Page 28 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)

Her eyes stop me cold. They're blue, but calling them blue is like calling the ocean wet—technically accurate but missing the point entirely.

They shift between teal and turquoise with each heartbeat, containing depths that speak of secrets older than the academies, older than the realms, older than the division between what is and what should be.

Her lips are works of art—plum-colored magenta that shifts from dark to light in an ombre that shouldn't be possible on living flesh. The shade matches exactly the flowers woven into a crown that sits on her head with the weight of authority rather than decoration.

She looks human in the way a masterpiece looks like paint—technically true but missing the divinity in the creation. Her flesh bears markings that move with subtle life, Fae script that rewrites itself as I watch, telling stories I'm not educated enough to read.

The Fae magic resonating from her doesn't just call to mine—it commands it. My power responds without my permission, reaching toward her like flowers toward sun, recognizing something that exists above me in whatever hierarchy governs our kind.

If she's within these waters, if she can exist here without drowning or dissolving, she must be Fae. But more than Fae. Other than Fae. Something that makes my bloodline—royal though it claims to be—seem common in comparison.

Her mouth moves, but no sound emerges. Instead, her voice vibrates directly into my consciousness, bypassing ears entirely to resonate in the depths of my mind.

"When the heir has earned her rightful crown, return to claim the chalice at the gates of Deathshire Academy."

The words carry weight that has nothing to do with volume. Each syllable etches itself into my memory with the permanence of carved stone. This isn't suggestion or invitation—it's prophecy, fact, future history waiting to be written.

She gestures upward with one graceful hand, and our ascent suddenly accelerates. The golden bubble rises with new purpose, as if her will has supplemented mine, making the journey not just possible but inevitable.

Her words continue to echo through my mind, each repetition revealing new layers of meaning:

"Death comes for the unworthy, the forsaken, and the betrayer with the heaviest secret."

The threat—promise?—makes my skin prickle with recognition I don't understand. Who are the unworthy? What betrayal carries enough weight to draw death's attention? And why does part of me feel like she's talking about me?

"Unravel the plague of your academy hidden in the depths of perfection, and you'll finally break the cursed illusion of your lands."

Perfection. The Fae Court values perfection above all else—perfect beauty, perfect power, perfect bloodlines. But what plague hides beneath that polished surface? What illusion has my entire realm been living?

"Until then, Fae Heir of Solace."

The title hits like like a sheet of stone. Heir of Solace. Not the Eternal Throne, not the Summer Court, but Solace. As if I represent not power but comfort, not strength but peace.

We're about to breach the surface. I can see it above—the membrane between water and air that will sever this connection, end this moment of impossible communication. Desperation makes me think rather than speak, projecting the thought with all the force I can muster:

"W-Who are you?!"

Through the brightening water, through the distance growing between us, I can barely see her face. But her expression softens with something that might be compassion or might be pity.

"Iris."

The name resonates with power that makes my bones vibrate. But she's not done.

"That's all you need to know... for now."

Behind her, I catch glimpses of figures I hadn't noticed before.

Men—or things shaped like men—standing guard in uniforms I've never seen.

They're tall, imposing, carrying themselves with the particular stillness of those who don't need to prove their lethality.

Their faces are hidden by helmets or shadow or maybe just the water's distortion, but their presence speaks of protection. Guardianship.

Of what? Of whom? Of Iris herself, or what lies beyond those golden gates?

"Farewell, Nikkiatia Luminaris Starweaver, Heir to the Eternal Throne of the Summer Court."

My eyes widen so dramatically I'm surprised they don't fall out.

My full name.

My female name.

The one my parents whispered once at my birth before deciding it was too much, too feminine, too everything I was told not to be. They shortened it to Nikki for daily use, then buried even that beneath Nikolai when the prophecy demanded masculinity.

But Iris knows it. Speaks it with the casual certainty of someone reading from a record that can't be altered.

Nikkiatia. The name my mother sobbed when she thought I was sleeping, guilt and grief tangled in every syllable.

