Page 4 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

Corrupted Guardian

~GWENIVERE~

" M ortimer?" I call hesitantly, a sense of wrongness crawling up my spine as our platforms drift further apart.

The dragon's massive head swivels toward me, ancient eyes meeting mine across the widening gap. What I see there sends ice through my veins – profound sadness, yes, but something else. Something foreign taking root, corrupting the intelligence I've come to respect.

"I apologize in advance, Gwenivere," he responds, his mental voice distorted like sound through murky water.

"What does he mean by that?" Mordax questions, still clutching his injured leg, confusion etched across his ever-shifting features.

"What's wrong?" Nikolai demands, frustration evident in the tightening of his perfect jaw.

Lysth's crystalline form catches the volcanic light as he leans forward on his platform.

"Something is wrong with the dragon," he observes, stating aloud what I've already recognized with growing horror.

My gaze finds Atticus across the divide, his stance widening as he prepares for combat. The predatory instincts honed from being held captive in that prison must help him recognize the threat before any of us fully comprehend it.

"We fucked up," he declares, crimson eyes darkening to the color of old blood. "That cloud did more than try to kill us."

"Then what did it do?" Nikolai demands, turning toward Cassius whose shadows have begun to manifest behind him in undulating waves of darkness.

The Duskwalker prince hovers like a specter of death, his silver eyes narrowing as understanding dawns.

"It tainted the best weapon we had," he states with grim certainty. "And now we're its prey."

Mortimer's aura has transformed before my eyes, the once-stable energy signature now writhing with chaotic patterns. Where his magical essence previously carried the orderly sophistication of ancient knowledge, now it fractures and splinters into jagged shards of corrupted power.

"His energy signature is destabilizing," I announce, tracking the rapid deterioration. "The cloud must have infected him…corrupted his draconic magic."

"Can we reverse it?" Lysth calls from his platform, which has drifted nearly fifteen feet away.

Atticus shakes his head, his expression grave.

"Not without understanding the nature of the corruption. And we don't have that kind of time."

"Mortimer," Nikolai attempts, his voice carrying that commanding tone royalty learns from birth. "Speak to us through the mental link. You’re one of the Seven! Chosen due to your ancient knowledge and capabilities. Fight whatever's happening to you, dammit!"

The dragon that was once our scholarly companion responds with a roar that shakes the very air around us.

His head tilts back, massive jaws parting to reveal rows of serrated teeth now dripping with viscous black fluid. His eyes roll backward, revealing nothing but inky darkness before new pupils form – vertical slits of sickening purple that pulse with malevolent intelligence.

Before our horrified gaze, Mortimer's majestic scales begin to change.

The deep crimson with gold undertones that spoke of ancient nobility now shifts to a sickly, pustulent green. The transformation spreads like infection, consuming the dragon's form from head to tail in a wave of corrupted magic.

Another roar erupts, this one carrying frequencies that assault our nervous systems directly. I clamp my hands over my ears, but the sound penetrates bone and tissue, reverberating through my skull with excruciating precision.

"Fuck!" Mordax screams, his shifting form rippling uncontrollably as the sonic attack disrupts his ability to maintain coherence.

Our platforms continue drifting apart, the distance between us growing with each passing second. The volcanic landscape below offers no salvation – just bubbling lava and certain death. The only solid surface remains the central section where Mortimer's transformed body now thrashes with newfound malevolence.

As we watch, the obsidian beneath his claws warps and reforms, expanding outward to create a new platform large enough to accommodate his massive form with room to spare. Runes carve themselves into its surface, glowing with poisonous purple light that matches his transformed eyes.

Above the dragon's head, symbols materialize in the air – numbers forming out of condensed magic. A countdown appears: 5:00, the seconds already beginning to tick away.

Beside it floats another number, a simple "5" that hangs ominously in the space above Mortimer's transformed body.

"That's how many can survive," Lysth calls, his crystalline voice cracking with the realization. "Five minutes to reach the platform, five survivors permitted."

"Two will fall," I murmur, the prophecy suddenly, horribly clear.

Fuck…

The platforms carrying us continue their inexorable drift away from the center, forcing an immediate decision: attempt to reach Mortimer's corrupted stronghold or drift into the volcanic abyss. The choice is no choice at all.

"We need to get to that platform," Nikolai states, his golden aura flaring as he prepares for the attempt.

"Through the dragon?" Mordax asks incredulously, his features paling to translucent white.

