Page 24 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)
Waters Of Separation
~GWENIEVERE~
T he sea stretches before us like liquid obsidian, its surface too still to be natural.
No waves lap at the shore. No current disturbs the perfect mirror that reflects our approach. The water simply exists —dark, patient, waiting with the particular hunger of things that know their prey must eventually come to them.
My small hand tightens in Cassius's larger one, seeking comfort in the familiar coolness of his skin. His shadows respond to my anxiety, wrapping around my wrist like protective bracelets that pulse with reassurance I desperately need.
The platform floats in the distance—an island of carved stone that hovers above the water's surface as if repelled by what lies beneath. Even from here, I can see it: the pedestal at its center, the soft glow that can only be the third key, the final piece needed to unlock the Academy's gates.
"That's where the final key is," I announce, pointing with my free hand across the impossible expanse.
The gesture is childlike in its certainty—as if identifying the destination somehow solves the problem of reaching it. But even as the words leave my mouth, a more pressing concern surfaces. I look up at Cassius, having to crane my neck at an uncomfortable angle to meet his eyes.
"I don't know how to swim yet."
The admission emerges with perfect six-year-old innocence, complete with the implied assumption that swimming is simply a skill I haven't gotten around to learning rather than a potentially fatal gap in my abilities.
The 'yet' carries such optimism—as if given a few swimming lessons, I'd master this too.
Cassius's expression shifts through several emotions too quickly to catalog, but I catch the moment of soft appreciation—not mockery but something almost tender.
Like I've reminded him that beneath the Guardian powers and ancient memories, I'm currently, functionally, a child with a child's limitations.
He's not alone in his reaction.
Atticus's lips twitch with what might be suppressed laughter or concern. Mortimer's scholarly expression softens into something paternal. Even Zeke's perpetual calm cracks enough to show a flicker of what might be fondness.
They look at me like I'm something precious. Fragile. Worth protecting.
Part of me wants to rebel against it—I'm not actually a child, just temporarily shaped like one. But another part, the part that's learning to accept care after centuries of only knowing survival, leans into the warmth of their collective concern.
"We need a plan," Mortimer states, his golden eyes already calculating distances and possibilities. "The expanse is too wide to traverse through shadow or blood manipulation alone."
"And I doubt my frost would create stable enough platforms for all of us," Zeke adds, those extraordinary eyes studying the water with feline suspicion. "Something about this water feels... wrong."
Atticus crouches at the shore's edge, extending one finger toward the surface. He stops just before making contact, pulling back with a frown that speaks of instinct overriding curiosity.
"It's not responding to my blood call. Water usually carries at least trace amounts of iron, minerals I can manipulate. This is... empty."
They begin discussing options—each proposal more complex than the last. Magic woven with magic, powers combined in ways that might bridge the gap between shore and key. Their voices overlap, building plans on plans like architectural sketches drawn in air.
"What do you think, Nikolai?" Mortimer asks, turning to include the Fae prince in their strategy session.
But Nikolai doesn't respond.
He stands apart from our group, his golden eyes fixed on the water with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. His body language has shifted from his usual performed confidence to something rawer. Warier. Like prey recognizing a predator it can't quite see.
"Nikolai?" Atticus prompts, concern coloring his tone. "What's wrong?"
When he finally speaks, his voice carries certainty that makes everyone pause.
"These waters don't belong in this realm."
The words hang in the air like a prophecy nobody wants to acknowledge. Waters that don't belong— what does that mean? How can water be foreign to a realm that contains every other impossibility?
Before anyone can ask for clarification, the world provides its own answer.
The ground lurches .
Not a tremor or shake but a full-body convulsion of the realm itself. The shore cracks beneath our feet, fissures spreading in patterns that look almost like text—messages written in breaking stone that we're not meant to read.
I stumble, only Cassius's grip keeping me upright.
His shadows explode outward, creating a platform of darkness that remains stable even as everything else shifts.
The others struggle for balance, Mortimer's partial transformation giving him claws to dig into the moving earth while Atticus uses vampire speed to ride the quake rather than fight it.
