Page 7 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

Cascading Llusions And Trials

~GWENIVERE~

“ A truce for what?” Nikolai states in obvious distaste, only to freeze at the blood knife that’s now hovering against his throat with obvious intentions.

My eyes are already side-eyeing Atticus, who crosses his arms and stands before both of them as if we have all the time in the world to have this conversation this instance.

“In any other instance you two would either be dead or at least so severely injured you’d wish to be reborn so you’d no longer be in agony,” he announces boldly with a hint of remorse.

The depth of his voice sends chills through me, while I can’t deny the way the pit of my stomach flips in correlation with the pooling coiling of lust that hums through my lower region at his sudden dominance.

Before Nikolai can dare speak, Atticus glares his way.

“You really think I’m stupid?” He states with an emotionless declaration that leaves Nikolai's jaw dropped in silence. “You sat in that cafeteria because those fuckers threatened to harm Gwenivere if you tried to play hero and interfere.”

Wait…what?

Nikolai doesn’t say anything, keeping his expression neutral, but the perfected Fae can’t hide what I see in the depths of his eyes.

That flickering regret.

"Those Fae were superiors in disguise as students, forcing you to remain and watch as your previous friend and comrade humiliated the woman you’ve taken an interest in. A blackmailed plot to ensure you stay in your lane and remember that a fae prince can’t possibly be with a hybrid. One who in your world of prestige and perfection would never allow a vampire witch to be a part of your royal empire of grandiose expectations and infinite possibilities.”

When he has nothing to combat, Atticus looks at Cassius who doesn’t wait for him to say what needs to be said.

“I’ll explain my lack in aiding, my Little Mouse when we’re not tethering between life and death,” he simply puts it, our eyes locking once more. I quickly swallow the lump in my throat, trying not to acknowledge the fluttering uncertainty and potential wonder this sudden confession of purpose could mean for “us”.

I watch the way he stands a little taller before he eyes me directly without shying away.

“But what happened was wrong. Undeniably wrong. It’s in my nature to avoid confrontation, and maybe I assumed not interfering would lead to a different outcome than it did,” he confesses. His Duskwalker is behind him now, and it’s surprising to watch the being of darkness. His skull-like head emerges from the shadows while its hollow eyes ignite like burning flames.

In a second, it bows its head, the solemn action so simplistic, but it flickered a reaction from me as my eyes widened to take the rare behavior in. Cassius is next to follow, even going to one knee to further add his expression of undeniable regret.

“I’ll make it short because our survival is vital, but I, Prince Cassius of the realm of Duskwalkers, apologize to you, Gwenivere. No matter the circumstances and instances, my lack of reaction and interference was uncalled for and inappropriate, no matter whether we were barely strangers or bonded beings. When we survive this turmoil, we will discuss it at your convenience and pace, and I’m not expecting you to carry on the connection as it left off before the instance.”

He lifts his head so our eyes can meet again, and it’s those rare instances where I truly get the privilege to witness the raw emotion in those stunning silvery depths of his eyes that captivate me each time.

“When you’re ready to start over, I’ll be ready to listen and unlearn the behaviors that allowed that instance to occur.” He slowly rises. “I don’t ask for you to forgive me for I’ve not gained such an opportunity of such kindness. Instead, I ask for your patience to allow me the privilege to start over and prioritize the right way, no matter the hidden implications that plagued us into reacting the way we did.”

I’ve never seen a man be willing to openly throw himself under the bus like this by admitting his mistake. Sure, I’m coming to realize that something or someone ensured both Cassius and Nikolai wouldn’t interfere in the bullying that still haunts me by the second, but Cassius isn’t using that excuse to defend his actions.

No. He’s acknowledging that what he did was absolutely wrong and if it means starting over again, he’s willing to do exactly that if it gives him the privilege to explain his lack of action.

In due time, when I’m ready for such a conversation.

The ground shakes violently, forcing us to acknowledge Tainted Mortimer and Shadow Grim duke it out, dragon to dragon, proving we won’t have much time for this platform to maintain the heaviness of the dual dragons, even if one of them is an obvious doubleganger.

Returning our attention back to each other, I decide to give him a hint of recognition, knowing the words will allow us to return to this at another time.

After we’ve potentially survived whatever this Trial has in store before our return to Wicked Academy.

“Thank you, Prince Cassius.” I acknowledge his royal name so he knows I’m taking this as seriously as he is. He’s grasped that we’re practically starting over again, but at least that’s something.

Maybe this…whatever it is between us…can be rebuilt in a different way.

I can feel Nikolai’s on me, as if he wishes for me to acknowledge his attempt as well, but I don’t give him the satisfaction, returning my attention over to Atticus.

“Continue with the game plan. What do we need to do now that we’re together?”

He bobs his head in understanding, returning his attention to us as a whole.

