Page 14 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)

The Crown Of Nothing

~GWENIVERE~

L aughter.

Pure, crystalline joy that rings through darkness like silver bells. It starts soft— a giggle between conspirators —then builds into the full-throated delight that only children can produce without self-consciousness.

Three figures dance in a circle, hands clasped, bodies spinning with abandon that makes their forms blur at the edges.

They're in a pasture, but not one that exists in any realm mortals know.

The grass beneath their feet is shadow given substance, each blade a different shade of twilight.

Purple mingles with midnight blue, while pink—the color of dawn filtered through obsidian—provides accent notes that shouldn't exist but do.

The darkness here isn't oppressive. It breathes with life.

Butterflies made of compressed starlight flutter between shadow-flowers that bloom in eternal night. Their wings trail cosmic dust that hangs in the air like suspended glitter. Fireflies join the dance, but their light is cold—blue-white sparks that exist in the space between real and imagined.

Fire crowns the leftmost girl.

Not touching her, never burning, but hovering inches above her dark hair like a halo of living flame. Orange bleeds to gold bleeds to white at the edges, the colors shifting with her emotions. When she laughs, the flames dance higher. When she spins, they trail behind like a comet's tail.

The boy wears purple light.

His crown is gentler—amethyst luminescence that pulses in rhythm with his heartbeat.

It casts no shadows because it exists in harmony with the darkness rather than opposition to it.

Sometimes the purple deepens to wine, sometimes it lightens to lavender, but always it marks him as something special. Something chosen.

The third girl has nothing.

No crown of fire or light marks her as different, as special, as destined . But she doesn't seem to mind. Her laughter rings as true as the others', her movements just as free. In this moment, in this dance, she is simply one of three.

Equal. Loved. Included.

A call echoes from the hilltop.

The sound doesn't travel through air—it resonates through the fabric of this strange realm, felt as much as heard. The children react instantly, heads turning in unison toward the source. Their dance breaks apart, but their hands remain clasped as they begin to run.

As they move, I notice the strangeness of their forms.

They're silhouettes more than children—shapes cut from reality rather than existing within it.

Their eyes glow with hollow light, empty sockets that somehow convey more emotion than any ordinary gaze.

When they smile, their mouths become caverns of brightness, as if joy itself burns within their shadow-forms.

They crest the hill, breathless with excitement rather than exertion.

Three beings await them.

The parents— for that's clearly what they are —tower over their children with presence that goes beyond mere height. The woman wears a crown of burning crimson that makes her daughter's orange flames look pale by comparison. This is not fire playing at royalty—this is royalty that happens to burn.

The crown hovers with weight of absolute authority, each flame a decree, each spark a judgment.

The man's purple crown matches his son's but amplified to the power of mountains. Where the boy's light pulses gently, the father's throbs with force that makes reality bend around it.

This is shadow given purpose, darkness that has learned to rule rather than merely exist.

The third figure...

Wrong.

Everything about them is wrong for this place.

They glow with sickly yellow shot through with veins of green— colors that have no place in this realm of beautiful darkness. Where the parents embody their environment, this being stands apart from it.

Foreign.

Invasive.

Like oil on water, refusing to blend.

The parents gesture with formal grace, hands moving in patterns that carry meaning beyond mere motion. When they speak, the words come in a language I don't know but somehow understand. The sounds shift and blur, reforming into English as if reality itself translates for my benefit.

"This being comes from the Fae lands. They will determine your royal roots here and now."

The Fae nods slowly.

The motion carries weight of ceremony, of judgment about to be pronounced that cannot be taken back. They raise one hand, pointing to the girl with the burning crown.

"She is your destined heir, having taken the power of the internal flames."

The words ring with prophecy's certainty. I watch the little girl straighten, shadow-form somehow becoming more solid with each pronouncement.

"She will rise to rule your throne and encourage the rise of the academy you cherish. Her destined half will be of pure darkness—originally outcast to all but rising as one who will unify a realm that has always been alone among a sea of allies."

