Page 9 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

Tendrils of tainted black shoot forward with viper-like precision, penetrating Lysth's body through the lingering wound in his chest – the very spot where my doppelg?nger's blood crystalline thorn had struck him earlier. The corruption-infused tentacles weave through his crystalline structure before wrapping around the pulsing heart visible within his semi-transparent torso.

Mordax stands revealed as the source of these deadly appendages, though little remains of the shifter I briefly met during our descent. His form has surrendered completely to corruption, body morphed into something barely recognizable as humanoid. Oily darkness coats every inch of visible skin, features blurred as if constantly melting and reforming.

Only his eyes retain any suggestion of his original self – and even these flicker between hollow emptiness and desperate awareness, as if the true Mordax fights for momentary control against the corruption that's claimed him.

Those eyes fix on me – not my bond mates, not Lysth, but directly on my displaced form that supposedly remains invisible to ordinary perception. The recognition in that gaze confirms that whatever state Mordax exists in now allows him to perceive beyond normal dimensional boundaries.

His face, what remains of it, stretches into what might charitably be called a smile.

"You've reached the end of your story, Sylph," he declares, voice grating like stone against metal. "May your 'Lord' never achieve such a grand rank without learning the root to becoming a Pureblood...is self-sacrifice."

Self…sacrifice?

The tentacles constrict with sudden, brutal force. Lysth's crystalline heart shatters within his chest, fragments exploding outward through his transparent form in a deadly constellation of corrupted shards. His expression shifts from triumphant to horrified in the milliseconds before his consciousness extinguishes.

With his final strength, Mordax lurches backward, arms still wrapped around Lysth's collapsing form. Together they topple over the platform's edge, bodies locked in a fatal embrace as they plummet toward the volcanic landscape below.

The counter beneath the timer adjusts immediately, the number seven reducing to five.

Five survivors, as the trial foretold.

The realization brings no comfort as I struggle to comprehend what I've witnessed. My own death – or some version of what could have happened – followed by Lysth's betrayal and subsequent destruction alongside Mordax.

Events moving so rapidly that processing them feels like trying to catch lightning in bare hands.

Yet beneath the confusion, certain truths crystallize with sudden clarity:

Someone manipulated this entire scenario – from the corrupted cloud that infected Mortimer to Lysth's secret allegiance to this mysterious "Lord." Nothing about this trial has been standard Academy procedure.

We've been pawns in a game whose rules remain obscure even as its conclusion approaches.

The timer pauses its inexorable countdown – five seconds remaining.

My bond mates remain frozen in shock, the pentagonal formation maintained by magical inertia rather than conscious effort. Whatever happens when that timer reaches zero, we face it in disarray rather than unified purpose.

The platform trembles beneath us, obsidian surface rippling as if suddenly liquefied. The vibrations intensify with each passing second, cracks appearing along edges that previously seemed impervious to damage.

Atticus recovers first, crimson eyes scanning the platform with tactical assessment that cuts through emotional shock. His gaze passes over the space where my doppelg?nger disintegrated, then continues around the pentagon until?—

He stops, staring directly at my displaced form. Unlike Mordax's corruption-enhanced perception, Atticus's recognition stems from our blood bond – the pureblood connection that transcends ordinary physical limitations.

"Gwenivere?" His voice barely carries above the platform's increasing tremors, uncertainty warring with desperate hope.

Cassius and Nikolai turn toward the sound, following Atticus's line of sight to where I stand in this in-between state. Their expressions shift from confusion to focused concentration as they, too, attempt to perceive me through our respective bonds.

Shadows reach from Cassius, tentative at first, then with growing confidence as they detect my essence. Nikolai's golden aura similarly extends, particles of light gathering around my translucent form like fireflies drawn to familiar energy.

Rather than an explosion or catastrophe igniting at the potential end of this trial, silence descends – absolute and complete. The trembling platform stills, cracks sealing themselves as if time runs backward.

The fiery landscape surrounding us blurs, colors bleeding into one another until the environment becomes indistinguishable from a dream.

