Page 137 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

But her smile—her smile is pure malevolent joy.

"Finally," she says, voice carrying despite distance that should make hearing impossible. "The truth unravels. Though I suppose you'll never discover the secrets I've kept in play."

She's standing at the edge of the platform, and only now do I see what lies beyond.

Water that glimmers with golden power.

And at the edge of those waters, rising from depths that shouldn't exist?—

Golden gates.

The gates to Year Four, close enough to see but impossibly far away with Elena standing between them and their destination.

"Shall we play a wicked game of survival?" Elena teases, her hands coming together in another mocking clap.

Someone appears beside her.

The sight makes everyone gasp, but not with fear—with horror of a different kind.

Damien.

But this isn't the prideful pureblood prince they knew.

This is Damien as victim, as prisoner, astoy. His mouth is sewn shut with thread that looks like it might be made from his own hair. A thick collar of thorns circles his neck, each one drawing drops of blood that run down his chest in crimson rivers. Chains bind his wrists, his ankles, connecting to a leash that Elena holds with casual possession.

The fear in his eyes is absolute.

This isn't the theatrical terror of someone playing victim—this is real, bone-deep, soul-destroying fear of someone who knows exactly what's coming and can do nothing to stop it.

Elena pulls out something from the folds of her diseased-looking robes.

A paper covered in symbols that hurt to look at directly, each one writhing with its own malevolent life.

"The darkest, most powerful monsters," she says conversationally, as if discussing weather, "are in the depths of hearts. Trauma that's never healed manifests into something...well, frighteningly ugly."

Damien tries to pull away, tears streaming from eyes that beg for mercy he knows won't come. The chains hold him in place with strength that has nothing to do with metal.

Elena places the talisman on his forehead with deliberate slowness, savoring his muffled screams. The paper adheres like it's been glued, then begins to blaze with darkness that makes the shadow beings' torches look bright by comparison.

The transformation is horrific.

I watch Damien's body melt, flesh running like wax before reforming into something that shouldn't exist. Bones crack and extend, muscle tears and rebuilds, skin stretches to accommodate mass that expands exponentially.

His screams are muffled by his sewn mouth, but the sound finds other ways to escape—through pores, through tears, through the very air around him that vibrates with agony.

When it's over, Damien is gone.

In his place stands a hellhound that makes every other monster we've faced look tame. Three heads sprout from shoulders broader than Mortimer in dragon form.

The first head has a sewn mouth like Damien's was, but the stitches are part of the flesh now, not added but grown.

The second head has no eyes—smooth flesh where sockets should be, but somehow it sees everything.

The third has no ears, just more smooth flesh, but it reacts to sounds others can't hear.

The heads that can screech do so—the one with no eyes and the one with no ears—and the sound is agony given voice.

It's not just loud butwrong, hitting frequencies that make reality itself want to flee.