Page 67 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

The Fae magic resonating from her doesn't just call to mine—itcommandsit. My power responds without my permission, reaching toward her like flowers toward sun, recognizing something that exists above me in whatever hierarchy governs our kind.

If she's within these waters, if she can exist here without drowning or dissolving, she must be Fae. But more than Fae. Other than Fae. Something that makes my bloodline—royal though it claims to be—seem common in comparison.

Her mouth moves, but no sound emerges. Instead, her voice vibrates directly into my consciousness, bypassing ears entirely to resonate in the depths of my mind.

"When the heir has earned her rightful crown, return to claim the chalice at the gates of Deathshire Academy."

The words carry weight that has nothing to do with volume. Each syllable etches itself into my memory with the permanence of carved stone. This isn't suggestion or invitation—it's prophecy, fact, future history waiting to be written.

She gestures upward with one graceful hand, and our ascent suddenly accelerates. The golden bubble rises with new purpose, as if her will has supplemented mine, making the journey not just possible but inevitable.

Her words continue to echo through my mind, each repetition revealing new layers of meaning:

"Death comes for the unworthy, the forsaken, and the betrayer with the heaviest secret."

The threat—promise?—makes my skin prickle with recognition I don't understand. Who are the unworthy? What betrayal carries enough weight to draw death's attention? And why does part of me feel like she's talking about me?

"Unravel the plague of your academy hidden in the depths of perfection, and you'll finally break the cursed illusion of your lands."

Perfection. The Fae Court values perfection above all else—perfect beauty, perfect power, perfect bloodlines. But what plague hides beneath that polished surface? What illusion has my entire realm been living?

"Until then, Fae Heir of Solace."

The title hits like like a sheet of stone.Heir of Solace.Not the Eternal Throne, not the Summer Court, but Solace. As if I represent not power but comfort, not strength but peace.

We're about to breach the surface. I can see it above—the membrane between water and air that will sever this connection, end this moment of impossible communication. Desperation makes me think rather than speak, projecting the thought with all the force I can muster:

"W-Who are you?!"

Through the brightening water, through the distance growing between us, I can barely see her face. But her expression softens with something that might be compassion or might be pity.

"Iris."

The name resonates with power that makes my bones vibrate. But she's not done.

"That's all you need to know... for now."

Behind her, I catch glimpses of figures I hadn't noticed before. Men—or things shaped like men—standing guard in uniforms I've never seen. They're tall, imposing, carrying themselves with the particular stillness of those who don't need to prove their lethality. Their faces are hidden by helmets or shadow or maybe just the water's distortion, but their presence speaks of protection. Guardianship.

Of what? Of whom? Of Iris herself, or what lies beyond those golden gates?

"Farewell, Nikkiatia Luminaris Starweaver, Heir to the Eternal Throne of the Summer Court."

My eyes widen so dramatically I'm surprised they don't fall out.

My full name.

Myfemalename.

The one my parents whispered once at my birth before deciding it was too much, too feminine, too everything I was told not to be. They shortened it to Nikki for daily use, thenburied even that beneath Nikolai when the prophecy demanded masculinity.

But Iris knows it. Speaks it with the casual certainty of someone reading from a record that can't be altered.

Nikkiatia.The name my mother sobbed when she thought I was sleeping, guilt and grief tangled in every syllable.

Luminaris.The star-name that marks me as true royalty, not mere nobility playing at power.

Starweaver.The title that hasn't been used in three generations, that speaks of ability to shape fate itself through will and magic combined.