Page 26 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)
Father stops walking, turning to look down at us with a smile that holds secrets we're too young to understand. When he speaks, his voice carries the particular patience of a parent translating complex truths into simple words.
"Wicked Academy exists in two ways, my little heir."
He kneels to our level, making his explanation feel special, important.
"Males must go through the realms of the Wicked, working their way through until the final year."
"What happens when they reach the final year?" I ask, already impatient for the complete picture.
His smile deepens, holding knowledge that will take years to understand.
"Through the purity of waters, they will be brought to wear powerful women reside."
Gabriel's analytical mind is already working. "Does that mean girls are in Wicked Academy as well?"
Father shakes his head slowly, deliberately.
"No. They don't call it Wicked Academy."
I frown, confusion making my small face scrunch. "Then what is it called, Daddy?"
The name emerges like prophecy, each syllable carrying weight that will echo through time:
"Deathshire Academy."
Even at six, the name sends shivers down my spine.
Death-shire. Death's home. Death's domain.
"Where the cursed are bonded to those who are crescent marked," Father continues, the words clearly ritual, repeated across generations.
I pout with the particular frustration of a child faced with adult complexity.
"I don't get it."
Father laughs, the sound warm despite the topic's darkness.
"You won't understand until you've gone through the trials of the wicked. But all you need to know is that the unique waters of Wicked Academy hold both death and life."
His hand reaches out, finger trailing through air as if tracing patterns only he can see.
"Death for those unworthy to survive the rise in Wicked Academy. But they encourage life and open gates for the women destined to be hosts of death itself."
The words feel important, so I try to memorize them even though they make no sense.
"Rarely do men discover mates worthy of their loyalty and complete submission," Father continues, speaking more to himself now than to us. "But who knows?"
His eyes sparkle with possibility that makes him look younger, less burdened.
"Maybe a female will be bold enough to go through Wicked Academy instead of Deathshire and turn the tables."
The memory releases me as suddenly as it grabbed me, depositing me back in the present where the whirlpool has strengthened. The boat spins faster now, each rotation bringing me closer to the center where water drops away into nothing.
But the memory has given me what I needed: understanding.
"The water is a gateway," I whisper, pieces clicking together with the particular satisfaction of puzzle solved. "Only for women..."
That's why Gabriel vanished— he can't traverse these waters. Not because he lacks power but because the water itself rejects his nature. These are the waters between academies, the threshold between Wicked and Deathshire.
And that's why the others can't reach me.
They're all male.
Every one of my protectors, my bonds, my anchors—all forbidden from entering waters meant only for those who would walk the paths of Deathshire.
I look back toward the platform, searching for the one person who might be able to help.
"Nikki!" I try to scream, but the word dies in my throat.
Because I need Nikki—female, Fae, capable of entering these waters.
But Nikolai stands on the platform, locked in his male form by his own choice or by the realm's demands.
And even if he could shift, would he? After nearly dying, after choosing to live as himself, would he transform just to save me?
The question becomes moot as a wave rises from nowhere.
Not gradually building from the water's surface but erupting —fully formed, impossibly tall, aimed directly at my small form with the particular precision of intention rather than nature.
My scream barely has time to form before the water crashes down.
The impact is devastating. Not just physically—though my small body is thrown from the boat like a discarded toy—but magically. The water burns despite being liquid. It freezes despite carrying no ice.
It invades every sense simultaneously: tasting of copper and starlight, smelling of endings and beginnings, feeling like being unmade and reformed with each second of contact.
I hit the water's surface, and it doesn't yield.
For a moment, I lie on top of it like it's solid, the impact driving all breath from my child-lungs.
Then, with the particular cruelty of physics delayed, it parts.
And I sink.
Water fills my vision—not dark like it appeared from above but filled with impossible light. Colors that don't exist in normal spectrums paint patterns through the liquid, creating corridors of luminescence that lead in all directions and none.
I try to swim, but my child-body doesn't know how. Arms flail with desperate instinct rather than technique. Legs kick with no coordination. And all the while, I'm sinking deeper into waters that shouldn't exist in this realm.
My lungs burn, demanding air that isn't there.
My chest feels like it's being compressed, pressure building from inside and out simultaneously.
The irony isn't lost on me—I who command fire and shadow, who've been called guardian and royal, am going to drown because this body doesn't know how to swim.
Darkness creeps in at the edges of vision—not the comfortable darkness of Cassius's shadows but the absolute black of consciousness failing.
The last coherent thought before everything goes dark is a prayer:
Please. Not like this. Not when we're so close.
Not when I finally have people worth living for.
Then there is nothing but water and the slow descent into depths that have been waiting for me since before I was born.
Waiting since two academies were split like twins, each given their own path through the same waters.
Waiting for someone bold enough—or desperate enough—to cross between them.
The water embraces me like one who’s returning to the root of it all.