Page 27 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)
The Heir Of Solace
~NIKOLAI~
T he scream cuts through everything—barrier, distance, the roar of impossible waters—piercing straight into my consciousness with the precision of a blade finding the gap between ribs.
"Nikki!"
Gwenievere’s voice, high and desperate with child-pitch that makes it even more heart-wrenching. My eyes snap to the water, trying to lock onto her small form as the logged boat we'd so carefully constructed spins in the grip of a whirlpool that shouldn't exist.
Then I see it.
The wave doesn't build—it erupts . A column of water shoots upward like some massive aquatic worm, defying every law of physics I understand. It arcs with deliberate intent, not random destruction but targeted malevolence aimed directly at the small girl who stands no chance against its fury.
Her scream sends goosebumps racing across my skin, the sound cutting off abruptly as tons of crushing water swallow her whole. The boat shatters on impact, logs scattered like matchsticks across the churning surface.
I'm not thinking.
There's no moment of decision, no weighing of options or calculating odds.
My body simply moves , surging forward with instinct older than consciousness.
Fae magic rushes to the surface of my flesh like blood responding to a wound, burning through channels that usually require careful coaxing in this hostile realm.
The transformation happens mid-stride.
Not the deliberate, conscious shift I usually perform—building Nikolai piece by piece like armor against a world that rejects femininity. This is instant. Primal. One step I'm heavy with masculine form, the next I'm lighter, smaller, shaped by desperation rather than design.
I'm Nikki before my foot hits the platform's edge, and I'm diving before I fully realize I've moved.
The barrier that held back Cassius's shadows, Atticus's blood, Mortimer's fire—it parts for me like silk curtains. No resistance. No pushback. Just sudden absence where solid force had been, as if the magic recognizes something in my transformed state that grants passage where others are denied.
I barely have time to process the implications before I hit the water.
The impact should hurt. Should drive breath from lungs and thoughts from mind. Instead, the water welcomes me, parting with liquid grace that feels less like diving and more like coming home.
The sensation is overwhelming—not the hostile rejection I've grown accustomed to in the Infernal Realm, but something approaching reverence. The water glides around me with impossible smoothness, each stroke I take amplified by currents that seem desperate to aid my passage.
These aren't Infernal waters.
The realization arrives with crystalline clarity even as I swim deeper, following the trail of disturbed liquid that marks Gwenievere's descent.
These waters hum with Fae magic—not the sickly, struggling energy I can barely summon in this realm, but pure, undiluted power that makes my bones sing with recognition.
My eyes strain through the murky depths, searching for—there!
A small form sinking slowly, silver hair fanning out like kelp in the current. Her tiny limbs that had been flailing with desperate instinct have gone still. Too still. The kind of stillness that speaks of consciousness fled and breath stopped.
No, no, no.
I curse in my mind—words in ancient Fae that would make my parents blush if they knew I knew them. My hands shoot outward in unison, fingers spreading wide as I call on magic that finally, finally responds without fighting me.
Golden light pulses from my palms, racing through the water like liquid sunshine.
It strikes Gwenievere's still form with gentle precision, wrapping around her in ribbons of luminescence that quickly expand into a sphere.
The golden bubble pushes outward, forcing water away from her small body, creating an pocket of air where none should exist.
But she's not moving.
Not breathing.
The bubble continues to sink, drawn by weight and water's will toward depths I can't see. I have no choice but to follow, swimming downward with strokes that eat distance despite the growing pressure in my ears, my chest, my everything.
The bubble settles on what must be the bottom—though 'bottom' seems wrong for something that feels infinite. I reach it just as my lungs begin to scream, pressing against the golden barrier that recognizes me as its creator and expands to accommodate my size.
I gasp as I breach into the air pocket, water streaming from my hair, my clothes, every surface that can hold liquid.
But I don't pause to appreciate breathing.
Gwenievere lies too still on the curved bottom of our golden sanctuary, her child-chest unmoving, lips tinged blue despite the warm light surrounding us.