Luminaris. The star-name that marks me as true royalty, not mere nobility playing at power.

Starweaver. The title that hasn't been used in three generations, that speaks of ability to shape fate itself through will and magic combined.

No one knows that name. No one living has ever spoken it aloud in my presence.

Which means Iris is exactly what she appears to be—a seer powerful enough to read names from souls rather than records, to know truth rather than performance.

We break the surface.

The transition is violent—from water's embrace to air's emptiness, from silence to chaos. I can hear shouting immediately, voices raised in panic I don't have context for.

"—just appeared?—"

"—was she always?—"

"—the barrier?—"

I gasp, adjusting to breathing air after what feels like hours underwater but was probably minutes. Gwenievere stirs against my shoulder, her small hand clutching my soaked shirt with desperate strength even in unconsciousness.

The golden bubble dissipates the moment we fully clear the water, its purpose served. I'm treading water now, legs kicking to keep us both afloat, though the effort feels minimal. These waters want to support me, make my movements more efficient than they should be.

"NIKKI!"

Cassius's voice cuts through the chaos, and suddenly shadows are everywhere. They dive into the water around us, forming a platform beneath my feet, lifting us up and out with desperate efficiency. The moment we're clear, more shadows wrap around us—not binding but supporting, checking, assessing.

"Is she—" Atticus is there too, his hands reaching for Gwenievere with vampire speed.

"She's alive," I manage between gasps. "She's breathing. She just needs?—"

"Rest," Mortimer finishes, already examining her with scholarly precision that doesn't fully hide his concern. "Her pulse is steady. No obvious injuries. Just exhaustion and shock."

They're all talking at once—relief and questions and demands for explanation tangling together. But my mind is elsewhere, still processing what I witnessed beneath the surface.

Deathshire Academy.

The name burns in my consciousness like a brand.

Another academy, hidden or parallel or something we don't understand.

Connected to these waters that recognize Fae authority.

Guarded by beings in uniforms I don't recognize.

Overseen by seers powerful enough to know names that have never been spoken.

And somehow, the chalice everyone seeks is there. At its gates. Waiting for an heir with her rightful crown—but which heir? Gwenievere? Elena? Someone else entirely?

"The waters," I hear myself say, though I'm not sure who I'm talking to. "They're not Infernal. They're Fae. Ancient Fae. Maybe the original waters, before the realms were divided."

That gets everyone's attention.

They stop fussing over Gwenievere— who Cassius has claimed, cradling her small form with protective desperation —and turn to me with expressions that demand elaboration.

"The barrier only let me through when I shifted to Nikki," I continue, trying to organize thoughts that feel too large for words. "It recognized something in my female form that my male form lacks. These waters... they're meant for women. Specifically, women traveling between?—"

I stop, uncertain how much to reveal. Iris's words feel private, meant for me alone. But these are my allies. My friends. My—whatever we are to each other after everything we've survived.

"Between what?" Zeke prompts, his cat-eyes studying me with intensity that sees more than I'm saying.

"Between academies," I finish. "There's another one. Deathshire Academy. Where women go instead of coming here."

The silence that follows is profound. Even the water seems to still, as if waiting to see how this revelation will land.

"Deathshire," Atticus repeats slowly, tasting the word. "Death's shire. Death's domain."

"Where the cursed are bonded to those who are crescent-marked," Zeke quotes, surprising us. “The waters hold death for the unworthy but encourage life for women destined to be hosts of death itself. I’ve heard of the term…but unable to truly recall why," he confesses.

"Hosts," Mortimer's scholarly mind is already working, parsing implications. "Not wielders or commanders but hosts. As if death is something that lives within rather than serves."

I’m sure if they had more time or even a source of knowledge like a library, the two together could figure it out with their extensive knowledge.

Gwenievere stirs in Cassius's arms, a small sound escaping that might be word or might be whimper.

We all freeze, watching as her eyes flutter but don't quite open.

"We should get her somewhere safe," Cassius says, though his tone suggests he's not sure anywhere qualifies anymore. "Away from the water."

