Page 30 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

Wicked Karma And Reclaim Your Throne

~GWENIVERE~

" I HATE YOU! I hate you, you, YOU!"

I stare in disbelief, my eyes watering despite trying not to cry. The words cut deeper than any blade, slicing through whatever composure I'd managed to maintain.

I stand there, taking every ounce of hate, while my body is drenched with water that forces me to keep trembling. The liquid seeps through my clothes, cold against my skin, mixing with tears I refuse to let fall.

El is mad at me again. I'm not as close to perfection as I should be.

The familiar ache of inadequacy expands in my chest, a hollow pain I've grown accustomed to carrying. No matter how hard I try, it's never enough.

Never perfect enough.

Never strong enough.

Never good enough.

I'm not able to move faster than I should, and the magic isn't working as I'd wished. The intricate patterns I'd attempted refuse to take proper form, energy sputtering and fading where it should blaze with power. I'd drawn all these painful runes on my flesh, each one burning as I carved them into my skin, hoping to show that I could do better.

Be better.

But it only made El angrier.

The disappointment radiating from that gaze feels like a physical weight pressing down on me, crushing whatever fragile hope I'd foolishly nurtured.

The screams and shouts continue, words blurring together into a storm of condemnation that hits me from every direction to the point I'm not sure I can stand still in my spot.

My muscles ache with the effort of remaining immobile. If I move, I'll be punished, but how much longer can I hold onto this level of patience? How much more can I endure before something inside me simply shatters?

I wish Mom and Dad were here. The thought surfaces unexpectedly, bringing fresh pain with it. Why did they have to die? Their absence leaves a void nothing can fill, certainly not this pitiful attempt at measuring up to impossible standards.

"Gabe?"

I frown, confusion momentarily overriding fear as I lift my little head. Through tear-blurred vision, I see two breathless individuals behind El, their faces twisted with horror at the scene unfolding before them.

My little hands tremble uncontrollably as recognition dawns, impossible and overwhelming.

"Mommy? Daddy?"

Their presence makes no sense — they're gone, have been gone —yet here they stand, looking at me with expressions of mingled fear and desperation. My heart stutters in my chest, hope and terror battling for dominance.

As if the words trigger El, I watch the way realization clocks in, fury raging through the aura that grows stronger like it's inflamed with rage. The power building in the air feels electric, making my skin crawl with warning.

"No. No. NO! YOU WILL NOT RETURN. Not until PERFECTION! Not until I CLAIM what's mine!"

The voice changes, something ancient and terrible bleeding into the familiar tones. The transformation is terrifying to witness—something inhuman wearing the face of someone I know.

"Elena, STOP THIS!" Mother screams, fighting to reach out. Her fingers stretch toward me, desperation making her movements frantic. Whatever she sees in El's expression triggers genuine fear in her eyes.

"IT'S EL!"

The declaration erupts with supernatural force. My body is pushed backward by invisible hands, making me gasp as my feet leave the ground. I see my parents' eyes widen in horror, their mouths open in twin shouts I can't quite hear over the rushing in my ears. Mother's scream echoes as her hands extend, tendrils of wind that take on a physical manifestation seek to cushion me before I drop to whatever oblivion is below. The magic she summons swirls with desperate intent, trying to form a net to catch me.

But I'm forced to look up, as if some invisible hand has grasped my chin, tilting my face toward the sky. The clouds above have gathered into an ominous spiral, darkness coalescing into something that makes my stomach clench with primal terror. Through the swirling mass, I see the dark bolt of electricity forming, gathering power before plunging downward to strike its sole target.

Me.

I can only gasp in preparation, lungs filling with one final breath as the deadly magic speeds toward me. The world seems to slow, each heartbeat stretching into eternity as death approaches from above. And I dare hear my Father scream for the first time—not in anger or disappointment, but in pure, unadulterated terror.

"GAbrIEL!"

The raw anguish in his voice is the last thing I register before pain shoots through my entire chest, white-hot agony that obliterates all thought. My body convulses with the force of it, nerves on fire as the magic rips through me. I gasp for breath, darkness crowding the edges of my vision, and then?—

My eyes snap open.

The transition is jarring, memory and present colliding with such force that I can't immediately distinguish between them. All I know is danger—immediate and overwhelming.

