Page 29 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)

The Seer In My Dreams

~GWENIEVERE~

S leep takes me like sinking into warm honey—slow, thick, inevitable.

Someone carries me. The shoulder beneath my cheek is steady, the gait rhythmic enough to lull consciousness into something softer.

I don't know whose—the scent could be Cassius's shadows or Atticus's copper-blood or even Mortimer's dragon-smoke.

In this state between waking and sleeping, identity matters less than the safety of being held.

My child-body weighs nothing to whoever bears me, and there's comfort in that.

In being small enough to be carried, protected, removed from the requirement of constant vigilance.

The voices around me blur into meaningless sound—concern and planning and debate about keys and academies and waters that shouldn't exist.

But I'm already elsewhere.

The dream doesn't arrive—I arrive in it. One moment I'm bobbing with each step of my carrier, the next I stand in a space that exists outside conventional dimensions.

It's not dark or light here. Not warm or cold. The environment simply is , neutral in a way that suggests it's waiting to be defined by whoever occupies it. Mist that isn't quite mist drifts at the edges of perception, forming shapes that dissolve before recognition can solidify.

She stands before me, and I know immediately this is more than dream.

The woman from the water—her white hair flows with the same impossible motion, defying gravity that doesn't exist here anyway.

Those blue eyes that shift between teal and turquoise study me with interest that feels academic rather than personal.

Her plum-magenta lips curve in a smile that manages to be both welcoming and mysterious.

"Who are you?" I ask, though part of me already knows.

My voice sounds strange here—not quite child-pitch but not adult either. As if this space can't decide which version of me stands before her, so it averages the difference.

"Iris," she responds, the name resonating through the non-space with harmonics that make my teeth ache pleasantly. "Though names are just convenient labels for things too complex for simple words."

Her voice is exactly as I remember from underwater—clear despite no medium for sound, heard in the bones rather than the ears.

"Are you here to take me away?"

The question emerges from child-fear that I didn't know I carried.

Being taken, stolen, removed—these are the nightmares that plague young minds when the world proves it contains real monsters.

And I've met enough monsters to know they sometimes wear beautiful faces.

Her smile softens, white hair shifting to frame her face with deliberate gentleness. She shakes her head, the denial carrying more weight than words.

"No, little heir. I'm but a bridge, meant to help you reclaim what's destined for you."

Bridge. Not guide or guardian but bridge—a means of crossing between states. The metaphor feels deliberately chosen, each word weighted with meaning I'm not equipped to fully parse.

"Why will you help me?" I ask, suspicion coloring my tone despite the dream-soft edges of this encounter. "No one aids one another in Wicked Academy."

It's truth learned through blood and betrayal. The Academy teaches competition, not cooperation. Every kindness hides a blade. Every alliance exists only until something better comes along.

Even my bonds with Cassius, Atticus, Nikolai—they were forged in mutual need rather than pure altruism.

Iris tilts her head, considering my cynicism with something approaching approval.

"Those men are dedicated to you," she counters, each word precise as a scalpel. "If that wasn't the case, that Fae wouldn't have shifted to her true form to save you."

The observation lands with unexpected weight. She's right— Nikolai chose to become Nikki, embracing the form that causes such internal conflict, just to save me. Not because bonds demanded it or survival required it, but because I called and she answered.

"You mean Nikki," I whisper, the name feeling important in this space where words carry more than sound.

Iris nods slowly, and when she speaks again, her voice carries the particular sadness of those who see too much.

"Destined to be great, only to be plagued by those who should have protected her."

The words paint a picture I don't want to see—Nikki's potential twisted by parents who wanted a son, a court that demanded perfection, a prophecy that condemned before she could walk. How much greatness has been lost to the plague of others' expectations?

"How do you know all of this?" I ask, needing to understand the source of her impossible knowledge.

She moves for the first time, not walking but simply being closer, the space between us collapsing without either of us taking a step. When she speaks, her breath smells of spring water and starlight.

"I'm a Seer. And this—" she gestures to the non-space around us, "—is how I train my powers. By helping those in the realms of rest."

I pout, lower lip extending as my head tilts with the particular curiosity of youth processing complex information.

"Like in dreams?"

The simplification makes her smile widen, revealing teeth that seem to contain constellations.

"Exactly. I'm a student like you, down a different path that's filled with its own set of challenges and secrets."

A student. Not some ancient power but someone still learning, still growing. The humanization makes her less threatening and somehow more interesting. She continues, voice taking on the cadence of someone sharing secrets.

"During the day, I survive the plague of such. But at night, when exhaustion takes me deeper into the realms of REM, I'm able to tap into these abilities. With them, I gain what I need to help others."

The explanation raises more questions than it answers.

Surviving plague during the day—metaphorical or literal? The realms of REM—are there multiple? And help others toward what end?

But a different question escapes first, driven by curiosity that transcends immediate concern.

"In your world, do you have shifters and such?"

She pauses, considering with the particular focus of someone translating between languages that don't quite align.

"It's different here." The 'here' carries weight, suggesting not just physical location but fundamental reality. "Power lies in the essential of magic and elemental grace."

Her hand moves through the air, trailing light that forms shapes—a bird becoming flame becoming water becoming earth, the cycle continuing without clear beginning or end.

"Can one shift? With magic, yes, but it's not a physical change."

The distinction feels important. Not transformation of flesh but of essence.

Not becoming something else but revealing what was always within.

