Page 75 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

His tail moves lazily from side to side, the only motion in his otherwise still form. The movement is hypnotic, measuring time in sweeps that don't quite match any rhythm I can identify.

He must be awake.

The thought comes with certainty. Cats don't sleep like other creatures—they rest while remaining aware, one part of consciousness always monitoring for threat or opportunity. My small movements haven't prompted any reaction, but that doesn't mean he hasn't noticed. More likely, he's catalogued me as non-threat and chosen not to waste energy responding.

That's when I realize the most significant change:I'm no longer in child form.

My hands are adult-sized again. My legs extend properly. The strange dissociation of being mentally adult while physically child has resolved back into alignment. The relief is profound—not that the child form was unbearable, but the constant translation between what my mind wanted and what my body could do was exhausting.

We must be at the end of the trial somehow.

The third key retrieved, the guardian role fulfilled, the requirements met. We've acquired more than I expected—not just keys but understanding. About the realms, the academies, the waters that divide and connect them. About each other, bonds tested and strengthened through trials that should have broken us.

I rest my head back down, not wanting to disturb the others yet.

They must be exhausted from saving me. The water, the barrier, my near-drowning, then managing a child who carriedadult power but not adult sense—it all would have drained them. The least I can do is let them rejuvenate a bit longer, gathering strength for whatever comes next.

Because none of us know what will happen when we reach the official gates of Year Three.

Will it be calmer build like Year Two? Classes woven with unexpected challenges, time to breathe between catastrophes? Or will it be mayhem like Year One, trial after trial designed to break those not strong enough to survive?

The uncertainty gnaws at me as I close my eyes, trying to find that peaceful drift back toward sleep.

Maybe just a few more minutes of rest before we have to face?—

Footsteps.

Not the subtle movement of someone trying to remain unnoticed, but deliberate steps. Multiple sets. A group approaching with the particular confidence of those who either don't fear discovery or actively want to be noticed.

My eyes snap open to find Mortimer already awake, his gaze fixed on the source of the sound. His eyes are changing—the warm gold shifting into something more primal. Vertical slits replace round pupils, dragon nature rising to the surface in response to potential threat.

"Mortimer?" I croak, my voice rough from sleep and probably from all that water I swallowed earlier.

He strokes my forehead very gently, the gesture more parental than romantic. His voice is soft but carries warning.

"You should remain calm until we figure out what they want."

They.

The pronoun makes my skin prickle. Not someone but a group. And from Mortimer's tone, not a friendly one.

I sit up slowly, his hand falling away as I position myself to see the approaching figures. The motion is careful—not wanting to appear aggressive but needing to assess the threat.

The moment my eyes land on the leader of the group, fury replaces caution.

"You've got to be kidding me," I groan, the sound carrying enough volume to serve as alarm clock for the others.

Cassius and Atticus both open their eyes with the instant alertness of those accustomed to danger. No drowsy transition from sleep to waking—just immediate readiness for whatever threat prompted my reaction.

Nikolai stirs more slowly, eventually opening one eye to peer at the disturbance. The casual assessment changes to rigid attention the moment he processes who approaches.

Zeke remains apparently unbothered, tail still moving in that lazy rhythm. But I know better than to mistake stillness for ignorance.He's aware. Watching. Waiting.

We all rise as recognition fully settles. Mortimer first, scholarly dignity intact despite the situation. Cassius next, shadows already coiling with protective intent. Atticus moves with vampire grace to a position that allows both defense and offense. Nikolai?—

Nikolai freezes.

The change in him is immediate and devastating. All the confidence built through our trials, all the acceptance found in shadow blankets and whispered forgiveness—it evaporates like morning dew touched by flame. His body language shifts from capable warrior to cornered prey, shoulders hunching as if to make himself smaller, less noticeable, less of a target.