I'm in fight or flight in a heartbeat, primal instinct overriding conscious thought. I tackle whoever is on top of me with vampiric speed, sending them right on their back with enough force to crack stone. My fingers extend into lethal claws, prepared to tear through flesh. Magic surges through my system, elemental power responding to survival instinct rather than conscious direction.

Before I can deliver what would certainly be a killing blow, woven words of power force me to stop, freezing my extended nails that are cloaked in so many elements I can't comprehend. Fire, ice, lightning, and shadow all coalesce around my fingers, responding to emotion rather than intent.

"GWENIEVERE STOP!"

My mind registers it as Atticus' command in overwhelming authority, his voice carrying harmonics that bypass conscious thought to resonate directly with the bond we share.

But the control triggers something visceral in me, a rejection of any attempt to limit my actions.

It aggravates me to the core, fury replacing fear as I hiss in the face of the person I've pinned. My eyes burn with wild power, hair floating around my face as if suspended in water, and I notice burning flames surrounding us in a perfect circle as I fight for breath.

Each inhalation feels inadequate, my lungs refusing to expand properly against the panic squeezing my chest.

"Don't touch her," I surprisingly register Professor Eternalis' voice, the calm authority in her tone somehow penetrating the haze of rage and terror.

The wild power pulsing through me wishes to kill everything in my path, to destroy any potential threat before it can harm me. I look into eyes of various shades, reds, and golds, with a hint of flame while those slits are only focused on me.

They don't belong to Professor Eternalis.

They're watching me with careful attention, neither challenging nor submitting, simply observing with ancient patience.

"Gwenivere," the voice speaks slowly, the depths of his voice a rumbling bass that carries centuries of knowledge.

The scales that are retreating back into his naked flesh shimmer with iridescent colors, disappearing beneath human-appearing skin. The sight finally breaks through my panic enough for recognition to dawn — I'm on top of Mortimer.

He's clearly no longer a dragon, now in human form with plenty of wounds along his body, but his focus is on me.

I'm struggling to figure out why one minute he looks like a stranger but the next, he is the scholarly dragon necromancer who'd wished to be left behind.

"Queen of Spades," Atticus' voice is gentler now, in deliberate contrast to the commanding tone he used moments before.

I sense his approach, which has my eyes darting his way, muscles tensing for potential attack.

His hands are up in a universal gesture of non-aggression, proving he's not going to harm me, but my hiss only deepens into something feral and threatening, while my eyes narrow dangerously.

"You know I'd never hurt you, baby. Breathe."

The endearment, so casually offered despite my obvious danger, penetrates some of the fog clouding my thoughts. Despite the confusion, I know in my heart that he's right, which is probably why I feel a tad sense of calm begins to take over.

The certainty of his presence — solid, unwavering, completely committed to my well-being — creates an anchor point amid chaotic thoughts.

I lower my hand enough to see the strikingly long nails oozing dark magic, the evidence of what I nearly did sending a shiver of horror through me. The claws are bleeding with added burns, magic having turned inward when prevented from finding the external target.

Either way, I realize I'm alive — heart pounding, breath ragged, but unmistakably alive — and slowly look around to see everyone but Nikolai present.

The realization that we're one short sends a fresh spike of alarm through me.

Where is he? What happened while I was trapped in that nightmare of memory?

Atticus approaches me, until he slowly kneels next to me, and reaches out to me, caressing my cheek so I'll realize I'm safe and okay.

The gentleness in his touch grounds me, pulling me back from the edge of whatever darkness threatened to consume me moments before.

I finally calm down, shaking before Atticus pulls me into a hug, whispering that it's okay. I'm okay. His arms around me feel like the only solid thing in a world gone mad, his steady heartbeat against my ear creating a rhythm I can cling to.

"We must move immediately," she insists, one jeweled hand making a cutting gesture that brooks no argument. "What I've done will not hold them for long. The distraction was merely temporary—a glamour of sufficient complexity to confuse, but not truly deceive those who hunt you now."

All she could do was distract them, but if we want to avoid being permanently caught, we must leave.

The word "permanently" lingers in the air between us with ominous weight, suggesting fates worse than detention or expulsion. There's something in her expression — a tightness around those extraordinary eyes, a tension in the elegant line of her jaw — that conveys dangers beyond anything we've faced in classroom trials or controlled challenges.