"The circle requires four participants," Atticus continues, completing another section of the bloody pattern. "North, South, East, West…with the subject for purification at the center."

"Five points total," Cassius notes, shadows analyzing the design with evident curiosity despite his reservations. "Who takes which position?"

Atticus straightens, wiping excess blood on his already ruined uniform.

"Cassius at North. Shadow manipulation aligned with darkness and introspection. Nikolai at East. Fae energies connected to dawn and new beginnings. I'll take South. Blood magic corresponding with passion and transformation."

"And West?" I ask, though I suspect the answer.

"Grim," Atticus confirms, nodding toward the shadow being who seems to sense his need to retreat, which is why he sends out a slough of flames in Mortimer’s way, forcing a barrier of tainted black with odd green and purple shades to spark in protection. His retreat is swift, the once massive shadowed dragon back into human form as he floats swiftly towards our group. "His unique abilities represent twilight and transition – perfect for the Western cardinal point."

"That leaves me at center," I conclude, surveying the completed ritual circle with its intricate bloody patterns. "The first subject for purification."

"Yes," Atticus agrees, expression grave despite the excitement I detect beneath his concern. "Once purified, you'll help extend the cleansing to the rest of us, and eventually to Mortimer."

Speaking of the corrupted dragon, a tremendous crash draws our attention to the far side of the platform where Mortimer seems to throw a miniature fit of stomping while he outstretches his wings as if he’s going to take flight.

Oh no. If he runs away, we’ll never get a chance to do this.

"We don't have much time," Nikolai observes, his golden aura already gathering around his hands in preparation. “We won’t be able to extract him from wherever he flies off to if he escapes.”

“And we’ll no longer have enough living people,” Cassius casually adds, which makes me briefly check on Lysth to make sure he’s still somewhat breathing. He barely is, the movement far too slow for the sylph.

We have to be faster. Every second counts.

"Then let's begin," I say, stepping carefully into the center of the bloody circle.

The moment my feet touch the pattern, energy surges through the obsidian platform – not the corrupted purple of Mortimer's infection, but something richer in shade and primal in vibrations.

Ancient magic recognizing its rooted kin.

As I settle into position, the others take their assigned cardinal points.

Cassius kneels at North, shadows pooling around him in anticipation.

Nikolai stands at East, golden light illuminating the ritual space like the first rays of dawn.

Atticus positions himself at South, crimson eyes reflecting the bloody patterns beneath our feet.

Grim's shadowy form solidifies at West, darkness condensing into an anchor point for the ritual's completion.

"Remember," Atticus instructs, his voice taking on a resonance that suggests he's channeling something beyond himself, "blood freely given, with clear intent. This isn't just about physical purification…it's about cleansing the spirit from malevolent influence."

One by one, they extend their hands over the circle – palm up, offering the sacrifice needed to power the ritual.

Atticus moves first, drawing a line across his already damaged palm. Fresh blood wells, dripping onto the pattern below which absorbs it with unsettling eagerness.

Cassius follows, shadows forming a thin blade that opens his palm with surgical precision. His silver gaze remains fixed on me as his blood joins the ritual – darker than human blood, almost black in the platform's strange light.

Nikolai hesitates only briefly before drawing a golden dagger from within his aura. The blade slices his perfect skin, releasing blood that glimmers with internal light.

When it strikes the pattern, small blooms of golden flowers materialize briefly before dissolving into the greater design.

Finally, Grim extends what passes for his hand – shadows condensing into physical form just substantial enough to bleed when he draws a claw across his palm. The liquid that falls isn't blood as I understand it, but something more primordial – essence rather than biology, concept rather than substance. It’s the most fascinating to witness, and maybe even cunning with how we’re bending the usual circumstance needed for such a ritual, but if it works, it works.

That’s what matters if it means getting this foreign tainted magic out of our bodies.

As the four offerings merge within the ritual circle, the pattern begins to glow – first with the individual colors of each contributor, then blending into something new. The light pulses with increasing intensity, spiraling inward toward my position at the center.

"Your turn," Atticus says, voice strained as he maintains his connection to the ritual. "Blood freely given to complete the circuit."

I draw a deep breath, centering myself despite the corruption still fighting for control within my system.

With steady hands, I extract a small blade hidden in my boot – one of many weapons concealed throughout my uniform, preparations for contingencies I hoped never to face.

The blade catches light as I position it above my palm. One clean slice and my blood joins the others, completing the circle of power now humming with potential.

The moment my offering touches the pattern, the real magic ignites.

Light erupts from the bloody designs, no longer constrained to the obsidian surface but rising in three-dimensional structures around us. The cardinal points Cassius, Nikolai, Atticus, and Grim occupy anchor pillars of concentrated energy – shadow, gold, blood, and void – that arch inward to meet above my head.

