Page 23 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)

It traces a perfect path down his cheek, catching the firelight like liquid amber. The sight of it seems to surprise him—as if his body has betrayed him by displaying emotion he's spent decades learning to suppress.

"In my dream," he whispers, and his voice carries the particular rawness of confessions that shouldn't be made. "I decided to die."

The words land like stones in still water, sending ripples through the careful calm I've been maintaining.

He laughs, but the sound is broken glass trying to be music.

"I shouldn't be telling that to a kid."

His hand rises to wipe the tear, but more follow—a parade of grief refusing to be contained.

"Don't tell Cassius or Atticus. Between us, I feel they'll beat my ass, and frankly..." He pauses, seeming to weigh whether even this admission is too much. "I'm kind of tired of the world hurting me."

The honesty in those words makes my chest constrict. Not with sympathy—that's too simple for what I feel. This is recognition. Understanding. The particular ache of seeing someone else carry wounds that mirror your own.

I reach up to pat his head, my small hand barely covering any significant area. He looks at me with surprise that shifts to something deeper when I whisper:

"Do I hurt you?"

We share a look that transcends age, form, circumstance. In his golden eyes, I see every moment of pain between us—intended and accidental, physical and emotional, the thousand small cuts that led to this moment of raw honesty.

He tries to smile. The expression is wrong—muscles pulling in directions that speak of practice rather than feeling. It only triggers more tears, each one a small betrayal of the control he's fought so hard to maintain.

"Not intentionally, little Solstice."

The nickname hits like lightning—sudden, electric, illuminating everything it touches.

Little Solstice.

He's rarely used it since we've been at the Academy.

I understand why now. Unlike Cassius, with whom we've found moments to mend what was broken, Nikolai and I never got that chance.

The wound festered, infection spreading until even proximity became painful.

His cowardice that day— standing silent while others tore me apart with words and laughter —became a splinter that worked deeper with every breath.

And that splinter contributed to the hate. Not created it— that honor belongs to ancestral memory and Elena's cruelty —but fed it, nurtured it, helped it grow into this toxic thing that makes Nikki's very presence trigger reactions I can't control.

He lowers his head, looking around at our oasis of darkness as if seeing it for the first time. When he speaks again, his voice carries the particular softness of truth told in darkness, when witnesses are sleeping and only honesty remains.

"My ultimate fear in the world was to be a disappointment."

The words emerge slowly, each one carefully chosen like picking path through minefield.

"To never reach the perfected standards that were laid out for me. Not because I wasn't worthy or good enough, but because those standards would only be determined by my parents who were never satisfied with anything in the world."

His attempt at a smile makes him look sadder—like watching someone try to paint joy with brushes dipped in sorrow.

"In my dream... I thought it would be best to fade away. To just poof and stop being a burden to the world that doesn't seem to favor me anymore."

He pauses, seeming to test whether the words taste true once spoken aloud.

"In fact, I don't think this world ever favored me. Not even my own Fae lands. Maybe because I never felt like I belonged to begin with."

The admission carries weight of realization long avoided. How long has he known this truth but refused to acknowledge it? How many years of forcing himself into shapes that didn't fit, all while knowing they never would?

"I was simply stuck in a place everyone said is where I'm meant to be, but it never felt that way. It never delivered that sense of home."

He closes his eyes, and in that darkness, I wonder what he sees.

The Fae Court with its impossible beauty?

The Academy with its brutal trials?

Or something simpler—the absence of anywhere that simply felt right?

"So I thought, what's the point if I'll never experience what it's like to belong?"

The question hangs between us, unanswered because some questions don't have answers—only echoes that remind us we're not alone in asking.

I frown, my small hands closing into fists. The urge to hug him is strong—child instinct that says physical comfort solves emotional pain. But I hesitate, uncertainty making my arms feel too heavy to lift.

"But," he continues, lifting his head to meet my eyes directly. Tears stream freely now, no longer hidden or held back. "When I was about to fall into a sea of lava, I had nothing but regret and fear."

His voice gains strength, as if the admission gives rather than takes power.

"I didn't want to die. I hadn't accomplished what I've yearned for. To be powerful, accepted, loved, and to prove to my heritage that I can be more than what I was born to be. That I'm beyond just an 'heir.'"

Each word builds on the last, constructing truth from syllables and certainty.

"That I can become someone they can't be disappointed in. And in a flash, all those thoughts came to mind as I was inches from my own demise."

He reaches out suddenly, his hand gentle as it wipes at my cheek. I hadn't realized I was crying—silent tears that match his own, born from recognition rather than sympathy.

"And I remembered," he says, voice dropping to whisper that carries more force than any shout. "I never truly apologized for my cowardness, Gwenivere."

The words land like keys in locks I didn't know existed.

"That could be one of many reasons, whether voluntary or involuntary, as to why you hate me now. But the least I can do is make sure I apologize for abandoning you that day."

Each word precisely chosen, carefully delivered, carrying weight of truth long avoided.

"For letting you be mocked before peers who didn't deserve to speak to you. I should have stood my ground and not cared about being outcast and judged... but I did."

The admission costs him—I can see it in the way his shoulders tighten, then release, as if confession has physical weight.

"I stood behind, thinking it wouldn't hurt. That you're a strong cookie who'd simply bounce back from it."

His laugh is bitter, self-directed mockery that hurts to hear.

"But I forgot that just because a cookie can look delicious to eat doesn't mean it'll taste good after it's been stabbed, stomped, and soaked in words of envy, hatred, and belittlement."