The urgency in her tone suggests consequences beyond mere academic penalties— whatever happened while I was trapped in memory or unconsciousness has escalated beyond ordinary academy politics.

This isn't about points or advancement anymore; the stakes have shifted into territory where failure might mean erasure rather than mere setbacks.

The way her gaze keeps returning to the corridors beyond our temporary sanctuary carries the hypervigilance of prey aware of predators circling ever closer.

Atticus scoops me up without hesitation, one arm beneath my knees and the other supporting my back. The familiar motion carries echoes of other rescues, other moments when my body has failed me and he's been there to ensure I didn't fall.

He’s kept his word, again and again, which I’m thankful for.

Cassius and Zeke ask Mortimer if he needs help, their voices mixing with concern as they approach the scholarly dragon.

Despite being naked and covered in wounds that would kill a normal person, Mortimer just stands there like it's no big deal, his skin still shifting as scales retreat beneath the surface.

"I'll be fine," he says, waving them off like his injuries are nothing more than minor inconveniences. "I've been worse." The casual way he dismisses what looks like serious damage tells me more about his age than any lecture on ancient history ever could.

You don't shrug off wounds like that unless you've had centuries to get used to pain.

But then he turns to Professor Eternalis, and his scholarly tone shifts to something more serious as he says I need medical attention the moment we arrive.

The fact that he's more concerned about me than his own bleeding body makes my stomach tighten. Whatever happened to me while I was out must have been bad. Really bad.

"You all do," she says, those weird mismatched eyes of hers—one red, one violet—sweeping over us like she's cataloging every injury, every magical drain, every drop of blood we've lost.

Then she adds that "the infiltration will be handled accordingly," and there's something in her voice that sounds like a promise of violence.

I try to understand what she means, but my thoughts are too foggy, my mind still trying to piece together what the hell happened while I was lost in that memory or dream or whatever it was.

"I had no participation in this," Mortimer suddenly says, his voice sharper than I've ever heard it. He sounds defensive, almost desperate for her to believe him. Whoever "they" are, they've obviously accused him of something serious.

Something that has him rattled despite all his centuries of careful composure.

Professor Eternalis sighs, and I force my head to turn just enough to see her place her hand on his shoulder. The gesture looks weirdly intimate coming from her—I've never seen her touch anyone with that kind of empathy before.

Her face softens as she looks at him, and suddenly I wonder if there's a history between them I never knew about.

"They've shunned you for a reason I cannot comprehend or explain, but I've known and seen your devotion long enough, Mortimer, to know what a setup is when I see one."

A setup? Who the fuck would set up Mortimer? And why?

The realization hits me that there are layers of academy politics we haven't even begun to understand—forces moving against us, against Mortimer specifically, that we never saw coming. We've been so focused on surviving day to day that we missed the bigger game being played around us.

Mortimer doesn't argue or defend himself.

He just bobs his head, his expression so defeated it makes me feel sick to see it. This is Mortimer — ancient, knowledgeable, always composed — looking like he's lost a war I didn't even know was being fought. Then again, I bet he feels as if he’s lost his very identity. The defeat sits all wrong on his scholarly features, like watching a mountain bow or the sun decide not to rise.

"Lift your head," she tells him, her voice gentler than I've ever heard from the typically no-nonsense professor. "Our hearts are thankfully beating, and this next realm will be one you’ll have the most knowledge in to aid your unit."

So we're going to make it to the next realm.

Year Three.

Despite everything that's happened, we're still advancing. And apparently Mortimer's knowledge will be crucial there.

That's something to hold onto, at least.

"Will you be there?" he asks her, and the question feels loaded with meaning I'm too tired to fully decipher. He's not just asking about logistics but on a rooted level between professional scholars.

She smiles sadly but admits she'll do her best when the time is right. I don't miss the evasion in her answer, or the way her eyes flick toward shadows where nothing seems to be moving.

There's more going on here— constraints on what she can do, who she can help, where her loyalties must lie.

I've seen enough politics in this fucked-up academy to recognize when someone's hands are tied by forces they can't openly defy.

She gestures ahead with graceful efficiency, her jeweled fingers cutting through the air in a motion too precise to be casual.

"Hurry and all of you drink the antidotes I've given you. They taste absolutely disgusting, but they'll ensure you pass through, no matter whether the throne activates or not."

