Page 1 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

Prologue: Threshold Of Fire

~GWENIEVERE~

Something fundamental has changed.

Not just in the room.

Not in our mission.

Inme.

The words "King of Spades" hang in the air like a promise and a threat, transforming everything we thought we understood about our journey through Wicked Academy.

The throne beneath me isn't just stone anymore—it'salive.

Pulsing with an ancient power that feels both foreign and intimately familiar. Begging to be acknowledged…used…favored in the depths of my mind.

Memories flood back in violent fragments.

Not gentle recollections, butbrutalrevelations that crash against the carefully constructed walls of my forgotten past.

I see myself — not as I was, but as Iam.

As Ialwayswas.

Gabriel Hawthorne.

The name feels like both a revelation and a sentence.

A death sentence to my current existence that questions who I am now versus who I was before lowering upon this seat of absolute power.

The transformation isn't painful.

It's liberation.

Around me, the world shifts.

Not gradually.

Violently.

The stone sanctuary begins to dissolve, reality itself bending and warping as if the very fabric of existence struggles to contain what's happening. Zeke and Mortimer exchange a look—scholars who have watched this moment approach across lifetimes.Cassius's shadows become morealivethan ever, dancing with a recognition that suggests they've always known this truth.

Atticus stands as a witness, his crimson eyes burning with a mixture of pride, possessiveness, and something raw and uncertain. What I am confident about is his acknowledgment of the fundamental change happening before him.

And Nikki—no, not Nikolai—watches with eyes that have seen too much, understood too deeply. She knows this isn't just a moment of power.

This is a moment oftransformation.

The descent begins before we fully comprehend what's happening.

An obsidian throne materializes, carved into what appears to be a cliffside of scorched glass and bone. The heat is immediate, oppressive—a physical force that makes breathing feel like a conscious negotiation with the environment.

But I am untouched.

Unaffected.

Around me, my companions struggle.