Page 11 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)

The Child In The Darkness

~CASSIUS~

T he darkness erupts from Gwenivere like a living thing—not the controlled shadows I weave, but something primal and absolute. It surrounds her collapsing form in layers upon layers of writhing void, each tendril carrying weight that makes reality groan.

Her eyes roll back, revealing nothing but white before even that is consumed by spreading black. The sight triggers memory of ancient texts—possession stories always begin with the eyes. But this isn't possession. This is becoming .

Markings spread across her visible skin like living calligraphy, each symbol pulsing with power that makes my teeth ache.

They're not painted on flesh but carved from within, as if her very essence is rewriting itself in a language older than speech.

The glyphs glow—first black, then gold, then something beyond color that makes looking directly at them feel like staring into an eclipse.

Power shoots outward in waves.

Not gentle pulses but hammer blows of pure force that seek to unmake anything in their path.

The first wave hits like a physical wall.

My shadows scream, shredding at the edges where her darkness meets mine.

The second wave is worse—heat that doesn't burn but erases , threatening to delete the very concept of my existence.

My legs grow heavy. Not tired— heavy . As if gravity itself has decided I need to be closer to the ground. My knees bend without my permission, muscles straining against inexorable pressure.

Is this the true power of a royal destined to rule?

The thought comes with clarity that surprises me, given the circumstances. But something about this moment—about witnessing power that makes my considerable abilities seem like parlor tricks—triggers memory.

My mentor's words, spoken in a time before betrayal made me armor myself in calculated distance.

We stood in the Shadow Oasis, that hidden sanctuary where only the most powerful Duskwalkers could even find the entrance, let alone navigate its tests.

The clearing overlooked our lands—vast territories of eternal twilight where shadow given form created forests, mountains, cities of living darkness.

Few of our kind ever witnessed this view. Fewer still survived to describe it.

"As a royal child," he'd said, ancient voice carrying weight of centuries, "very few could ever make you kneel. Especially as one blessed with such a high tier of power in the realms of royalty."

I'd been younger then. Still naive enough to ask, "Is that why no one wishes to be associated with me?"

He hadn't looked at me. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon where darkness met darker darkness in gradients only Duskwalker eyes could distinguish. The silence stretched long enough that I thought he wouldn't answer.

"In a world of wickedness," he finally said, "sometimes it's better to be alone than to seek companionship."

The words had stung with truth I wasn't ready to accept.

"Who wishes to be comrades with one who would betray you in a heartbeat?" His shadows coiled differently than mine—older patterns, movements that suggested depth I couldn't yet fathom. "Strangers, friends, acquaintances. Those are people you can heal from if they hurt you or break your trust."

He'd paused then, and when he continued, his voice carried personal pain.

"But when family does it, it hurts even more. And that's the problem with our kind."

The memory sharpens as another wave of power crashes over me. This one doesn't push—it pulls , trying to drag something essential from my core.

"There's no loyalty," my mentor had continued, "no matter who you are. Friend, foe, stranger, or of blood."

Then he'd turned to me, and I'd seen something in his ancient eyes that might have been pride. Or pity. Sometimes they looked the same.

"But you, Cassius, your power is the depths of darkness. You're a weaver of the shadows that are truly endless in existence. You're an immortal mastermind who will never run out of energy or drive because darkness doesn't die."

The third wave hits, and I understand with crystal clarity what he meant.

My shadows don't break against Gwenivere's assault—they bend , flowing around and through, finding spaces between her attacks where they can exist without conflict.

Because darkness doesn't fight darkness.

It mingles. It merges. It finds equilibrium.

"It's no different from light and darkness," his voice echoes across years. "Those are elements that will never run out, making you invincible in your own element."

My knees finally touch ground, but it's not submission. It's adaptation. My shadows spread outward, creating a buffer zone where her power can rage without destroying everything it touches.

"That sadly is frightening when you're a royal, for no one can truly end you. And that's exactly why they stay away. Not out of fear. Out of envy."