Where they converge, something new forms – a crown of intertwined energies that slowly descends toward me. The corruption within my system rebels against its approach, black veins pulsing beneath my skin as the foreign influence fights for survival.

Shit…this is rather…demonic.

I grit my teeth, attempting to do my best to remain still despite the agonizing urge to run away from this sealed ritual.

"Don't resist the purification," Atticus calls, his voice distant through the rushing energy surrounding me. "Accept it completely."

Easier said than done when every instinct screams against surrendering control.

But I force myself to relax, to open rather than shield, to welcome rather than reject.

The crown touches my head, and the world dissolves into light.

Pain and pleasure become indistinguishable as the purification sweeps through my system. Every cell feels simultaneously destroyed and rebuilt, death and rebirth occurring in the same impossible moment. I hear myself hiss, but even sounds are suddenly distant as all I can focus on is the foreign energy’s desperation to remain within my every vein.

The corruption fights desperately, clinging to whatever purchase it can find within me.

Through the overwhelming sensations, I become aware of the bonds connecting me to the others – not just visible but tangible within this altered state. Cassius's link pulses cool and steady, ancient shadows offering stability amid chaos. Nikolai's connection burns golden and vibrant, fae vitality feeding the purification process. Atticus's bond flows crimson and powerful, blood calling to blood across the ritual space.

The crown above me pulses once more, then shatters into countless fragments of light that scatter across the platform. Where they land, corruption recedes – black veins fading from Atticus's arms and surprisingly cracks healing in Lysth's crystalline form as the blood crystalline that pierced him begins to shatter and disintegrate.

Even the obsidian surface beneath our feet on this platform itself seems to brighten as malevolent influences retreat.

The ritual's culmination leaves me gasping in the center of the circle, physically drained but spiritually lighter. The corruption that clawed at my consciousness has vanished completely, taking with it the whispering manipulation that sought control.

As I raise my head, I find four pairs of eyes fixed on me with varying expressions – concern from Atticus, calculation from Nikolai, guarded wonder from Cassius, and something like satisfaction from what passes for Grim's hollow glowing features.

"It worked," I whisper, examining my arms where the black veins have vanished completely. The pureblood markings remain, however – permanent evidence of my bond with Atticus, just as the other marks signify my connections to Cassius and Nikolai.

"For us," Atticus confirms, his own corruption visibly receding. "But we still have one more patient."

As one, we turn toward Mortimer's massive form. He seems to be distracted, staring into the distance as though a new enemy has emerged in his line of sight that we can’t comprehend.

The corrupted dragon shows no sign of the purification that's cleansed the rest of us – his scales remain that sickly green, eyes still burning with malevolent purple light.

"He's too far gone for simple purification," Cassius observes, shadows gathering as he regains his strength. "The corruption has had him longer, integrated more completely."

"Then we modify the approach," I decide, rising to my feet with newfound determination. The completed ritual has left me not just cleansed but somehow more – my hybrid nature feeling balanced in ways I've never experienced before. "Instead of purifying, we contain and extract."

That’s what’s unraveling in my mind, though the knowledge doesn’t feel like it’s simply mine? It’s hard to explain, but then again, I try not to think about it for too long because that can be confronted or figured out later.

Mortimer is on our priority list in saving now.

"Blood prison," Atticus suggests, crimson eyes meeting mine with shared understanding. "Similar principle to the purification circle, but designed to isolate rather than cleanse."

Nikolai frowns, golden aura flickering with concern.

"That's advanced blood magic. None of us are trained in those arts."

I’m impressed that he knows so much about blood magic tactics, leaving me curious if it was something he was trying to dive into despite being a Fae, or maybe did research for others?

Maybe for Damien’s interest?

"I am," Atticus corrects without elaboration. The simple statement hangs between us, raising questions none of us have time to explore.

"And I'm a quick study," I add, the newly awakened pureblood abilities humming beneath my skin. "Together, we might manage it."

Cassius steps forward, shadows coiling with fresh purpose. "I think we’re going to have to figure this out sooner rather than later,” he announces and points upward, forcing us all to acknowledge the sudden countdown that has replaced the COMPLETE with a two minute counter in red.

Oh no.

I look to Lysth, realizing he’s most definitely alive, on his knees in the covered barrier within the platform. His chest is slowly healing itself, allowing us to see his beating heart, which is sickening, but it’s clear that he’s alive, which means there’s six of us on the platform.

The crystalline must have temporarily killed him or made his heart stop for the trial to believe he had permanently perished.

The revelation about Lysth sends a chill through me. If the sylph is still alive – his crystalline heart visibly beating within his fractured chest – that means six of us remain on the platform.

Not five as intended.

Someone is still meant to fall, according to the “prophecy” for this trial.

The thought makes my stomach clench with renewed urgency while wondering whether we’ll be forced to eliminate someone too.