I feel myself being pulled – not physically but essentially – back toward the pentagonal formation where my bond mates stand. The displacement that separated me from direct interaction begins to reverse, my translucent form gaining solidity with each passing moment.

As I merge back into physical reality, memories cascade through my consciousness – not just my own but fragments belonging to the doppelg?nger who died on Lysth's crystal spear.

Her experiences, her pain, her final moments – all integrate into my awareness with seamless precision, as if we were never truly separate entities.

We weren't.

I realize with dawning comprehension.

Mortimer's kiss created a temporal duplicate – a version of me that could experience death without actually dying.

The purpose suddenly becomes crystal clear as my body fully materializes between my bond mates.

No fucking way…

The trial required death – genuine sacrifice – but also demanded five survivors. An impossible paradox unless someone could die and yet live.

Mortimer found the loophole. By temporarily splitting my consciousness and physical form, he allowed one version to fulfill the sacrifice while preserving my true self in dimensional displacement. A solution elegant in its complexity, though its execution left much to be desired in terms of explanation or consent.

I'm going to have words with that ancient dragon shifter when he rematerializes.

As my form solidifies completely, the world around us transforms. The volcanic landscape dissolves entirely, replaced by a circular chamber with walls of polished obsidian identical to the platform beneath our feet. Subtle lighting emanates from no visible source, illuminating runes carved into every available surface.

In the chamber's center stands a pedestal bearing five objects: three rings, a pendant, and what appears to be a small key fashioned from material that shifts between metal and shadow depending on viewing angle.

Above the pedestal, glowing letters form in the air:

YEAR ONE COMPLETED. ADVANCEMENT GRANTED.

CLAIM YOUR TOKENS OF PASSAGE.

The formal language can't disguise what we've just accomplished – against impossible odds and hidden manipulation, we've passed the trial and officially advanced to Year Two of Wicked Academy.

Yet victory brings little satisfaction as I contemplate the price paid for this advancement. My own phantom death, Lysth's betrayal and destruction, Mordax's corrupted sacrifice – all orchestrated by forces still operating from shadows.

And looming larger than these immediate concerns is the revelation of this mysterious "Lord" who apparently covets pureblood abilities enough to orchestrate elaborate schemes within Academy trials.

My attention returns to the pedestal with its five objects. The formal advancement tokens seem almost trivial after what we've endured, yet they represent tangible proof of our success – paperwork made manifest in a system that values official recognition above all else.

I don’t wait for the men to snap out of their moment of shock at my obvious survival. Instead, I move toward the pedestal with careful steps. Despite the chamber's apparent safety, recent events have made me wary of surfaces that too closely resemble our trial platform.

My silent movement and strive to obtain what we clearly survived plentiful to obtain must encourage the others to follow, the remainder of us forming a loose semicircle around the offered tokens.

Each object pulses faintly when we approach, as if recognizing its intended recipient through some magical affinity.

The first ring – crafted of what appears to be living shadow somehow solidified into tangible form – floats toward Cassius. Its band shifts and flows like his own abilities, never settling into a fixed shape yet maintaining coherent structure.

The second ring – pure golden light condensed into physical manifestation – rises to Nikolai. Intricate Fae symbols decorate its surface, suggesting royal authority beyond mere Academy advancement.

The third ring – crimson metal veined with patterns reminiscent of blood vessels – gravitates toward Atticus. The pureblood symbolism is unmistakable, acknowledging heritage he's kept carefully concealed until recent events forced revelation.

The pendant – obsidian inlaid with dual symbols representing both witch and vampire lineages – hovers before me. The hybrid recognition feels simultaneously validating and exposing, Academy bureaucracy acknowledging my true nature despite previous deception.

The key remains on the pedestal, awaiting its intended owner. This must be Mortimer's token, I realize – recognition of advancement he's earned but cannot currently claim.

My attention shifts to the pendant hovering before me.

