Page 8 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

Nikki steps forward before anyone can stop her.

"Then I'll give you something else to focus on," she declares, Fae wind magic erupting from her damaged form with desperate intensity.

The magic that emerges shouldn't be possible given her weakened state.

Winds howl through the oppressive atmosphere, carrying with them the scent of spring meadows and winter frost—everything antithetical to this realm of eternal flame.

The serpent reels back, more in surprise than pain, its attention momentarily diverted from our group.

"Now!" Mortimer shouts, scholarly reserve abandoned as he transforms partially. Dragon scales ripple across his skin as he absorbs the ambient flames, pulling the environmental fire into himself with visible effort.

The heat around us drops several degrees as he creates a temporary shield of consumed flame.

"The altar," Zeke points through the chaos. "There—the first key!"

I see it—a blazing altar nestled between the pillars, crowned with an object that pulses with internal light.

Without thinking, I send my shadows racing forward, using the distraction Nikki and Mortimer have created.

The tendrils of darkness stretch across superheated stone, reaching for the key with desperate precision.

The moment my shadows touch the altar, agony races through our connection. The key isn't merely hot—it'shostile, designed to burn anything that dares claim it. I grit my teeth, forcing my shadows to maintain their grip despite the pain that makes my vision blur.

"Cassius!" Gabriel's voice cuts through everything—no longer cold or distant but sharp with concern. He's moving before I fully register it, his hand extending toward where my shadows struggle with the burning key.

"Don't—" I start to warn him, but he's already there.

His fingers close around the key without hesitation, lifting it from the altar as if it weighs nothing.

No burns mark his flesh.

No pain flickers across her features.

The key simply... submits, its hostile fire dimming to a gentle glow in his grasp.

"The first seal," he murmurs, and for a moment, I see something ancient in the depths of his eyes.

Recognition. Remembrance. Sorrow.

The fire serpent's roar of rage snaps us back to immediate danger.

Nikki's wind magic falters, her body finally succumbing to the sustained effort. She collapses just as the serpent's tail whips toward her with lethal intent.

Mortimer intercepts, his partial dragon form taking the hit with a sound like thunder. Scales crack under the impact, golden blood spraying across obsidian stone. He doesn't cry out—ancient dignity maintaining even through obvious agony—but I see the damage in how he staggers.

"Mortimer!" Zeke rushes to his side, frost magic already shifting to healing properties. "Where's the worst damage?"

"Left ribs," Mortimer gasps, one hand pressed to his side where scales have been completely shattered. "And something's wrong with my fire absorption. I can't—" He coughs, more golden blood speckling the ground.

"Don't try to shift back," Zeke instructs, his hands glowing with soft blue light as he works. "The dragon form is the only thing keeping your organs in place right now."

The serpent circles us, clearly preparing for a final strike.

We're wounded, scattered, vulnerable.

This is exactly what these trials are designed to do—winnow out the unworthy through systematic destruction.

"Fuck this," Atticus snarls, vampire nature fully surfacing. His fangs extend completely as he bites into his own wrist, blood flowing freely. But instead of offering it to someone, heflingsit toward the serpent in a wide arc.