"Better initiate the game plan and analyze later!" Zeke shouts over the sound of grinding stone.
The pragmatism cuts through confusion, spurring everyone into motion with the particular efficiency of those who've learned to act first and understand later.
"Nikolai, we need materials!" Mortimer calls out, already pulling heat from the air in preparation.
Despite the chaos, despite his obvious distraction, Nikolai responds immediately.
His hands glow with that sickly light that speaks of Fae magic fighting against environmental hostility.
The strain shows in every line of his body—muscles trembling, sweat beading on his forehead, teeth gritted with effort.
But logs materialize.
Not the smooth, perfect timber that Fae magic would normally produce, but gnarled things that look torn from trees rather than crafted. They drop onto the quaking shore with thuds that speak of desperate density, each one a small victory against a realm that wants to deny their existence.
Cassius's shadows spring into action before the logs finish falling. Dark tendrils weave between the timber with the precision of supernatural spiders, binding wood to wood in patterns that create structure from chaos. The shadows don't just tie—they fuse , becoming part of the construction itself.
"Mortimer!" Atticus calls out, already moving at vampire speed to arrange the logs according to some design only he can see. "We need adhesive!"
The dragon shifter nods, his partial transformation allowing him to breathe flames that burn hotter than any natural fire. But he doesn't aim at the wood. Instead, he focuses on patches of the blackened shore, heating the coal-infused stone until it liquefies into tar.
The smell is overwhelming— burning pitch mixed with something older, wronger. Like cremation grounds and chemical spills and the particular scent of endings made permanent. My child-nose wrinkles, but I don't complain. Can't complain when everyone is working with such desperate efficiency.
Atticus becomes a blur of motion, vampire speed allowing him to be everywhere at once.
He scoops molten tar with his bare hands— the burns healing instantly —and applies it to every joint, every connection, every point where wood meets wood or shadow meets substance.
His precision is architectural, each placement strengthening the overall structure.
Within minutes that feel like hours, we have a boat.
'Boat' is perhaps too generous a term. It's more raft than vessel—a platform of logs bound by shadow and sealed with tar that still steams in places. But it's large enough for all of us, stable enough to float, and right now that makes it beautiful.
"Everyone on!" Cassius commands, his shadows creating a ramp from shore to deck.
We board quickly but carefully, weight distributing across the surface with conscious precision. I end up in the center—the safest spot—surrounded by bodies that form a protective circle whether they mean to or not.
The quaking intensifies, cracks in the shore spreading toward the water's edge. Whatever window we have is closing fast.
"Zeke, Nikolai—we need propulsion!" Mortimer shouts over the grinding stone.
They position themselves at what has become the boat's stern, hands already glowing with gathered power. Wind magic requires harmony to be effective—too much force from one direction and we'll spin rather than move forward.
But when they work together, the result is perfection.
Zeke's magic carries the cold precision of winter storms, while Nikolai's holds the wild energy of spring gales. The two forces should conflict, but instead they braid together like rope—each strand supporting the other, creating something stronger than either alone.
Our makeshift vessel lurches forward, then smooths into steady motion. The dark water parts before us with reluctance, as if it would prefer to swallow us whole but can't quite manage it. Not yet.
As the shore recedes behind us, the quaking finally stops. The sudden stillness feels more ominous than the chaos—like the realm is holding its breath, waiting to see what happens next.
"What did you mean?" Zeke asks Nikolai, his voice carrying over the wind they're generating. "About the waters not belonging?"
Nikolai's concentration face is almost comical—tongue slightly out, eyes narrowed, the expression of someone juggling too many things at once. When he responds, his words come in bursts between magical efforts.
"I'll tell— push —when we reach— wind —shore."
A pause as he adjusts the magical flow.
"Not good at— gust —multitasking as Nikolai— breeze —versus Nikki."
The admission is interesting. Another piece of the puzzle that is their dual nature. Different capabilities in different forms, not just physical but mental. Nikki can multitask.. cause she’s a girl? Nikolai cannot… because boys suck at that, I guess?
Small distinctions that probably matter more than we realize.