"Unless you'd prefer the lava bath," Atticus responds, his eyes never leaving Mortimer's transformed body. "He's guarding the only sanctuary available."

"Guardian turned gatekeeper," Cassius murmurs, his shadows coiling tighter with anticipation. "How poetic."

Our individual platforms have now drifted nearly thirty feet from the central mass where Mortimer looms. The corrupted dragon rotates slowly, purple gaze sweeping across us with predatory assessment, deciding which of us to target first.

Those eyes lock onto Mordax, perhaps sensing his injury makes him the most vulnerable. The shifter seems to realize his precarious position, his form rippling faster as he attempts to find a configuration that might withstand what's coming.

"Wait," he begins, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "We can talk about?—"

Mortimer strikes with devastating speed, his neck extending like a serpent to cross the gap between platforms. Massive jaws snap shut mere inches from where Mordax stood a heartbeat earlier, the shifter's enhanced reflexes barely saving him from immediate destruction.

"So much for negotiation!" Lysth calls, his crystalline body refracting the volcanic light into deadly-looking shards. "We fight our way through!"

The sylph launches himself from his platform, his translucent form catching updrafts from the lava below to propel him toward the central mass. Mortimer's attention shifts, tracking this new threat, but Lysth's airborne agility keeps him just beyond the dragon's reach.

Nikolai follows suit, golden light enveloping his perfect form as he leaps the impossible distance. Unlike Lysth, he doesn't rely on aerodynamics – raw fae power carries him across the void, his trajectory a graceful arc aimed directly at the obsidian sanctuary.

"Go!" Atticus shouts to me across the gap between our platforms. "I'll cover your approach!"

The distance stretches before me, far beyond what any human could jump .

But I'm not entirely human, am I?

The vampire blood in my veins offers enhanced strength and reflexes, while my witch lineage provides access to elemental manipulation.

I can potentially reach it…

Drawing on both aspects of my hybrid nature, I focus on the air currents swirling around us. With a gesture born of instinct rather than training, I condense the superheated updrafts into a concentrated path. The volcanic atmosphere responds, forming a barely-visible bridge of compressed air.

I launch myself forward, using the magical construct to guide my trajectory toward the central platform. Behind me, Atticus follows, his movements carrying the lethal grace of a predator born to hunt.

Cassius takes a different approach altogether.

His platform explodes into shadow-stuff beneath his feet, the darkness carrying him like a wave across the chasm. The display of power is breathtaking, a reminder that for all his cold demeanor, the Duskwalker prince commands forces beyond ordinary comprehension.

Mortimer's corrupted attention divides between multiple approaching threats. His massive head swivels, tracking our converging paths with those sickening purple eyes.

A decision made, he lashes out again – this time at Mordax who still hasn't left his platform.

The dragon's tail sweeps across the gap, catching the shifter mid-leap. The impact is devastating, sending Mordax spinning through the air with a sickening crack of breaking bones. His body contorts unnaturally, his left side crumpling inward from the force of the blow.

"Mordax!" Lysth calls, altering his course to intercept the injured shifter's trajectory.

The sylph manages to catch Mordax's limp form, but the added weight disrupts his aerial control. Both begin to descend toward the lava fields below, momentum carrying them away from salvation rather than toward it.

With a crystalline cry of determination, Lysth manipulates his molecular structure, extending a glasslike bridge from his body toward the central platform. The construct strains under their combined weight, fractures spreading through its translucent surface with each passing second.

Nikolai reaches the platform first, golden light still surrounding him as he lands with perfect grace. Immediately, the corrupted dragon swivels toward this new arrival, jaws parting to reveal the black ichor now dripping from between serrated teeth.

"Any time now," the fae prince calls, his casual tone belied by the intensity with which his power gathers around his hands.

Cassius arrives next, shadow-stuff coalescing beneath his feet as he touches down on the opposite side of the platform. His silver eyes lock with Nikolai's gold across the expanse, some unspoken communication passing between them before they move in unison.

Light and shadow converge, striking Mortimer from opposite sides. The dragon roars in pain or rage – perhaps both – his corrupted form thrashing against the combined assault. Scales crack under the pressure, releasing jets of noxious purple vapor that hiss as they contact the air.

My own approach brings me within yards of the platform's edge when Mortimer's attention suddenly fixates on me. Those purple eyes lock onto mine with malevolent recognition – not the scholarly acceptance I'd grown accustomed to from Mortimer, but something alien wearing his form.