The metaphor is strange but perfect—capturing something about destruction that straightforward words couldn't reach.

"Soak the cookie in lava, and it's no longer sweet. It's simply turned to coal or ash."

He wipes more tears from my cheeks, movements gentle despite the tremor in his hands.

Maybe he's right. Maybe all this while I've been carrying anger from that day, letting it manifest and grow into hate that spiraled beyond control.

The resentment feeding on itself until even I couldn't remember its source, only its presence.

"So I'm sorry, my little Solstice."

The nickname comes easier this time, carried on breath that tastes of truth and possibility.

"I wronged you, and it wasn't right. I should have apologized right away, but prideful as I was, I didn't expect my actions to hurt you."

He pauses, seeming to weigh whether the next admission is too much. But we're past the point of holding back now, truth flowing like blood from opened veins.

"I guess... once I experienced what it feels like to be ridiculed and shamed without anyone to stand up and save you from turmoil, did I realize how painful it can really be."

His smile attempts genuineness this time, though tears continue their steady progression.

"If the Academy has a gift shop, I'll get you a gift as apology. A cute teddy bear or something, even if we're in this oddly wicked world."

The absurdity of the statement— a gift shop in the Infernal Academy —makes me want to laugh and cry simultaneously.

He strokes my head once more, then gently encourages: "Go back to sleep with Cassius. You need rest."

He turns to lie down, clearly ending our conversation with the kind of finality that suggests he needs to be alone with his thoughts.

I walk slowly back toward Cassius, but can't help looking over my shoulder.

Nikolai lies on his side, hands wiping at tears that won't stop falling.

The sight makes my chest ache—this Fae prince who was full of pride and power, now seeming so brittle and sad.

As if he's watched his whole world be taken away in a heartbeat and only just realized it might have been empty all along.

A poke to my cheek interrupts my observation.

One of Cassius's shadow tendrils hovers beside me, and somehow— impossibly —it's holding something.

A blanket that seems woven from elemental darkness itself, shadow given substance and form.

It should be wrong, but when I take it in my small hands, it's softer than wool.

Heavier than it appears, but warm in a way that has nothing to do with temperature.

I look at the tendril, then at Cassius. He appears deeply asleep, but I know better. This is his way of helping without intruding—assistance offered through proxy so neither Nikolai nor I have to acknowledge its source.

I nod to the tendril in thanks, then begin the arduous task of carrying the blanket to Nikolai. It's almost comically large compared to my child-form, dragging behind me like a cape made of night.

But determination makes up for what size lacks.

Nikolai stills when I drape it over him—muscles tensing with surprise before deliberately relaxing. I pat it into position with the particular focus children bring to important tasks, making sure it covers him properly, that no cold can creep through gaps.

Then, decision made, I climb beneath it and snuggle against his side.

"When I'm sad," I explain, my voice muffled by the shadow-blanket, "I hide under my blanket and cry because it hides my emotions from the rest of the world. So only I get to be sad and no one else will see why."

I look up to see his tear-stricken face—this man who seems to wish to live despite a world that rejects his existence at every turn.

"So cry all you want," I tell him, trying to make my voice stern despite its childish pitch. "And I'll hug you... just this once... since you did apologize."

I pout to show this is a special dispensation, not a new normal.

Then I wrap my small arms around him as best I can, offering comfort that transcends the inadequacy of my reach.

"I forgive you, Nikolai," I whisper against his shoulder. "So don't be sad anymore."

His arms come around me carefully—neutral, respectful, acknowledging the gift being offered without taking more than given.

"Thank you, little Solstice."

We stay like that as his tears continue to fall—two broken people offering comfort neither knows how to fully accept. The shadow-blanket holds us in darkness that feels like safety, like privacy, like permission to be vulnerable without witness.

I feel him shake with sobs he's probably held back for years. Feel the way his body wants to curl inward, but doesn't because I'm here, requiring space. Feel the moment when exhaustion finally wins and his breathing evens into sleep's rhythm.

Only then do I let myself think about what this means.

The anger I've carried—it's still there.

The ancestral rage against the Fae burns in my blood, probably always will.

But maybe Nikolai isn't the target. Maybe he never was.

Maybe he's just another casualty of prophecies spoken by those who should have stayed silent, of destinies decided before we could choose our own.

Gabriel saved him tonight.

My brother—who I'm only beginning to know as separate from myself—chose to save someone our shared body instinctively rejects. That has to mean something. Has to point toward possibilities we haven't imagined yet.

The mark on my neck pulses gently—Cassius's mark, reminding me of bonds that transcend current circumstance. But I wonder now about other marks, other connections. About what it means that Gabriel bears Nikolai's mark when Nikki wears mine.

About whether separation might bring liberation rather than loss.

Tomorrow we'll continue toward the Academy. We'll face whatever trials remain, whatever guardianship means in its final form. But tonight, under a blanket woven from protective shadows, I offer forgiveness to someone who's been drowning in guilt.

"Little Solstice," he murmurs in his sleep, the nickname now sounding like a promise rather than past.

Maybe that's how healing begins—not with grand gestures or perfect apologies, but with shadow-blankets and whispered forgiveness and the choice to stay when leaving would be easier.

I close my eyes, letting sleep take me while wrapped in darkness that feels like home and holding someone who's learning what belonging might mean.

Tomorrow will bring new trials.

Tonight, we rest in the safety of shadows and second chances.