I'd asked him then, young and desperate for connection, "How do other royals meet or become friends?"

His smile had been sad. Knowing.

"When you're destined, the time will come and force you together with those who will always stay by your side."

The memory crystallizes as I realize what's happening around me. My shadows—responding to instinct older than conscious thought—have wrapped around my companions. Not to trap but to preserve. Each one encased in protective darkness that filters Gwenivere's raw power into something survivable.

"But when you truly find the one that makes you question it all," my mentor's final words ring with prophetic clarity, "to get a glimpse of how they must feel in their own world of mayhem and loneliness, you'll realize you've found someone who's not only your match, but destined to rise with you."

The flashback shatters as present reality demands attention.

I'm surrounded by darkness—not mine, not hers, but something between.

A realm created where our powers intersect.

My companions float in shadow cocoons, their forms visible as silhouettes outlined in purple energy.

Hearts beat with that same violet light—alive but suspended, protected but imprisoned.

They're safe. For now.

But for how long? My shadows can't hold against hers indefinitely. Not when she's channeling power that makes the Infernal Realm itself kneel.

"Release them," I command the darkness, testing limits.

The shadows consider. I feel their contemplation like fingers across my consciousness—alien yet familiar. They're mine but also hers, loyalty divided between creators. Finally, they comply enough to reveal more detail. My friends float in suspended animation, awareness dimmed but souls intact.

It will have to be enough.

Movement catches my peripheral vision. I turn, expecting attack or new horror.

Instead, I see a child.

She stands perhaps twenty feet away, though distance means little in this void between realms. Six years old, maybe seven. Small in the way that makes you want to protect rather than fear.

But I know better.

Her pout transforms cherubic features into something achingly familiar. Those eyes—too large for her face—shift through impossible colors. Red bleeds to gold bleeds to black bleeds to pure white, each transition lasting exactly one heartbeat. The cycle repeats endlessly, hypnotic in its precision.

Her hair defies physics and reason. Silver strands flow past her shoulders, past her waist, past her knees, stopping just before touching the ground that isn't ground. The length should make her look fragile. Instead, it wreathes her like armor, moving with its own wind in this airless space.

She wears simple clothes—a t-shirt and shorts that seem absurdly mundane given our circumstances.

But the normalcy is illusion. Every inch of exposed skin glows with those same markings I saw consume Gwenivere.

They're smaller on this child form, more delicate, but no less powerful.

Each symbol pulses in rhythm with her impossible eyes.

I know without doubt: this is Gwenivere.

Not possessed. Not transformed. But some essential aspect given independent form.

"Is that you?" I ask, keeping my voice carefully neutral. Speaking to children requires different tactics than addressing adults. Even children who might be apocalyptic entities.

Her pout deepens, lower lip extending in exaggerated displeasure. The expression is so perfectly childish it would be charming if not for the power radiating from her small form.

"You're not going to stay by my side," she declares with six-year-old certainty, "so why should I help you out?"

The accusation hits unexpectedly hard. Not because it's true, but because it reveals hurt deeper than any physical wound.

"Why do you believe I wouldn't stay by your side?" I ask instead of defending. Questions often work better than statements with the wounded.

"No one ever stays." The words emerge flat. Factual. As if she's stating that water is wet or fire burns. "It's always been that way."

The weight of that certainty—the crushing acceptance in such a young voice—makes something in my chest constrict. How many betrayals does it take to forge such armor? How many abandonments before a soul simply stops expecting anything else?

I shake my head slowly, deliberately. "I'm here for you, aren't I?"

She frowns, but curiosity flickers through the defensive walls. Children are curious by nature. Even ancient children wearing young faces.

I make a calculated decision. Spreading my arms wide, I make myself vulnerable in this space where vulnerability could mean annihilation. "I have nowhere to go. These trials were a test in the beginning, yes. But I'm here to help you seek what you need."

