Page 13 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

"Tail, now!" I command my serpent, trying to direct it to grab Zeke.

But the beast anticipated this.

Its other hand sweeps low, forcing my creation to dodge or be shattered. The maneuver leaves Zeke exposed, standing alone on his created platform as death descends.

Time seems to slow as I watch the massive fist aimed directly at the cat shifter. Zeke sees it coming—I can see the recognition in those extraordinary eyes—but he doesn't dodge. Instead, he plants his feet, frost magic gathering around him in a last desperate shield.

No—not desperate.

Accepting.

He's going to let it hit him. Going to face destruction head-on rather than retreat.

"ZEKE!" The growl tears from my throat, shadows racing to intercept but already knowing they'll be too late. My serpent'stail stretches desperately, but the beast's positioning has made rescue impossible.

The fist descends like judgment.

And stops.

One inch from Zeke's frost barrier, the massive attack simply... halts.

Gabriel stands on the serpent's head beside me, one finger raised in a gesture so casual it takes a moment to process what's happened. He hasn't shown any sign of exertion. The beast's entire attack has been stopped by a single lifted finger.

But that's not what makes my breath catch.

It's the markings.

Incantations burn across Gabriel's visible skin—ancient symbols that seem to write themselves in lines of golden fire.They spiral up his arms, across his neck, disappearing beneath his clothes in patterns that suggest complete coverage. Each symbol pulses with its own rhythm, creating a visual symphony of power that makes my shadows sing in recognition.

Power radiates from that simple gesture—not the raw force we've been throwing around, but something far more fundamental.

Authority.

The kind that doesn't request compliance but simply expects it as natural law.

The blocked attackmultiplies, volcanic force splitting into dozens of devastating streams that separate around our group with surgical precision. Destruction rains down on both sides of us, turning the already desolate landscape into something from primordial nightmares. Lava geysers erupt where the redirected attacks land, obsidian spires shatter into deadly rain, the very air ignites with transferred force.

But not a single fragment touches us.

We stand in a perfect circle of safety while apocalypse unfolds inches away.

Gabriel's lips move, words emerging in a language that makes my shadowssing.

Not modern tongue or any derivative I recognize, but something that predates civilization itself. The syllables carry weight that has nothing to do with volume, each sound etching itself into reality with permanent certainty.

"Ancient Infernal," Mortimer whispers, awe replacing his usual scholarly detachment. "The first language. The tongue of binding and creation. That's... that's impossible. No one has spoken true Ancient Infernal in millennia."

The beast shudders at the words, its massive form beginning to shift.

Not attacking or defending—kneeling.

The horned head constructed of volcanic glass bows until it touches scorched earth, the gesture carrying submission so complete it transcends mere physical movement.

When it speaks, the words emerge not as roars or grinding stone, but with reverent clarity that makes my blood run cold.

"Welcome home, Master. The centuries of waiting end with your return."

Silence follows the declaration—the kind that carries more weight than any scream.