Antidotes? Throne? The words tug at something in my memory, connections trying to form through the mental haze still clouding my thoughts.

"Professor Eternalis..." Zeke whispers, and I'm surprised by the hesitation in his usually confident voice. It's musical, like always, but carrying a vulnerability I don't think I've ever heard from him before.

She smiles at him and nods encouragingly.

The expression transforms her face completely, softening those sharp features into something almost maternal — a stark contrast to her usual clinical demeanor.

Her mismatched eyes hold genuine affection as she looks at him.

"It's time for you to go on the adventure destined for you, Zeke. Do not hold back, for you sacrificed a lot for this reality. Don't let it be stolen by those who are not worthy of your salvation."

The way she says it— "this reality" not "the reality" —makes my skin prickle.

Sacrifice and salvation.

Such heavy words for my skinny cat-boy friend with his extraordinary eyes and quiet courage. They clearly have history I know nothing about, despite the time Zeke and I have spent together

Yet Zeke doesn't crumble under the weight of her words.

Instead, he straightens his shoulders, his posture shifting from its usual careful slouch to something more purposeful, more determined. Whatever burden she's acknowledging, he's accepted it long ago.

With that, we're moving.

The world around me blurs as Atticus carries me, his arms steady despite the pace. He whispers to me constantly, his lips close to my ear, but the words blend together into a comforting stream of sound rather than distinct phrases. I catch fragments—"stay with me," "almost there," "not losing you again"—but can't hold onto full sentences.

The reassurance in his tone matters more than the specific content anyway.

I don't realize I'm drifting off until suddenly someone's holding my mouth open, fingers gentle but insistent against my jaw.

The touch startles me back to partial awareness.

"You need to drink this, Queen of Spades," Atticus urges, his voice sharp with an edge of fear I'm not used to hearing from him. "Your heart is going to stop again if you don't."

Again? My heart stopped?

The casual mention of my apparent death should probably terrify me more than it does, but it feels distant like he's talking about someone else. I try to focus on his face, but my vision keeps blurring, reality sliding in and out of focus like a camera that can't quite find its subject.

"I'll do it," Mortimer volunteers, and before I can process what "it" means, his face is leaning over mine.

Those scholarly features are set in lines of concentration, the same expression he gets when demonstrating particularly complex magical theories in class. His lips press against mine, not in a kiss but in a practical connection, and suddenly liquid is flowing into my mouth.

Holy motherfucking hell, it's DISGUSTING.

Bitter and sour simultaneously, with undertones of something rotten and metallic that makes my tongue try to curl back into my throat. It's like someone liquefied a corpse, mixed it with battery acid, and then added expired milk for texture.

I'm too weak to even properly express how revolting it is, my body accepting what my mind violently rejects, but I swear to every god in existence, when I have my strength back, I am going to make sure everyone knows exactly how rottenly disgusting this shit tastes.

They owe me that much at least — some acknowledgment of this torment disguised as medicine.

"Keep moving," Zeke encourages, and I catch glimpses of him keeping pace alongside us, his movements still carrying that fluid grace even during what's clearly a crisis situation. His hands occasionally reach toward me, fingertips glowing with subtle energy. "I'm doing my best to replenish her initial magic waves. She'll feel more awake in a few minutes."

The confidence in his tone suggests he knows exactly what he's doing, that this is far from the first time he's had to perform magical triage on someone in my condition.

I wonder just how much power he's been hiding behind that frail appearance, and how many other times he's saved lives without ever mentioning it.

"Let's hurry," Cassius urges, his voice tight with tension while his shadows swirl in agitated patterns around him.

They reach toward me occasionally, as if checking my condition before retreating to continue their restless movement.

It feels like they're running, all of them moving with the coordinated urgency of soldiers retreating from a battlefield. The motion jostles me against Atticus's chest with every step, though I can tell he's doing his best to minimize the impact.

My head bounces against his shoulder, sending fresh waves of dizziness through me each time, but I can't even find the energy to complain.

I try to listen for pursuit, to sense whatever threats might be closing in, but my awareness keeps slipping in and out, consciousness flickering like a dying lightbulb.

One moment I'm hyper-aware of every heartbeat, every breath; the next, the world fades to distant noise and motion as darkness encroaches at the edges of my vision.