"Gabriel, move!" Atticus shouts from somewhere behind me.

The warning comes a heartbeat too late.

Mortimer's tail, momentarily forgotten in our focus on his head and jaws, whips toward me with devastating force. I try to twist midair, vampire reflexes pushing my body beyond human limitations, but the angle is wrong, the timing impossible.

SHIT!

Impact drives the air from my lungs, sending me careening off course.

Instead of reaching the central platform, I hurtle toward a section of volcanic rock that had remained hidden until now. The collision is brutal, my body slamming into unyielding stone with enough force to crack ribs and rattle consciousness.

Pain blossoms across my torso, sharp and immediate. Gasping for breath that won't come, I cling to the rough surface, fingers digging into volcanic rock as I fight to maintain my grip to prevent a steep glide downward to the burning lava eons below.

"Gabriel!" Nikolai's voice reaches me, concern evident despite the chaos surrounding him. Surprising for him to sound so urgently bothered when he’s acting as if we didn’t fuck on a whim and had some sort of connection.

I try to respond, to signal that I'm still conscious, but movement from the rock beneath my hands distracts me.

What I'd taken for ordinary stone now writhes with unnatural life, black vines erupting from its surface to coil around my wrists and ankles.

Fuck! No, no, no.

I struggle against the living restraints, realizing exactly what this is, but each movement only seems to encourage their growth. The vines spread rapidly, wrapping around my limbs with constricting force.

The first jolt of electricity takes me by surprise – not ordinary lightning but corrupt magical energy that courses through the vines directly into my body. Every nerve ending ignites simultaneously, a symphony of agony that threatens to overwhelm conscious thought.

I grit my teeth against the scream building in my throat, determined not to give these abominations the satisfaction. The runes beneath my skin flare in response, ancient protection magic fighting against the invasive corruption.

Through vision blurred by pain, I see the central platform where the others continue their battle against Mortimer's transformed body. Lysth has finally reached the edge, dragging Mordax's semi-conscious form behind him. The sylph collapses immediately upon reaching safety, his crystalline structure showing numerous stress fractures from the effort.

Atticus stands at the platform's edge closest to me, crimson eyes locked on my restrained form. The expression on his face carries a promise of violence so profound it would terrify me under different circumstances. Now, it offers only comfort – the knowledge that whatever happens to me, retribution will follow.

Another surge of corrupted energy tears through my system, stronger than the first. My back arches involuntarily, muscles spasming beyond conscious control. The vines tighten further, drawing me against the volcanic rock as more tendrils emerge to wrap around my torso and neck.

"Atticus!" My voice breaks on his name, pain and desperation tangling the syllables. “Don’t…cut…the vines!”

I know what’s going to happen if I’m kept captive by these tainted living creatures, and I can only pray it's a quick end if Atticus and the others can’t retrieve me in time.

An ending I truly wouldn’t want for my worst enemy…

Atticus moves as if to leap toward me, but Mortimer's massive form interposes between us, cutting off any potential rescue. The dragon's corrupted body blocks my view of the platform, those purple eyes finding mine with what almost seems like satisfaction.

"I'm sorry," Mortimer's mental voice reaches me, distorted and fragmented but recognizable beneath the corruption. "Can't... control... it... taking... over...grand prize. Royal…need…throne…"

What does he mean? Royal need throne? Those words don’t even make ? —

The broken communication cuts off as another wave of vines erupts, these wrapping around my head and face. A scream rips through my throat, the pain in this shock so severe I can barely grasp a breath as my body surges with the foreign energy that riddles me with agonizing pain.

Darkness encroaches on my vision as they cover my eyes, the pressure increasing until breathing becomes nearly impossible.

The electrical current intensifies, corrupted magic driving deeper into my system with each pulse. My runes fight back, ancient symbols flaring beneath my skin in desperate defense, but they're losing ground with each passing second.

I'm being pulled into the rock itself, the surface softening to allow my body passage into whatever hellish dimension waits beyond. The sensation is horrifyingly intimate, like being consumed alive by some patient predator.

The vines reach my mouth, forcing their way between my lips to silence any further cries. The taste is acrid, burning – corruption made tangible. My consciousness begins to fade, darkness encroaching from the edges of my awareness as my body surrenders to the inevitable.

My last glimpse before the vines cover my eyes completely is of the countdown floating above the central platform. Less than three minutes remain, and only four have reached safety: Nikolai, Cassius, Lysth, and the injured Mordax.

Two will fall…

One already has.