Page 74 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

The word carries weight that makes even this dream-space shudder.

Something taken that demands return.

But what? The chalice everyone seeks? The power Elena claimed? The throne that burns those deemed unworthy?

My mind forms the question even as consciousness slips away…

Who was stolen?

The answer comes as I'm pulled back toward waking, Iris's voice following me across the threshold between sleep and awareness, each word a thread connecting this moment to some deeper truth:

"You, Heir of the Wicked."

The words expand, filling all available space in my dissolving awareness.

"And it's time for you to finally return where you rightfully belong."

The final word arrives just as someone shakes my shoulder, just as my eyes flutter open to find concerned faces hovering above me, just as dream releases me back to a reality that suddenly seems less solid than the space I just left:

"Home."

Unwelcome Reunions

~GWENIEVERE~

My eyes open slowly, consciousness returning in layers like sediment settling after disturbance.

The first thing I register is warmth—not the oppressive heat of the Infernal Realm but something gentler. Body heat. The steady rise and fall of breathing beneath my cheek. The particular comfort of being held while sleeping, safe enough to let guard down completely.

I'm in someone's lap.

The realization brings full awareness crashing back. I shift slightly, tilting my head to see who's served as my pillow during this unexpected rest.

Mortimer.

The dragon shifter sits with his back against a formation of crystallized shadow, legs extended to accommodate my curled form. His eyes are closed, those scholarly glasses sitting low on his nose as if he'd been reading before sleep claimed him. His breathing is deep and even, the particular rhythm of someone drifting between true sleep and watchful rest.

Surprise ripples through me. Not that Mortimer would offer comfort—he's shown consistent kindness despite his academicdemeanor. But that I'd accept it unconsciously, that my sleeping self trusted him enough to remain vulnerable in his care.

I lift my head slightly, careful not to wake him, and scan our surroundings.

We're still in the dark oasis—that strange pocket of relative safety in the hostile realm.

But something has changed.

The quality of light is different, shadows dancing with less malevolence and more... anticipation? As if the realm itself knows we're close to our destination and has pulled back its claws, for now.

The others are scattered around in various states of rest.

Atticus sprawls on his back with vampire grace that makes even unconsciousness look deliberate. His arms pillow his head, the pose relaxed in a way I rarely see from him. The constant tension of maintaining control has eased in sleep, revealing someone younger beneath the centuries of experience.

Cassius has constructed his own furniture from shadows—a pillar of dark tendrils that supports him upright even in sleep. The shadows move with subtle life, adjusting to his unconscious shifts, cradling him with the particular care of power serving its master. His face is peaceful, the careful control that usually masks his emotions completely absent.

Nikolai perches on his side, one elbow supporting his head in a position that will definitely cause cramping when he wakes. Even in sleep, he maintains that in-between state—not fully relaxed, ready to shift or flee at the first sign of danger. The vulnerability of earlier has been packed away, replaced by the armor of constant vigilance.

Zeke is in cat form.

The sight stops my scan, fascination overriding other observations. I've seen him shift before, but never had the chance to really look. His feline form is magnificent—pure blackfur that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it, creating a void in the shape of a cat. He's larger than a standard house cat but smaller than the wild cats, perfectly sized for both stealth and combat.