All I know for certain is that we're in danger, still running even after Professor Eternalis's intervention. Whatever she did to help us, it clearly wasn't enough to eliminate the threat completely — just buy us time to escape.

I just wish I understood what exactly we're running from.

It's not until they're closing in somewhere does my heart begin to pulse, the sensation distinctive and immediately recognizable. The bond mark tied to Nikolai is throbbing with almost desperate intensity, making me realize Nikolai's bond mark is pulsing almost urgently. The connection suggests proximity, his presence near enough to trigger the magical link between us despite whatever has kept him from the group until now.

I open my eyes, consciousness returning with painful clarity as we begin to slow down. Something in the atmosphere has changed, tension radiating from my companions in nearly palpable waves.

Cassius's voice cuts through whatever lingering fog might have clouded my awareness, the pure venom in his words impossible to misinterpret.

"Motherfuckers. What the fuck is this?"

"What? What's going on?" I ask, alarm spreading through me at their reactions to whatever lies ahead.

Atticus lowers me to the ground with surprising gentleness given the anger evident in his rigid posture. "Are you okay?" he asks first, the concern genuine despite his obvious rage at whatever has triggered this response.

"I'm light-headed but don't feel like I died," I reply, the attempt at casual dismissal of my apparent demise falling flat even to my own ears.

"You did die," Atticus confirms, the blunt confirmation leaving no room for comforting illusions, "but we're not in the right place to have an argument about that."

The statement suggests circumstances demanding immediate attention beyond my temporary demise—something dire enough to postpone discussion of my literal death and resurrection.

"Do we have to argue?" I mutter before he gives me a look that manages to combine exasperation, concern, and lingering terror in equal measure.

I pout my lips in response, the childish gesture somehow fitting despite our apparently apocalyptic circumstances. His groan suggests surrender to this particular battle, if not the war, before he says "We'll talk about it later," and he helps me up with careful hands that belie the restrained violence in his posture.

"Don't lose your shit," he warns, the crude phrasing somehow more effective than any gentler caution might have been.

"Why would I—" I begin, but the words die in my throat as I finally see what's before me, the scene stealing words and breath simultaneously.

It was like a congregation of people were here and left, the evidence of recent crowd scattered across what appears to be some kind of ceremonial space. But the mess behind is nothing compared to what catches my attention immediately—plentiful posters decorated with foul hate plastered across every available surface.

But that's not even the problem at hand. It's the person on the posters.

Nikki.

The posters scream hatred with a viciousness that takes my breath away.

Not metaphorically. Literally. I feel the air punch out of my lungs as if someone has delivered a physical blow, my body responding to visual assault before my mind can fully process what I'm seeing.

Dozens of sheets plastered across every available surface, each one a weapon more devastating than any magical attack we've encountered.

Nikolai's face stares back at me from a dozen different angles, each image progressively more degrading.

The first set looks almost official— academic headshots that might have been pulled from school records, his features captured in that neutral expression he wears during lectures. But as the posters progress, something shifts.

The images become more personal, and more invasive.

Photographs that look like they were taken without consent, are captured in moments of vulnerability.

When a shifter becomes a target, privacy is the first thing stripped away.

The words accompanying the images are a catalog of brutality that makes my vampire blood run cold.

"HALF-brEED TRAITOR", some declare in bold red letters.

"ROYAL BLOODLINE CONTAMINATION" screams another, the typography itself seeming to vibrate with malevolent energy.

Each poster represents a different flavor of violation—some academic, some personal, some so deeply racist they feel like physical wounds made manifest through paper and ink.

I feel Atticus tense beside me, his body becoming a coiled spring of barely contained rage. Cassius's shadows writhe with such intensity I can see them actually disconnecting from his physical form, tendrils of darkness responding to emotional turbulence in ways that defy ordinary magical physics.

"Who did this?" The question emerges from me as a whisper, then grows in volume with each repetition. "WHO. DID. THIS?"

My hand reaches out, fingers tracing the edge of one poster. The paper feels wrong— not merely printed, but imbued with a magical signature that suggests these aren't simple propaganda pieces. They're magical markers, designed to do more than just communicate hate.

They're tracking, targeting, marking .

