Page 16 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)

Revelations In The Shadows

~ATTICUS~

W e've been walking for what feels like hours through this realm of living darkness.

The landscape shifts constantly—one moment we're traversing fields of crystallized shadow, the next we're navigating paths that seem carved from solid night. My position beside child Gwenivere has become natural, with Cassius flanking her other side like a matching bookend of protection.

Behind us, Zeke, Nikolai, and Mortimer maintain their own formation. I can hear their footsteps—Zeke's near-silent padding, Mortimer's measured stride, Nikolai's slightly irregular gait that speaks of exhaustion he won't admit.

"We should take a break," Zeke announces suddenly.

I pause mid-step, turning to assess our companions. The cat shifter's expression carries that particular certainty I've learned to trust—feline intuition rarely steers wrong.

"Tired already?" I ask, though the question lacks any real mockery. We've all been through hell, literally and figuratively.

Nikolai straightens his shoulders with visible effort. "I can go a bit longer."

"As can I," Mortimer agrees, though I catch the slight tremor in his voice. Dragon pride won't let him admit weakness easily.

But Zeke shakes his head, those extraordinary eyes focused elsewhere. "Look up."

We follow his gaze collectively, and I immediately see what prompted his concern. The barrier above us—that strange membrane between realms—sizzles with patterns that weren't there before. Energy discharges in irregular bursts, like lightning trying to form but failing.

"Why is it doing that?" I frown, looking to Zeke for answers. His knowledge of these strange phenomena has proven invaluable.

Instead of explaining, he simply tilts his head to his left. Following the gesture, I see what I should have noticed immediately.

Gwenivere's head bobs with each step, the universal motion of a child fighting sleep.

Her small form sways slightly, caught between exhaustion and stubborn determination to keep moving.

How did I miss this? The answer comes with uncomfortable clarity—I've been thinking of her as Gwenivere-in-small-form rather than acknowledging she's currently, functionally, a six-year-old child.

Children need rest. Need care. Need things we haven't been providing in our rush to reach the Academy.

She nearly stumbles, eyes fluttering closed before snapping open again. Cassius notices immediately, dropping to one knee beside her with fluid grace.

"Are you tired, Little Mouse?"

She blinks at him, confusion warring with obvious exhaustion in those too-large eyes. The irises still shift through impossible colors, but slower now, like a music box winding down.

"No," she insists, shaking her head with enough force to make her silver hair fan out. "Time is ticking. We need to?—"

A yawn interrupts her protest, tiny hand rising to cover her mouth.

The gesture is so perfectly childlike it makes something in my chest constrict.

When she rubs at her eyes with both fists, the image completes itself—exhausted child pushing past all limits because the adults haven't been paying attention.

Cassius doesn't hesitate. He scoops her up with careful efficiency, settling her against his shoulder with practiced ease that makes me wonder about his past. Has he held children before?

Younger siblings in the Duskwalker realm?

The thought brings unexpected jealousy—not of him, but of missing these moments of vulnerability with her.

"Why don't we walk," he suggests gently, "and you can rest your head for a bit?"

She huffs against his shoulder, the sound muffled by his jacket. "I'm not sleepy. My head is just heavy and needs to rest just a bit."

The distinction is apparently crucial in six-year-old logic. Cassius's lips twitch with suppressed amusement.

"Of course," he agrees solemnly. "Just resting your heavy head."

His shadow tendrils come alive with unusual gentleness, moving strands of silver hair away from her face.

The length surprises me—it flows past her waist even in this diminutive form, far longer proportionally than her adult version.

The tendrils seem fascinated, weaving through the strands with something approaching reverence.

She doesn't respond to agree or argue. Five seconds, maybe less, and her breathing evens into sleep's rhythm.

Above us, the barrier's sizzling stops completely.

"Good call, Zeke," I acknowledge, understanding now. Her exhaustion was affecting the realm itself, her guardian nature responding to physical needs with environmental instability.

Zeke's smirk carries feline satisfaction. "It's a feline trait. We notice things."

Nikolai looks around our current location—a relatively flat area of packed shadow-earth surrounded by twisted formations that might be trees or might be crystallized nightmares.

"Maybe it would be good if we paused, even for a bit.