Her head tilts. The motion is perfectly childlike yet carries weight of ages. Watching. Evaluating. Judging.

"So the real question is," I continue, maintaining eye contact with those shifting rainbow depths, "what do you desire?"

The silence stretches. In the suspended darkness, I can hear my own heartbeat. Can feel my shadows breathing in rhythm with hers. Can taste the moment balanced on a knife's edge between salvation and damnation.

When she finally speaks, her voice is smaller. Younger. As if my question stripped away layers of defense to reveal something raw beneath.

"Freedom from Wickedness."

Three words. Simple. Devastating.

I don't understand—not fully. But understanding isn't required. Only action.

"Then show me," I say, nodding slowly. "Show me how I can help you discover freedom from wickedness. If that's what I need to do to prove my loyalty to you... so be it."

Something changes.

The mark at my neck—her mark, burned into my essence during our first blood exchange—suddenly flares with warmth. Not painful but alive , pulsing with renewed connection.

Her eyes widen as her own mark responds, glowing through the thin fabric of her shirt. We share a look of mutual surprise. The bonds we've formed aren't just magical constructs—they're deeper. They recognize each other across forms, across realms, across whatever divide currently separates us.

She walks toward me.

Each step is deliberate despite her small legs. The darkness parts for her, creating a path that exists only as long as her feet need it. Her hair flows behind like a silver river, never quite touching the void we inhabit.

When she stops, she has to crane her neck to look up at me. The height difference should make her seem vulnerable. Instead, I feel like I'm the one being measured.

Up close, I can see details impossible to notice from a distance.

Flecks of starlight caught in her impossible eyes.

The way her markings aren't just glowing but breathing , expanding and contracting with her heartbeat.

The faint scent of moonflowers and copper that clings to her—Gwenivere's scent translated into something more primal.

She extends one small hand. The gesture is formal despite her apparent age. An offer. A test. A bridge.

"Show me, Little Mouse." I use the nickname deliberately, watching her reaction. Something flickers across her features—surprise, warmth, recognition. "Show me who's been wicked to what's mine."

Deep in those shifting depths, I see it. A glimmer of hope so fragile it might shatter at a harsh word. But it's there. Real. Possible.

I take her hand.

Her fingers are tiny in my grasp, but her grip carries strength that has nothing to do with physical force. The moment our skin touches, the marks on both our necks blaze with synchronized light.

She squeezes my hand—gentle, testing. I squeeze back—firm, reassuring.

"Hold tight," she whispers, and despite her child's voice, I hear echoes of the woman I held this morning. The woman I've sworn to protect. The woman whose complexities continue to unfold like some infinite origami.

Darkness engulfs us.

Not the passive void we've been standing in, but active consumption. It doesn't surround—it devours , pulling us through layers of reality like silk scarves being yanked away. Each transition brings new sensation:

Cold that burns. Heat that freezes. Silence that deafens. Light that blinds with its absence.

Through it all, her hand remains solid in mine. An anchor. A guide. A promise that wherever we're going, we go together.

The journey feels eternal and instant simultaneously. Time doesn't flow—it stutters, stops, reverses, accelerates. I experience moments out of order: arriving before we leave, existing in multiple states, being nowhere and everywhere.

Then, with abruptness that makes my shadows scream, we stop.

But where we've arrived isn't a place.

It's a memory.

And in that memory, I finally understand what wickedness has done to what's mine.

The realization comes with the weight of prophecy fulfilled: my mentor was right. I've found not just my match, but someone whose broken pieces fit perfectly against my own jagged edges.

Now I just have to help her remember that broken doesn't mean worthless.

That darkness doesn't mean evil.

That sometimes, in a world of wickedness, finding someone equally damaged is the first step toward healing.

Her small hand tightens in mine as the memory begins to play. And I hold on, ready to witness whatever horrors forged this child of shadows who wears my mark and calls to my darkness like coming home.

"Show me," I whisper into the void. "Show me everything."

And the darkness, eager to please its masters, obeys.