Zeke moves closer, those extraordinary cat-like eyes scanning the posters with a familiarity that suggests he's seen similar attacks before. His hand hovers near one image, not quite touching but close enough that I can see how the magical energies are layered into the very fibers of the paper.

"Fae politics," he mutters, the words carrying the weight of centuries of understanding. "When royalty feels threatened, they don't just attack. They destroy."

The implication is clear. This isn't just about Nikolai. This is about everything he represents—a challenge to established power structures, a disruption of carefully maintained hierarchies that have existed longer than most civilizations.

Atticus's hand finds mine, his grip so tight it would crush human bones. "Breathe," he instructs the single word carrying enough vampire authority that it momentarily cuts through my rising fury. "Whatever they've done, we're going to unmake it."

I turn to look at him, silver eyes meeting crimson, and for a moment the entire world seems to pause.

In that breath, I see something I've rarely witnessed — true, unfiltered rage coupled with a determination that makes promises blood can't easily break.

"They touched our person," Cassius adds, his voice so cold it makes the surrounding air drop several degrees. "They marked what belongs to our bond group."

The possessiveness should feel suffocating. Instead, it feels like a protective shield being raised around us, a collective declaration that whatever forces think they can tear us apart have gravely miscalculated.

Zeke's hand rises, tracing a complex pattern in the air. Golden light momentarily illuminates the magical signatures embedded in the posters, revealing intricate tracking spells that go far beyond simple propaganda. These are weaponized magical constructs designed to isolate, track, and potentially neutralize their target.

"They want him found," Zeke explains, his musical voice carrying an academic precision that somehow makes the horror more bearable. "Not just exposed. Eliminated."

The word hangs in the air, a promise and a threat rolled into one devastating package.

My fingers find the bond mark at my neck, the connection to Nikolai pulsing with an urgency that suggests he's aware of these attacks. More than aware—he's experiencing them in a way that goes beyond the physical.

What have they done to you?

The thought is both a prayer and a promise. Whatever game the Fae royals think they're playing, they've made a critical error. They've attacked not just an individual, but a bond group that has survived impossible odds, that has carved its own path through a system designed to break us.

And we do not break easily.

"We need to find him," I state, the words emerging with a clarity that brooks no argument. "Now.”

We don’t need to seek far to find exactly who we’re looking for.

The moment I see her, the world stops.

Not metaphorically. Literally. Every sound, every breath, every heartbeat freezes in a moment of collective horror that feels like a physical blow. Nikolai—no, Nikki —is stripped completely bare, her body transformed into a canvas of calculated cruelty. The posters aren't just images. They're weapons. Deliberate, meticulously crafted instruments of destruction designed to eviscerate not just her physical dignity, but her very essence.

She's tied to a makeshift throne, a perversion of the royal imagery we'd discussed earlier. But this is no ceremonial seat of power.

This is a stage of humiliation, every inch of her body covered in substances that make my vampire stomach—normally impervious to physical revulsion—threaten to expel what little contents remain inside me.

Pee. Shit. Dirt. Blood.

The smell is beyond atrocious. It's a physical assault that triggers an immediate gag reflex, cutting through even my supernatural tolerance. Worse than the physical filth is the lingering atmosphere—an echo of cruelty so intense it seems to have been absorbed into the very walls. I can still hear phantom sounds of laughter, of mockery as if the space itself remembers the degradation inflicted here.

This isn't just an attack on Nikki.

This is a systematic destruction of everything sacred.

I'm moving before I can think before Atticus or Cassius can stop me. My legs are weak — a remnant of my recent... death , I suppose— but something primal and furious drives me forward. Each step is a battle against my own trembling muscles, but nothing could keep me from reaching her.

When Nikki sees me, her eyes are a landscape of defeat.

Tears have carved clean trails through the filth smeared across her cheeks, creating a grotesque map of her suffering. Her gaze is fixed downward, focused on a pile of crumpled posters at her feet. The words leap out at me—"bitch, fake, banned royalty"—each label a surgical strike designed to destroy her most vulnerable points.

I've been there.

The cafeteria incident with Damien's "prank" feels like a distant, almost gentle precursor to this level of calculated destruction. This isn't mere bullying.

This is psychological assassination.

"Come to add to the burning flame?" she tries to joke, but it emerges as a broken sob that shatters what little composure I've managed to maintain.