But even as we move toward the platform's center, I can't stop thinking about what I saw.

About Iris and her guards. About golden gates that shouldn't exist. About prophecies wrapped in warnings wrapped in names I thought were buried.

The plague of our academy hidden in the depths of perfection.

What plague? What perfection? And why do I have the sinking feeling that everything we think we know about our world—about the academies, the realms, the very nature of our existence—is built on lies so fundamental we can't even see them?

Gwenievere's eyes open fully, looking confused at first before realization shifts to curiosity as her eyes look around until they’re focusing on me with recognition that makes my chest tight.

"You saved me," she whispers, voice raw from water and screaming.

"You called for me," I respond, the truth of it simple and complete.

She nods slowly, processing.

Then, with the particular directness only children can manage:

"There was a woman in the water."

Everyone goes still.

She saw Iris too? But how? She was unconscious, dying, pulled from water before we encountered ? —

"She said my name," Gwenievere continues, each word careful as if she's not sure they're real. "My other name. The one that was supposed to be mine if..." She trails off, looking confused. "If what? I can't remember."

My mind races. If Iris spoke to Gwenievere too, maybe she had a moment when Gwenievere was at the edge of death? Could this have been planned. Orchestrated? Part of something larger than trials or academies or even the realms themselves.

"What name?" Gabriel's voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, not manifested but present enough to be heard.

Gwenievere frowns, concentration making her child-face scrunch.

"I... I can't say it. It's like it's there but not there. Like trying to hold water."

Forbidden, then. Or protected.

Names that can't be spoken until conditions are met, until crowns are earned, until whatever game we're playing reaches its next phase.

"We have the third key," Zeke points out, ever practical with the reminder as he points to the floating key that only Gwenievere can claim. "We can reach the Academy now."

He's right.

The platform still holds its pedestal, the key of nothingness still floating in its sphere of light. In the chaos of near-drowning and revelation, we'd almost forgotten our original purpose.

“Can you manage to get the key, Gwenievere?” Atticus decide to ask her, giving off no sign of pressure.

We can tell she’s exhausted, especially battling a fight like drowning in forbidden waters, but she perks up at the challenge and nods her head.

He decides to take her from Cassius, using his swift speed to get them to the platform top with a blink.

She stares at the key for a moment before retrieving it carefully, reverently, like handling something that might shake this realm of uncertainty and ignite another challenge that I realize we’re not ready for.

We hold our breaths, but as she takes the key, peace remains.

I can't shake the feeling that we're missing something essential.

Three keys to enter Wicked Academy.

But what keys open Deathshire?

And what happens when someone holds keys to both?

I look at Gwenievere, small and exhausted in Atticus’ arms, and wonder if she's the answer to questions we haven't learned to ask yet. If her journey through Wicked Academy as a female—unprecedented, impossible, forbidden—is actually preparation for something else entirely.

The heir earning her rightful crown.

But which crown? To which throne?

And at what cost?

The water behind us is calm now, returned to its mirror-like stillness. But I know what lurks beneath—gates and guardians and a woman named Iris who knows names that should be secret.

"Let's go," I say, though the words feel like ending one chapter and beginning another. "The Academy waits."

As we gather ourselves, I catch my reflection in the still water. Nikki looks back—wet, exhausted, but alive. And for the first time since arriving in these hostile realms, I don't immediately want to shift back to Nikolai.

These waters recognized something in this form worth saving.

Iris called me by a name that belongs to her alone.

And saving Gwenievere as Nikki felt more right than anything I've done as Nikolai.

The mark on my chest pulses with warmth— not painful but present. Reminder of connection that transcends form or realm or even understanding.

Nikkiatia Luminaris Starweaver.

The name echoes in my mind like promise and threat combined.

As we turn toward the path to what we hope will be the Academy Gates for Year Three that's been our goal, I can't help but wonder:

Are we walking toward ending or beginning?

Only time will tell.

But time, as I've learned in waters that exist outside of it, isn't always what it seems.