With careful deliberation, I wrap my fingers around it, the cool metal warming instantly at my touch. I close my eyes, centering myself as energy transfers between the object and my magical essence – an exchange that feels almost ceremonial in its significance.

The transfer isn't entirely smooth. Something foreign lingers within me – a remnant of whatever Mortimer's kiss initiated during our displaced conversation. The energy signature feels weakened but undeniably present, like an echo persisting long after the original sound has faded.

When I open my eyes, disorientation strikes immediately.

The obsidian chamber has vanished, along with its pedestal and floating tokens. Instead, we stand before a massive golden gate unlike anything I've encountered at Wicked Academy thus far.

The structure towers at least twenty feet high, its surface adorned with intricate vines of deep purple that weave elaborate patterns across the metallic backdrop. Roses blossom at various intervals along these vines, alternating between vibrant crimson and an unsettling ivory-green that seems almost luminescent in certain light.

I glance down, discovering my form has fully reverted to Gwenivere rather than Gabriel.

No glamour hides my feminine features, though my attire has transformed to match our new circumstances. A leather-like uniform replaces my tattered trial garments – fitted jacket with high collar, form-fitting pants with strategic reinforcement at knees and thighs, boots designed for both combat and long wear.

The outfit feels simultaneously practical and ceremonial, as if designed specifically for whatever challenges await beyond these ornate gates.

The pendant remains in my hand, its weight comforting against my palm. I'm positioned between Cassius and Nikolai, their presence steady on either side. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms Atticus stands directly behind me, his crimson eyes scanning our surroundings with tactical assessment.

"Where are we?" I murmur, watching as the gates begin to separate with a deep resonant hum that vibrates through the ground beneath our feet.

"The threshold to Year Two, I'd guess," Atticus responds, moving slightly closer to my back. "Let's go through together, just in case something else decides to test us. Stay close."

His protectiveness would be touching if not for our recent experiences with unexpected betrayal and corruption. After Lysth's deception, caution seems the only reasonable approach.

"Where's Mortimer?" I ask, suddenly aware of the dragon scholar's continued absence. The key meant for him no longer rests on any pedestal, yet he himself remains missing from our group.

"Behind you," comes a familiar scholarly voice.

We turn as one, my bond mates shifting protectively around me despite the recognized voice.

Mortimer stands several paces back, looking remarkably composed given recent events. The key dangles from a chain around his neck, confirmation of his official advancement alongside us.

What captures our collective attention, however, is his complete and utter nakedness.

My jaw drops involuntarily as I take in the unexpected sight. The scholarly "pet dragon" who typically presents as a mild-mannered academic with wire-rimmed glasses stands before us completely nude – and stunningly built.

My eyes track downward without conscious permission, cataloging details my brain struggles to process. Where I expected perhaps the soft physique of someone dedicated to books rather than physical training, Mortimer possesses not a six-pack but what appears to be an eight-pack of perfectly defined abdominal muscles.

His chest and arms display similarly impressive definition, suggesting power carefully concealed beneath academic robes.

My gaze continues its inevitable journey downward, reaching the part of his anatomy that causes my entire face to flood with heat.

I must resemble a ripe tomato as blood rushes to my cheeks.

"Long?"

The word escapes me in a strangled squeak, my vocabulary apparently reduced to single-syllable observations in the face of such unexpected revelation.

A snicker from Atticus breaks the stunned silence. Cassius and Nikolai react with matching curses, moving in synchronized coordination to cover my eyes with their hands. The sudden darkness is disorienting as they begin physically dragging me toward the open gates.

"Hey!" I protest, struggling half-heartedly against their guiding hands. "Why didn't you tell me Mortimer of the Seven was fucking jacked?"

"Shut up and focus on recovering after you clearly died before us," Nikolai hisses, his grip on my arm tightening slightly.

I can only assume Cassius directs his attention toward Mortimer with his next words.

"You could give her a heart attack and put her at risk," he scolds, shadows coiling with obvious agitation.

Atticus's laughter follows us as “we” — as in me being forced to — proceed toward the gates.