Her forced smile is a knife twisting in my chest—so obviously manufactured, so painfully brave in the face of complete devastation. I want to scream, to rage, to destroy whatever system could allow this to happen. But all I can do is stand here, bearing witness to a level of cruelty that defies comprehension.

Something catches my eye.

A handkerchief. Familiar.

The embroidered initials confirm what my nose has already told me.

Damien.

"Damien did this?" The question emerges as a statement, laden with a horror that goes beyond simple betrayal. "He loves you... yet he did this ?"

Nikki's laugh is a sound I'll never forget — glass breaking, hope shattering, something fundamental being destroyed beyond any possibility of repair.

"Only a matter of time," she states, that broken laugh rising again. "It was bound to happen, but you know what? I'm glad he fell for the trap...even if it hurts."

Trap.

The word hangs in the air, heavy with implications that make my blood run cold. This isn't just an attack. This is a strategy . And we are nothing more than pieces being moved across a board whose rules we've yet to fully understand.

Nikki simply smiles, the expression so fucking sad, it breaks my heart.

It's not the kind of smile that brings joy or even mild amusement.

This is a smile carved from pure, distilled pain—the sort of expression that suggests someone has been broken so thoroughly that laughter becomes the only possible response to absolute devastation.

"I love you," Nikki whispers, "but I was too fucking chicken to admit that... because I didn't want them to hurt you. Ruin you. To set this up for you like they always do to anyone who dares come close to me, the apparent heir."

The words aren't just a confession. They're a map of a war I'm only beginning to understand. A conflict that extends far beyond our little bond group, beyond the academy, into realms of power and politics I can barely comprehend.

The mockery in her laugh is a razor blade, cutting through the heavy silence of this desecrated space.

Each sound is a fragment of something shattered beyond repair— hope, dignity, the very essence of who she is. Or was. I'm not even sure anymore.

How long has this been happening?

The thought strikes me with sudden, horrible clarity. In what feels like mere days — but could be months or even years in this fucked-up temporal nightmare of an academy — Nikki has been suffering.

Alone.

While we were busy trying to survive our own trials, she was enduring a systematic destruction I can barely comprehend.

"Why didn't you tell us you were getting bullied by Damien?" The question emerges more broken than I intended, a whisper of guilt and rage mixing into something toxic.

Her response is a wound unto itself.

"Because it's my punishment for hurting you."

Those tired eyes look up at me, and for a moment, I'm struck by how much pain can exist in a single gaze. She takes me in, her expression shifting to concern — concern, when she's the one stripped bare, humiliated beyond human dignity — and asks who hurt me.

The absurdity is so complete it would be funny if it weren't so horrifying.

Tears form without my permission.

"Did I hate what you did? Fucking yes," I whisper, the words emerging with a fury that seems to change something fundamental about my very being. "But for you to be stripped, humiliated, beat, drenched with every fucking thing...that's not fucking deserved, Nikki!"

I don't realize I'm screaming. Don't realize I've shifted to Gabriel.

The anger is a living thing, consuming me from the inside out. These Fae gathered to commemorate her destruction like some twisted celebration, and the rage inside me wants nothing more than to make them suffer. To destroy them in ways that would make their current existence look like mercy.

Most of them are already walking dead , a voice in my head snarls. And they dare do this to one of their own?

The ground trembles with my fury. Literally. Not a metaphor. Pure, unadulterated rage manifests as physical force.

"Did they touch you?" The question is a demand, a knife pressed against the throat of reality.

Silence.

Cassius's voice cuts through like a blade of ice. "Nikolai. Did they rape you?"

More silence. A silence so complete it becomes a sound of its own—a roar of unspoken horror.

"Untie her," I huff, my body shaking so violently one would think I'm having a seizure. If I weren't so weak, I'd do it myself. But Zeke and Mortimer move with swift precision, freeing her from the shambles.

The wounds are worse than I initially comprehended.

Each mark is a testament to a cruelty that defies human understanding. My heart hammers against my chest, a desperate rhythm that seems to scream no, no, NO with each beat.

Silk materializes in my grasp — I don't realize I'm doing this until the material is draping around her, my magic oozing out to cloak her frame. A protective spell, a barrier against further violation. She tries to thank me, but the words struggle to emerge, caught in her throat like barbed wire.