"Interesting," I whisper, but the word stretches like taffy, distorted by exhaustion creeping even into this dream-space.

My eyes grow heavy—absurd given that I'm already asleep, but the sensation persists. The weight of too much happening too fast, understanding arriving in doses too large to properly digest.

"I'm sleepy," I admit, the words small and honest.

Iris's smile turns maternal, though she can't be much older than—well, than whatever age I actually am beneath this child-form.

"Which means it's time for you to continue your journey, youngling."

The term makes me pout harder, indignation cutting through exhaustion.

"You make it sound like you're old, but you're like me."

Her giggle is music made of wind chimes and crystal, delicate and multifaceted.

"The me on the surface is as beautifully youthful and naive as you and your team who are dipping into the edge of this grand world of centuries-old power."

Surface. Another layer of meaning— she exists differently here than in waking world. Youth there, age here, or perhaps neither and both.

"But the essence of my Seer abilities is passed down by heritage. So you're a youngling in my eyes, though you are destined for greatness."

Heritage.

Inherited power, like my fire crown, like Gabriel's authority, like the curse Elena placed that transformed two into one.

We're all carrying legacies we didn't choose, powers we didn't earn but must bear regardless.

My eyelids are so heavy now, each blink lasting longer than the last.

But there's something I need to say, need to ask, before this dream releases me.

"I wanna help my brother." The words emerge slurred with approaching unconsciousness. "I want us to discover what happened to lead us into becoming one and not staying as two separate people."

The admission carries more vulnerability than I usually allow. Gabriel isn't just my burden or my curse—he's my brother, trapped as surely as I am in this shared existence neither of us chose.

Iris nods slowly, her expression shifting to something deeper. Older. The beauty remains but transforms, like seeing the ocean's surface suddenly reveal its depths.

"You know the answer to that, though."

Do I? The memories are there but fragmented—Elena's jealousy, the spell that should have killed us, the merging that created impossibility. But knowing what happened isn't the same as understanding why, or more importantly, how to undo it.

She pauses, and I watch something change in her eyes.

They begin to glow—not metaphorically but literally, light consuming iris and pupil until she regards me with orbs of pure luminescence. Her body remains still but somehow becomes more present, as if power has given her additional dimensions I can't quite perceive.

When she speaks, her voice carries harmonics that shouldn't exist in single throat.

"Ask what you truly seek, Heir of the Wicked."

The title resonates through me like struck bell, each syllable finding matching frequency in my bones. Heir of the Wicked. Not fire, not shadow, not even Academy. Wicked itself, as if wickedness is a realm or force or birthright all its own.

I think about it, but thinking requires effort I don't have.

Instead, I let the words flow from some deeper place, lips moving while consciousness fades.

"What do I need to do to unlock our paths as separate entities, while on the same conquest of vengeance?"

The question emerges perfectly formed despite my deteriorating awareness.

Separate but united.

Individual but allied.

Free but bound by purpose rather than flesh.

Someone calls me from far away— voice familiar but muffled by layers of dream and distance. My carrier has noticed something, is trying to wake me, but Iris's words are already flowing, and I can't miss this. Won't miss this.

"Seek knowledge in the depths of the Grand Library of Infernal Realms."

Each word etches itself into memory with the permanence of carved stone.

"You will discover the recipe that will unravel your desire."

Recipe. Not spell or ritual but recipe—something that must be constructed from components, mixed in proper proportions, created rather than simply cast.

"Bring the one with centuries of lives."

Zeke. Has to be—the cat with nine lives, each one carrying experience and power accumulated across impossible spans.

"And the scale of burning knowledge on your conquest."

Mortimer. Dragon scale, but specifically one carrying knowledge. His scholarly nature made manifest, perhaps, or some deeper connection between dragons and information I don't understand.

"You will find the way to make this come to fruition."

The promise resonates with certainty that transcends hope. Not might find or could find but will find. Predetermined. Inevitable. Waiting only for us to walk the path to reach it.

"Do this, and you will complete Year Three a lot faster than any will expect."

The addendum confuses me even through the fog of approaching waking. Faster? But isn't the point of these academy years to challenge us? To test and temper and transform through trial?

The thought must be visible on my face or perhaps readable in whatever energy I emit in this space, because Iris laughs. The sound is everything good—soft and gentle, harmonic and wondrous, like listening to the universe express joy through human throat.

"The academies' conquest was never meant for learning, Heir of the Wicked."

The revelation should shock, but somehow it only confirms suspicion I've carried without acknowledging. The trials are too cruel for simple education, too deadly for mere assessment.

Then…

"Their purpose always aligned with bringing what was stolen from them back to where it always belonged."

Stolen.

The word carries weight that makes even this dream-space shudder.

Something taken that demands return.

But what? The chalice everyone seeks? The power Elena claimed? The throne that burns those deemed unworthy?

My mind forms the question even as consciousness slips away…

Who was stolen?

The answer comes as I'm pulled back toward waking, Iris's voice following me across the threshold between sleep and awareness, each word a thread connecting this moment to some deeper truth:

"You, Heir of the Wicked."

The words expand, filling all available space in my dissolving awareness.

"And it's time for you to finally return where you rightfully belong."

The final word arrives just as someone shakes my shoulder, just as my eyes flutter open to find concerned faces hovering above me, just as dream releases me back to a reality that suddenly seems less solid than the space I just left:

"Home."