureblood…all tangled with a Hybrid.

The sudden wonder if Atticus has any royal background hums through my mind, but I quickly push it to the back as Mortimer is continuing with the game plan.

“You'll take position directly behind my head. Your runes should provide additional protection, and your friend's unique resistance to magical threats will be valuable at the forefront."

The careful way he phrases this, acknowledging Atticus's unexplained immunity without directly questioning it, reminds me why Mortimer earned his place among the Seven.

His intelligence extends beyond mere academic knowledge – he sees patterns others miss, connections hidden beneath surfaces.

"And if this goes sideways?" Atticus asks, his voice calm despite the looming danger. "What's plan B?"

"Aim for the platform and hope you survive the impact," Mortimer answers frankly. "Two will fall, remember? The prophecy doesn't guarantee we all make it."

Well…shit.

The blunt assessment silences further questions.

The cloud approaches rapidly now, its electrical discharges increasing in frequency and intensity. Purple lightning arcs between spine-like protrusions, creating a deadly web we'll need to navigate.

"Now," Mortimer commands, his voice no longer remotely human.

His transformation happens with explosive force – one moment he's a man with scaled skin, the next a massive dragon unfurls in our midst, wingspan blocking out the volcanic glow from below.

Deep crimson scales armor his serpentine body, reflecting the hellish landscape in metallic highlights of gold and orange. His head extends on a sinuous neck, horns spiraling backward from his skull in elegant curves that speak of age and power.

The change in scale is disorienting – where once stood a man of normal proportions now hovers a beast large enough to carry all six of us comfortably. Our chain breaks as each person scrambles to find purchase on the dragon's back, following the positions Mortimer outlined.

Atticus reacts with impressive speed, pulling me toward the base of Mortimer's neck where scales form a natural seating area.

We settle there just as Cassius and Nikolai take their positions further back, their movements betraying years of coordinated action. Lysth finds his place at the dorsal ridge, his crystalline body merging partially with the scales beneath him in a defensive posture. Mordax brings up the rear, his form now gleaming with silicon hardness, adapted specifically for electrical resistance as instructed.

"Hold tight," Mortimer's voice booms, no longer coming from a mouth but resonating directly in our minds. "And whatever happens, don't let go."

The warning comes just in time.

Massive wings beat once, twice, adjusting our trajectory toward the electrical cloud. Cassius's shadows stretch outward, forming a dome-like barrier around us all that ripples with protective magic. Simultaneously, Nikolai's golden aura expands, creating a field that seems to bend the ambient energy around us rather than blocking it directly.

My own runes flare brighter in response to the imminent danger, their protective enchantments resonating with the ancient power of the dragon beneath us. Atticus's arms wrap securely around my waist, his presence solid and reassuring against the chaos that surrounds us.

We hit the cloud at full velocity.

The impact is unlike anything I've experienced – not pain exactly, but a sensation of every molecule in my body trying to vibrate at a different frequency. The electricity doesn't shock so much as rewrite, attempting to reconfigure my very essence into something other than what I am.

Cassius's shadow barrier absorbs the worst of it, but even that formidable protection begins to fragment under the assault. Purple lightning penetrates in by thin tendrils, seeking weaknesses, hunting vulnerabilities with an intelligence that suggests this is no ordinary storm.

Nikolai's golden field creates a secondary defense, bending the energy away from vital areas, but sweat beads on his perfect brow as the effort taxes even his considerable power.

Through it all, Mortimer drives forward with single-minded determination, massive wings beating against the resistant medium of the cloud. Each movement costs him – I can feel the tremors running through his scaled body as the electrical discharge targets his vulnerable wing membranes.

"Almost through," his mental voice assures us, though the strain is evident in its harmonics.

The fifteen seconds Cassius promised stretch into what feels like eternity. His shadows begin to thin dangerously, holes appearing in our protective dome as his power reaches its limits. Through these gaps, purple lightning strikes with increasing accuracy, scoring direct hits that draw hisses of pain from various members of our group.

A particularly vicious bolt penetrates directly above me, and I brace for impact.

Instead, Atticus shifts, placing his body between me and the attack. The electricity strikes him squarely between the shoulder blades, but instead of causing harm, it seems to absorb into his skin, leaving him completely unaffected.