I lift her chin, forcing her to meet my gaze. "I'm mad. Very mad. And I don't know when I'm not going to be mad at you... but this. This will never fucking happen again. No one will ever hurt or touch you unless you dare allow it, you understand?"

A slow nod.

The defeat in that simple movement breaks something inside me.

Back to Gwenivere now, the rage settling into something more dangerous. Controlled. "Can you walk?"

Another nod.

The silence that follows isn't empty. It's loaded with everything we're not saying. With every horror we've witnessed. With a promise of retribution that hasn't yet been spoken but is absolutely, unequivocally coming.

"We need you to sit on the throne for the trial," I tell Nikki. "It'll take us to Year Three. We'll deal with the reciprocities after."

Her hand squeezes mine—a response more powerful than words could ever be. The simple gesture carries layers of meaning. Understanding. Resignation. Hope, perhaps, buried so deep it's almost unrecognizable.

We move as a unit.

Atticus leads, Mortimer and Zeke, following with a precision that suggests they understand something we don't. Cassius takes Nikki's left side, while I support her on the right. We're a protective formation, a bond group united against a world that has tried to destroy one of our own.

The stone sanctuary is deceptively simple. A tiny room with a throne that looks unremarkable.

But nothing in Wicked Academy is ever truly what it seems.

I approach the altar, meeting Atticus's gaze. Zeke and Mortimer take their predetermined positions—their movements carry a weight of purpose that suggests deeper knowledge. The familiar bond between us pulses with anticipation.

The peach — that fragment of royal essence —slides into place at the back of the throne. The moment it settles, something shifts in the room's atmosphere.

A subtle vibration, like a heartbeat just beyond hearing.

"Nikki, you have to sit on the throne," I urge.

She shakes her head, a movement filled with such defeat it makes my chest ache.

“Nikki. You’re the only royal fae here. We need you to sit on the throne to activate it. It’s the only way for us to enter Year Three.” When Atticus points out her royal heritage, she whispers words that stop us all cold.

"Nikolai is simply my male persona. The truth was written on those posters. I’m a girl. Born a girl. Forced...to be what I’m not. If I sit there…it won’t work because I’m not worthy. This is who I am…"

The revelation lands like a physical blow.

Year Two's fundamental lesson of acceptance crystallizes with devastating clarity. This isn't just about a throne or a trial. This is about identity—about being forced to wear an identity that never truly fit.

And Nikolai…Nikki just revealed the truth she’s been hiding from the world.

Zeke's warning cuts through our collective shock.

"Guys... poisonous mist!"

The stone windows transform. Purple darkness bleeds across the view, a living weapon more terrifying than any physical assault. The mist approaches with predatory intent as if the very atmosphere wants to consume us.

I look to Atticus, to Mortimer, to Zeke, before Mortimer's voice enters my mind.

“Sit on the throne, Gwenievere.”

I give a quick nod before I look to Cassius who seems to understand the backup plan.

Cassius positions Nikki carefully next to him in a knelt position.

Atticus moves to my side, his presence a promise of protection and power. His whisper carries everything we've been through, everything we've survived.

"I'll be right at your side, Queen of Spades."

I nod once, taking a deep breath and letting it out before I settle onto the throne.

Not as Gwenievere…but as Gabriel.

Reality shifts instantly.

Runes brew across the stone surface, matching the markings dancing along my arms—ancient symbols of power that have been waiting centuries to be recognized. They pulse with an internal light as if awakening from a long slumber.

"Correction," I hear myself say, the voice carrying an authority that feels both new and impossibly familiar, addressing what Atticus said prior to me sitting upon this seat of power. A wicked smile spreads across my lips.

"King of Spades."

The pause is deliberate.

Calculated.

"Or the returned Heir of what I'm destined to reclaim as mine."

The throne room trembles. Not metaphorically. Literally . Stone shakes, ancient magic ripples, and centuries of deception crack like fragile glass.

Memories flood back — violent revelations that hammer against walls of forced forgetting. I see myself. Not as I was.

But as I am .

As I always was.

I am the weapon they never saw coming.

I am Gabriel Hawthorne.

The rightful ruler of the wicked throne of Faerie…

Wicked Academy's reckoning has finally arrived.

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ACADEMY OF THE WICKED: YEAR THREE