" He pauses, pride warring with honesty before adding quietly, "I'm a tad tired. "

The admission from the Fae prince speaks volumes. If Nikolai is acknowledging exhaustion, the rest of us must be running on fumes.

Mortimer nods with understanding, then turns his scholarly attention to Zeke. "Are you simply a feline shifter, or a hybrid?"

The question catches my attention. "Why would you assume he's more than feline?"

"His intuition is expected from a feline, particularly a black cat variant," Mortimer explains, golden eyes studying Zeke with academic interest. "But it's peculiarly matched with his strength in magical arts. Pure feline shifters rarely command such diverse magical capability."

Zeke's smirk widens as he settles gracefully onto the ground, every movement displaying that characteristic fluid economy of motion. He doesn't answer directly, which is answer enough.

Cassius carefully sits while maintaining his hold on sleeping Gwenivere. The ease with which he manages her weight speaks of strength beyond mere physical—shadows assist subtly, creating supports that make his burden lighter.

"As a Duskwalker," he says thoughtfully, "felines are spoken of in our realm at the same level as demigods. Your nine lives aren't metaphorical—they're literal repositories of experience and power."

Zeke settles into a casual sprawl that would look boneless on anyone else. On him, it merely emphasizes his inhuman flexibility. "Among other things."

"Should we make a fire?" Nikolai asks suddenly, wrapping his arms around himself. "It's getting cold."

I hadn't noticed, but he's right. The temperature has been dropping steadily, warmth leaching away into the hungry darkness of this realm. We agree quickly—fire would provide both warmth and light, perhaps even a psychological comfort in this place of shadows.

"Can you form wood?" Mortimer asks Nikolai. "I know the elements are against you here, but?—"

"I can try." Nikolai's expression sets with determination. He brings his hands together, and I can see the strain immediately. In the Fae realm, this would be effortless. Here, every spark of magic fights against environmental hostility.

His hands glow with sickly light—wrong color for healthy Fae magic. The strain shows in trembling muscles, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. When the logs finally manifest, they drop into existence with thuds that speak of dense matter forced into being rather than naturally formed.

"Fuck," Nikolai gasps, clearly breathless. "This is a pain in the ass. If my magic can barely make logs, I'm going to be fucked at the Academy."

We exchange worried glances. If basic manifestation costs this much?—

"Probably."

The voice makes us all jump. Above us, floating on what appears to be a personal cloud, sits child Gabriel. He looks curious rather than hostile, legs kicking idly as he observes our group.

Nikolai groans. "Why are you showing up now?"

The little boy shrugs with elaborate casualness. "I'm more intrigued by the feline, so I figured I'd float by."

Cassius's interest sharpens visibly. "Can't you be out at the same time as Gwenivere?"

Gabriel stares at him for a long moment, seeming to weigh how much to reveal. When he speaks, it's with the tone of someone explaining obvious facts to slow students.

"If we both show up at the same time, it'll take a toll on the barrier and put you at risk.

So I can't be around until you reach the gates.

" He pauses, swinging his legs with childish energy that contrasts his ancient eyes.

"When you're at Wicked Academy's grounds, it could be possible with some trial and error. "

The implications are fascinating. Two souls sharing space, but unable to manifest simultaneously without risking structural damage to reality itself. No wonder the barrier reacted to Gwenivere's exhaustion—she's literally holding dimensional space together through will alone.

Gabriel's attention fixes on Cassius with unnerving intensity. "Why are you so interested in my existence? I'm a nobody."

The casual self-deprecation hits wrong. This is the Crown Prince of the Infernal Academy, heir to power that makes kingdoms kneel. Yet he dismisses himself as nothing?

"You're her brother," I interject firmly. "You're not a nobody. Whatever circumstances occurred that resulted in you two ending up in one body—that's made this predicament, but it doesn't diminish your value."

Gabriel's gaze shifts to me, and his expression carries something between amusement and disdain.

"You're a puppy dog."

The insult lands with surprising effectiveness. I can feel myself sulking before I can stop the reaction. Centuries of vampire dignity, reduced to pouting by a six-year-old's dismissal.

"At least be nice," Nikolai groans. "You realize we're bonded to your sister, right?"

Gabriel's shrug carries volumes. "Sadly."

A thought strikes me suddenly—one of those revelations that seems obvious only after it arrives.

"But doesn't that mean you're bonded to us? Because you share a body?"