"Interesting trick," I mutter, glancing back at him. “Show off…”

His answering smile carries no humor.

"Prison teaches you many things," he replies quietly, "including how to make the unendurable work in your favor." Giving me a wink that taunts his hidden amusement, he holds me partially while keeping himself clinging to Mortimer as we continue this glide through the pulsating cloud.

Before I can question this cryptic statement, we burst through the other side of the cloud. The sudden absence of resistance nearly sends Lysth flying off his perch, his crystalline hands scrabbling for purchase on the smooth scales.

The platform looms before us, much closer than expected.

Its surface gleams with runes similar to those that adorn my skin, ancient magic embedded in what appears to be obsidian stone. The structure hovers impossibly above the lava fields, supported by nothing visible, defying gravity through sheer magical will.

"Brace for landing!" Mortimer's mental voice commands, his massive body already angling for the approach.

Dragon wings extend to their full span, catching the superheated air and using it to brake and slow our momentum. The maneuver is impressive but insufficient to fully counter our velocity. We're coming in too fast, the platform rushing up to meet us with unforgiving solidity.

"Hold on!" I shout, unnecessarily – no one seems inclined to let go as Mortimer makes his final approach.

The impact when it comes is jarring but controlled, Mortimer's claws scrabbling for purchase on the obsidian surface as his body skids across the platform. We cling desperately to his scales, the friction threatening to tear us from our positions despite our best efforts.

Finally, mercifully, we come to a stop near the center of the circular landing zone. For a moment, no one moves, each of us taking inventory of our bodies, assessing damage and confirming survival.

"Everyone intact?" Mortimer asks, his mental voice carrying exhaustion beneath the query.

"Define 'intact,'" Lysth replies, his crystalline voice tinkling with stress fractures.

"I've had worse landings," Nikolai offers, already sliding gracefully from his position to stand on the obsidian surface.

Cassius dismounts silently, his shadows hanging limp around him like exhausted soldiers. The effort of maintaining the barrier has clearly drained him beyond his usual limits, though his expression betrays nothing.

Mordax shifts back to a more humanoid form, wincing as he puts weight on his left leg. "Think I fractured something," he mutters, though his body is already working to repair the damage, tissue visibly knitting beneath his torn uniform.

Atticus releases his hold on my waist, allowing me to slide down Mortimer's scaled side to the platform. He follows with that same predatory grace I've come to associate with him – a far cry from the awkward movements of "Chubby Atti."

"Seven arrived," he observes quietly. "And seven survived. So much for 'two will fall.'"

As if triggered by his words, a deep rumble emanates from beneath us.

The platform trembles, obsidian surface rippling like disturbed water. The runes embedded in the stone flare to life, their arcane light painting our faces in eldritch patterns.

"You had to say it, didn't you?" Nikolai mutters, casting Atticus a sidelong glare.

Before anyone can respond, the platform separates – splitting into seven distinct segments that begin to drift apart, carrying each of us in different directions.

"What's happening?" Lysth calls, his crystalline form refracting the runic light into kaleidoscopic patterns.

"The real trial begins," Mortimer responds, but the odd thing of his voice, is how it sounds as though it’s fading away. "This was merely the appetizer of the trial.”

“Mortimer?” I acknowledge hesitantly, feeling as if something is oddly wrong with him as our pillar of floating platform is drifting further apart, leaving him in a centerpiece of rock. His massive head looks my way, and I can see the rooted sadness in his eyes that is beginning to shift and lose a sense of recognition.

“I apologize in advance, Gwenivere.”

“What does he mean by that?” Mordax questions, clinging to his injured leg.

“What’s wrong?” Nikolai demands with a frustrated gaze.

“Something is wrong with the dragon,” Lysth acknowledges what I’ve already grown aware of. I’m looking for Atticus, who’s not only deep frowning, but he’s widening his stance, as if preparing for a fleet of warriors to come out of nowhere.

“We fucked up,” he declares, his eyes darkening with a rooted glow of red. “That cloud did more than try to kill us.”

“Then what did it do?” Nikolai demands, but he looks to Cassius as his shadows begin to form behind him, until the Duskwalker being, hovers like a predator ready to strike.

“It tainted the best weapon we had,” Cassius declares in realization, in his eyes darkening as his attention is on Mortimer. “And now we’re its prey.”