The Fae's voice gains momentum, prophecy flowing like water breaking through a dam.

"He will not only rule by her side, but he will love her with utmost gentleness that will invite scholars of power in realms of scales and fire, while igniting loyalty from beings of blood and immortality in the purest form.

Beings of feline nature will grant cycles of knowledge, and together, a kingdom of power will be respected through all the realms."

The parents clap—sound like thunder rolling through darkness.

Their shadow-forms radiate satisfaction, pride, completion. The girl with the fire crown jumps up and down, flames dancing wild with her joy. The boy catches her in a hug that makes both their coronas flare brighter.

The third girl watches.

Waits.

Her shadow-form remains perfectly still, but I can feel the anticipation radiating from her. The desperate hope. The certainty that her turn comes next, that something wonderful awaits just beyond this moment.

The Fae turns to the boy, purple light playing across their alien features.

"You carry the power to guide armies. To protect this realm from those who wish deceit and betrayal."

Each word builds upon the last, constructing a destiny from syllables and certainty.

"You'll scout students dead and alive, gifted and null in power. You will be a grandmaster in your element of ruling, a Headmaster of the finest art."

The boy stands straighter, shadow-form gaining definition with each pronounced fate.

"You are destined not to remain in these realms. You are bonded to one outside who will rise upon a throne of glittering gold and blossoms of immense perfection. That unity will ensure alliances never witnessed."

The Fae's voice rises to crescendo.

"Destiny will be rewritten thanks to your unified favor, and though you will always come to the aid of your fellow heir and ruler, you will become one who will rule and expand the realms into an era of peacefulness."

Again the parents clap, thunder-sound joined by something like singing—wordless melody that speaks of approval deeper than language. The boy stands taller while the girl with fire dances around him, her joy infectious enough that his purple light begins to pulse in rhythm with her flames.

The Fae turns to the third girl.

Silence stretches.

The shadow-child waits, form trembling slightly with anticipation. This is her moment. Her turn. Her destiny about to unfold like the others', revealing what wonderful future awaits, what crown will manifest above her patient head.

The Fae shakes their head.

"Nothing is destined for this child."

The words fall like stones into still water. Ripples of shock spread through the gathering, visible in the way the celebrating children freeze, the way the parents' satisfied postures shift to confusion.

The third girl's shoulders sink.

Her shadow-form doesn't just diminish—it begins to fade at the edges, as if the lack of destiny might unmake her entirely. Where before she stood equal despite lacking a crown, now she seems hollow.

Less real.

Less worthy.

The other two children look confused, turning to their parents with questions written in the tilt of their heads, the dimming of their lights.

But the parents dismiss the concern with gestures that speak clearly even across time and memory—waves of hands that say "time will tell" and "too early to be certain. "

The crowned children accept this with the resilience of youth. They surround their sister, jumping up and down in exaggerated motions meant to cheer. Their shadow-forms press close, trying to share their light, their warmth, their destiny through proximity alone.

It almost works.

Almost.

The parents point beyond the Fae to where something magnificent rises from the darkness.

A castle of shadows materializes, or perhaps was always there, waiting to be noticed.

Spires of crystallized night reach toward a sky that doesn't exist, while bridges of solid moonlight connect towers that shouldn't be able to stand.

The children cheer— even the third girl manages some enthusiasm —and the two run toward this new wonder. The parents follow with measured steps, their forms moving with grace that speaks of eternity to explore such marvels.

Only the third girl hesitates.

She stands alone as others move away, shadow-form trembling with something that might be rage or might be despair. The Fae being turns to follow the others, apparently considering their work complete.

The girl screeches .

The sound tears through the memory like claws through silk. It's not a child's cry but something older, deeper—the voice of someone who refuses to accept judgment, who demands truth rather than dismissal.

The Fae stops. Turns their head with mechanical precision.

The girl flinches as they smile. The expression is wrong on their features—too wide, too knowing, too pleased with what comes next.

"You are destined for failure."

Each word precisely placed. Each syllable a nail in a coffin built from prophecy.