Page 93 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

And somewhere in that dance, I hear Elena laughing.

Not with cruelty but with joy.

The sound of a sister who hasn't yet learned to hate.

The melody of love before it was tainted.

The piece of what we're all trying to remember.

Or forget…

The Labyrinth Of Memories

~GWENIEVERE~

Consciousness returns like surfacing from deep water—gradual, then all at once.

My eyes open to unfamiliarity that makes my chest tight with immediate panic. This isn't where I fell. Isn't where my companions were carrying me.

Isn't anywhere I recognize from our journey through the Academy grounds.

I'm alone.

The realization hits with the particular terror of isolation in hostile territory. No Cassius with his protective shadows. No Atticus with his vampire strength. No Nikolai, Mortimer, Zeke—just me in a room that shouldn't exist but does.

I push myself upright, muscles protesting the movement with aches that suggest I've been unconscious for more than minutes. The bed beneath me is simple but quality—dark wood frame, sheets that feel like silk but look like shadow woven into fabric.

But it's what I'm wearing that makes me pause.

Gone are the torn clothes from our trials.

Instead, I'm dressed in what must be the official Year Three uniform, and it's nothing like the previous years' attire.

Leather pants hug my legs with the particular fit of clothing tailored by magic rather than measurement. The material is black but not uniformly—it shifts between matte and gloss depending on how light hits it, creating patterns that seem to move with their own purpose. They're practical but undeniably aesthetic, the kind of clothing that says its wearer is expected to fight and look good doing it.

The white button-up shirt provides stark contrast, its crisp fabric somehow managing to look both professional and rebellious. It's tucked into the pants with military precision, every line clean despite the fact I definitely didn't dress myself.

Over it all, a leather jacket that makes everything else make sense.

It's fitted perfectly—not too tight to restrict movement, not so loose as to be cumbersome. The leather matches the pants in that shifting quality, sometimes seeming solid, sometimes appearing to breathe.

But it's the logo that draws my attention.

Embroidered on the left breast, positioned exactly over where my heart beats with increasing concern, is the Wicked Academy crest. But it's different from what I remember. The symbol seems more complex, layers of meaning I can't quite parse woven into what should be a simple insignia.

When I look at it directly, it's one thing. From peripheral vision, it's something else entirely.

A mirror floats nearby, revealing and confirming the overall presentation.

Everything in this room seems to exist in defiance of gravity. Books hover at various heights, their pages occasionally fluttering despite no breeze. A desk suspends itself at perfect working height with no legs to support it. Even dust motes seem to move with deliberate purpose rather than random brownian motion.

I approach the mirror carefully, half-expecting it to be a portal or a trap rather than a simple reflective surface.

My reflection stops me cold.

My hair is longer—significantly so. What was past my shoulder-length before now falls past my waist in waves that seem to move independently, as if each strand remembers being flame and occasionally forgets it's just hair now. The silver color is more pronounced, catching light that doesn't exist to create highlights that shouldn't be possible.

My skin is pale. Not vampire-pale like Atticus, but the particular pallor of someone who's been drained nearly dry and is only slowly recovering. The veins at my wrists and throat are visible through translucent skin, painting blue roadmaps of where life struggles to flow properly.