"Gwen!" I shake her gently at first, then harder when she doesn't respond. "Gwenievere, wake up!"
Nothing. Her small body is limp, head lolling with the particular looseness of unconsciousness or?—
I don't finish the thought. Can't finish it.
My hands position themselves on her tiny chest, finding the proper placement despite the size difference. Compressions. I know the theory, have seen it performed, but doing it on someone so small?—
The first push feels wrong. Too hard for such a delicate ribcage. But too soft won't restart a stopped heart, won't force water from flooded lungs. I find a rhythm, counting in my head, trying to balance necessity with the very real possibility of causing more damage.
One, two, three, four ? —
Her ribs flex under my palms in ways that make me nauseous. Children's bones are more flexible than adults', but there are limits. I can feel those limits approaching with each compression, the structural integrity of her chest threatening to give way.
"Damn it!" I sit back on my heels, knowing if I continue I'll break ribs that will take weeks to heal, cause pain that might be worse than?—
No. There has to be another way.
I press my hands lightly on her chest, closing my eyes and letting Fae magic rush through my body into hers. Not the violent force of compressions but something deeper. Older. The healing magic that Fae are renowned for when we're not being cruel to our own.
The bond mark on my chest— her mark, Gwenievere's mark, not Gabriel's —flares with heat that has nothing to do with temperature. I can feel the connection between us, stretched thin by distance between life and whatever edge she's balanced on.
Please, I beg my magic, beg the bond, beg whatever forces govern these impossible waters. Retrieve what's wrong in my bonded one and make it right.
The magic responds with enthusiasm that surprises me. It flows from my hands into her small form, seeking the wrongness—water where air should be, stillness where motion should reign. Golden light spreads through her body, visible through her pale skin like sunlight through paper.
For three heartbeats that feel like centuries, nothing happens.
Then she convulses.
Water erupts from her mouth in a stream that seems impossible for such small lungs to have contained.
She gasps—a raw, desperate sound that's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.
Her eyes flutter open, those impossible color-shifting irises focusing on me with confusion that shifts to recognition.
"Nikki..." she whispers, voice barely audible over the sound of water pressing against our golden sanctuary.
Then her eyes roll back, and she goes limp again.
But this time, her chest rises and falls with steady rhythm. This isn't death or near-death—just exhaustion claiming its due from a body pushed far past reasonable limits.
I gather her against me, one hand checking her pulse—steady if weak—while the other smooths wet silver hair from her face. She's so small in this form. So fragile. It's easy to forget she's the Guardian, the heir, the one who holds power enough to reshape realms.
Right now, she's just a child who almost drowned, breathing against my shoulder while I try to remember how to make my heart stop racing.
"Okay," I tell myself as much as her. "We need to get back to the surface."
The golden bubble responds to my will, beginning to rise with steady purpose.
These Fae waters recognize my authority in a way that makes my chest tight with homesickness I didn't know I still carried.
This is what magic should feel like—not the constant struggle of the Infernal Realm but partnership, harmony, flow.
We're perhaps halfway to the surface when I see them.
Golden gates.
They rise from the sea floor like a fever dream, their bars twisted into patterns that hurt to follow but impossible to look away from.
They should be corroded, covered in aquatic growth, diminished by centuries underwater.
Instead they gleam as if newly polished, each bar humming with power that makes my teeth ache.
I stare, trying to process their existence. Gates underwater. Gates that clearly lead somewhere , though what lies beyond is hidden by light too bright to penetrate.
Then they begin to open.
The motion is slow, deliberate, accompanied by no sound but somehow felt in every bone. Water doesn't rush through the growing gap, which should be impossible. Instead, the liquid seems to hold itself back, creating a corridor of clear space between here and?—
A woman steps through.
No—'steps' is wrong. She emerges , as if the space between the gates has always contained her and only now chooses to reveal that truth.
Her hair is white as fresh snow, but not with age. This is the white of winter's first breath, of clouds before dawn, of pearls pulled from depths no human has seen. It falls past her waist in waves that move with their own current, independent of the water surrounding us.