Page 42 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

The Elder doesn't even turn to acknowledge him. Instead, he asks a question that makes the temperature drop ten degrees.

"Why did you terminate the second child?"

The words don't make sense.Second child? I'm an only child.Always have been. The nursery held one crib, the portraits show one baby, the stories all speak of the singular princess born under the blessed moon.

But my parents...

Mother's sharp intake of breath sounds like breaking glass. Father's face transforms—not the gradual shift of changing emotion but an instant transition from composed ruler to something raw and dangerous.

"I don't know what you speak of," Father says, but the words emerge forced, each syllable fighting against truth that wants to escape.

The Elder's gaze finally shifts from me to my parents, and his expression carries disappointment so profound it feels like the world's axis tilting.

"You were destined for two. Male and female."

Father's hands grip his throne's armrests hard enough that the stone begins to crack—hairline fractures spreading like infection through pristine marble.

"The second one perished due to a tight cord," he states, authority trying to make lie into truth through repetition.

The Elder's laugh is wrong. Not mirthful or mocking butempty, like the sound joy would make if it gave up.

"Lie to me again, King, and it will be the last time I ever read your bloodline."

The threat lands with the weight of mountains. Without the Elder's readings, the Fae Court would be blind to future threats, unable to prepare for changes that could destroy everything. We need him more than he needs us, and everyone knows it.

Father's mouth snaps shut.

The Elder turns back to me, and his expression softens—not with pity but with something worse. Understanding.

"You will endure turmoil,"he tells my six-year-old self, speaking as if I'm capable of comprehending the weight of these words."Not at the hands of perfection, but at the sins of your parents who didn't prepare you."

Each word burns itself into memory with clarity that will haunt me for decades.

"Your femininity will be but a disadvantage, until destiny is ready for you to face the sins that lie deep within the depths of wicked lands that haven't touched the surface of true life in centuries."

He leans closer, and I smell something like autumn leaves burning, like endings and beginnings tangled together.

"Buried down under centuries of dismay, all at the hands of an envious child who was deemed worthless as you must feel now."

I don't feel worthless.

Not yet.

That will come later, after years of trying to be what the prophecy demands, after the whispers start, after the touches that weren't wanted, after the?—

"You will rise eventually."

The Elder's voice pulls me from future pain back to present confusion.

"A common connection of similarities in the depths of internal flames and despise for the Fae will invite you down the path of meeting one who is destined to claim you as your forsaken half should have gained."

The words tumble over each other, too complex for a child's comprehension but branded into memory nonetheless.

"You won't understand it now, but the opportunity will flourish where you'll be able to decide. To give a chance to the one who was perished by your parents' desperation for one heir, or to live a life of duality that will leave you heartbroken in the valley of death itself for all eternity."

He straightens, and distance returns to his ancient eyes.

"It's your call, child, but the trials ahead will be tedious. Perfection may be glitter, but it's not made of gold. It's simply coal painted with shimmeringpaint, surrounded by those who only wish for your downfall."