"You two fuckers are utterly jealous that the scholar of Wicked Academy is going to sweep away the very woman you're losing your shit over," he calls from behind.

"Shut up and be useful by getting Mortimer clothes like a good sidekick!" Nikolai snaps, golden aura flaring with irritation.

Atticus groans dramatically.

"I'm not a sidekick," he protests. "But if it makes you sleep at night and not get all hot and bothered over not sleeping with my Queen of Spades, so be it."

The exchange escalates as Nikolai glances back, never breaking stride as he continues guiding me forward.

"Queen of Spades? She's not even yours. Who the fuck are you?"

My curiosity piques at the vehemence in his tone. The territorial response suggests deeper issues than mere protectiveness – something closer to genuine concern about Atticus's claims regarding our bond.

I can finally manage to tug my head back enough to see as Atticus merely shrugs, snapping his fingers in a gesture that likely accompanies whatever magical solution he's applying to Mortimer's clothing situation.

His footsteps quicken as he follows our progress toward the gates.

Before he can formulate a proper retort to Nikolai's challenge, we cross the threshold between the massive golden doors. The tingling sensation of magical boundary recognition washes over me as I step through – then suddenly I'm falling, as if gravity itself has shifted orientation.

I hit the ground with an undignified "oof," the impact jarring but not painful.

The pendant is suddenly secured around my neck; bouncing against my collarbone, a physical reminder of our advancement amid this strange transition.

"Why the hell did you drop Gwenivere like that?" Cassius demands, his voice carrying notes of genuine concern rather than mere irritation.

Something feels different as I push myself to sitting position.

My voice, when I speak, emerges deeper than expected.

"What's the matter?" I ask, the realization dawning even as the question forms. “Did I trigger something?

My body has shifted back to Gabriel's form, the masculine glamour reasserting itself as we officially enter Year Two territory. The transformation occurred so seamlessly I didn't consciously register the change until hearing my own altered voice.

Cassius frowns, though his attention seems focused beyond me rather than on my changed appearance.

"No," he answers, shadows coiling with increased agitation. "But I see the problem."

Following his gaze, I turn to observe Atticus and Mortimer passing through the gates behind us. The dragon scholar now wears a uniform identical to ours, the nudity situation apparently resolved through whatever magic Atticus employed. The pureblood himself appears largely unchanged, though his hair seems noticeably longer than before, cascading past his shoulders down to his lower spine in waves that catch the ambient light.

Our collective attention shifts to Nikolai, who sits nearby cursing with uncharacteristic vulgarity.

"I don't know why the fuck Gwenivere suddenly felt so heavy," he mutters, brushing dust from his uniform.

We freeze simultaneously, processing the transformation before us.

Uh…Oh?

Where the golden-haired Fae prince once sat, an undeniably female figure now adjusts her clothing with irritated precision.

Long, stunning red locks cascade down her back, transitioning to gold at the tips in a gradient that catches light with hypnotic effect. Her features retain Nikolai's aristocratic structure but softened in key places – fuller lips, higher cheekbones, longer lashes framing the same green-gold eyes that now flash with confused annoyance.

My jaw drops for the second time in as many minutes.

The pendant at my throat pulses with sudden warmth, an answering resonance from Nikolai's bond mark specifically. The magical connection confirms what my eyes struggle to process – this is indeed Nikolai, transformed as completely as I transition between Gwenivere and Gabriel.

The female Nikolai takes in our collective expressions of shock, perfectly sculpted eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

"What?" she demands, voice higher but carrying the same aristocratic inflection I associate with the Fae prince.

Before any of us can formulate a response, the sharp sound of applause draws our attention toward the gates.

Professor Eternalis stands there, leather jumpsuit and jewel-encrusted accents gleaming in the atmospheric lighting. Her mismatched eyes – one piercing red, the other swirling purple – survey our disheveled group with evident amusement.

"Congratulations and welcome to Year Two of Wicked Academy."

Well…this wasn’t how I expected we’d be starting the new year…