"We need to act now," I declare, eyes fixed on the countdown that has replaced the COMPLETED notification. Less than two minutes flash in angry red numerals above us, time slipping away with merciless precision.

"Blood prison ritual," Atticus confirms, already moving to the center of the platform. "We'll need a different formation than the purification circle. Pentagon shape, with Mortimer as the focal point."

Without hesitation, the others move to follow his instructions. Even Nikolai, normally resistant to direction from anyone, recognizes the gravity of our situation. His golden aura flares as he takes position at what will become one point of our magical pentagon.

Cassius mirrors him, shadows spreading outward in preparation.

"What about Lysth and Mordax?" he asks, nodding toward the injured sylph still kneeling within the protective barrier. “And where’s Mordax specifically?”

"They stay where they are," Atticus decides. "The ritual should contain Mortimer's corruption without harming them, but they need to remain within the barrier." Atticus emphasizes before adding, “And not important where he is unless that threatens all our hard work.”

Grim begins to dissolve back into pure shadow. His features melt away, substance becoming intangible as he retreats to a more fundamental state.

I can’t help but frown, worried he won’t be able to revert back into the shadowed being who I obviously grew a liking to. Atticus must notice because he quietly adds.

"He's conserving energy," Atticus explains, noting my concerned expression. "The shadow duplicate fighting Mortimer has drained him. He'll recover faster in his natural form."

The shadow being swirls once around me, an almost affectionate gesture, before flowing toward Cassius. Unlike their usual merging, however, Grim maintains separation – becoming a shadow pool at the Duskwalker's feet rather than fully rejoining him.

That’s new.

"I've never seen him do that before," Cassius comments, surprise evident beneath his typical stoicism.

"We're all full of surprises today," I respond, taking my position to complete our formation. I’m hoping this is the last part of the trial because I’m not sure how long I can last.

It’s becoming obvious that these trials are going to be more taxing magic-wise, which points at an obvious need to train and build stamina if we make it out of here alive.

We have to at this rate. We’ve come too far to lose now.

With the five of us arranged in a rough pentagon around the platform, Atticus begins drawing new sigils in blood.

These patterns differ dramatically from the purification circle – where those designs flowed with organic grace, these new symbols appear almost mechanical in their precision. Hard angles and perfect symmetry dominate, creating something that feels less like magical notation and more like complex mathematical formulas.

"Blood prison requires exact parameters," Atticus explains as he works, motions swift and certain despite the corruption still retreating from his system. "Unlike purification, which flows naturally through spiritual channels, containment demands rigid boundaries."

His knowledge of blood arts continues to surprise me, raising questions about his past beyond what I already know.

Prison transformed him, clearly – but into what, exactly? Did he study loads of books in the prison library? Wait…do they even have books for them to read?

I feel odd and a bit stupid that I don’t know much about what Atticus has experienced in the depths of captivity, but I can’t be too hard on myself when we haven’t had the opportunity to breathe and catch up.

I have to make a change when we’re out of this madness.

Maybe this trial is doing more than revolving around the art of survival.

For me, it’s teaching me how limited time can be in an unpredictable institute like Wicked Academy where any moment could potentially be your last…

"The offering needs to be synchronized," he continues, completing the final sigil at my feet. "When I give the signal, release your blood in a single drop. Not before, not after…timing is crucial."

We all nod, preparing accordingly.

Cassius uses his shadows to create a small wound on his palm, the dark essence coalescing into a single perfect sphere above his skin. Nikolai draws his golden dagger again, this time precisely calibrating the depth of his cut to produce the exact amount required.

I follow Atticus's example, using my own small blade to open a fresh cut alongside the one from our earlier ritual. The blood responds differently now – moving with purpose rather than simply flowing. It gathers into a hovering droplet, responsive to my newfound awareness of its potential.

Atticus surveys our preparations with critical assessment.

"On my mark," he instructs, raising his hand with his own blood droplet suspended above his palm. "Three... two... one... now!"

As one, we release our offerings.

The five droplets fall toward the intricate sigils drawn beneath our feet, each striking the obsidian surface at the exact same moment.

For one suspended heartbeat, nothing happens.

Then the platform ignites with power.

Unlike the gradual build of the purification ritual, the blood prison activates with explosive force. The sigils flare from crimson to blinding white, sending columns of energy shooting upward from each of our positions.

These beams connect far above Mortimer's corrupted form, creating a perfect pentagon of light. From these connections, secondary beams form, crisscrossing in complex geometric patterns until they create a shimmering cage of magic surrounding the dragon.

Mortimer immediately recognizes the threat. His massive head whips toward us, those purple eyes narrowing with malevolent intelligence. The corrupted dragon roars – a sound that seems to distort reality itself – and slams his tail against the forming prison walls.