Page 80 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

But at least we face them together—bloodied but not broken, scarred but not stopped, bonded by more than magic or circumstance.

We step through the gates as one, leaving the realm of trials behind and entering what awaits beyond.

The flames close behind us with finality that makes my skin prickle.

Home…

Iris had called it.

Looking at the impossibility that spreads before us—architecture that shouldn't exist, sky that burns without sun, grounds that pulse with their own heartbeat—I'm beginning to understand what she meant.

This isn't just a school.

It's a kingdom waiting for its rulers to return.

And apparently, we're expected.

The Price Of Shortcuts

~GWENIEVERE~

The gates seal behind us with finality that resonates through bone and soul—a sound like the universe clicking a lock that will never open the same way twice.

We've crossed the threshold.

No more trials, no more guardians, no more tests to prove worthiness. We stand on the grounds of Year Three proper, and the difference is immediate, overwhelming.

The architecture defies conventional understanding. Buildings rise from the ground like organic growths rather than constructed things, their walls breathing with subtle life. Towers twist into impossible spirals that should collapse under their own weight but instead seem to be held up by the very audacity of their existence. Bridges span between structures with no visible support, made from materials that shift between solid and ethereal depending on the angle of observation.

The sky above burns without sun—a constant twilight of crimson and gold that provides light without source, warmth without heat. The ground beneath our feet pulses with its own heartbeat, each throb sending ripples through reality that make my teeth ache with power barely contained.

This is Year Three. The true Academy…or at least…whats left?

The place where those who survive the trials come to learn what survival actually means.

But my attention is drawn immediately to the group ahead.

Damien's posse stands perhaps fifty feet from us, clustered near one of the breathing buildings. Their posture speaks of uncertainty—the particular discomfort of those who've arrived somewhere they're not quite prepared for, despite their earlier bravado.

And with them?—

"Professor Eternalis."

Relief floods through me at the sight of her, profound enough to make my knees weak. After everything that happened in Year Two, after her interference that surely saved our lives when the administration would have preferred our deaths, seeing her here feels like finding an anchor in a storm.

She stands apart from Damien's group, and even from this distance, I can feel the tension radiating between them. Her posture is different here—more commanding, morepresent. As if the realm itself recognizes her authority and amplifies it.

We move forward as a unit, drawn by the need to understand what's happening, to reconnect with the one professor who showed us genuine protection rather than mere observation.

As we approach, the tension becomes palpable—thick enough to taste on the air like copper and ozone. Damien gestures animatedly, his voice carrying in bursts of indignation that don't quite form words at this distance. Professor Eternalis remains still, statuesque, letting him exhaust himself against her immobility.

Then she moves.

The motion is so swift, so perfectly executed, that my brain doesn't immediately process what I'm seeing. One moment shestands still as carved stone. The next, her hand has completed an arc through space, something silver flashing in the twilight.

We all stop mid-stride.

Every single one of us freezes as if time itself has hiccupped. I see Zeke's eyes begin to widen—the first time I've seen genuine surprise on his feline features. The rest of us are far past that, jaws dropping in pure shock.