Page 31 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)

Damien stands at the head of his group with that same smug smile that makes me want to remove it along with the face it's attached to.

He looks exactly as I remember—perfectly groomed despite the realm's hostility, clothes unmarked by trials that left us bloodied and exhausted.

The particular pristine appearance of those who find ways around rather than through difficulty.

"Well, well, would you look at this," he declares, voice carrying the theatrical projection of someone who assumes everyone wants to hear them speak. "You guys managed to get down to the realm of the dead and burning. How coincidental."

The pronunciation makes my teeth ache.

Con-see-den-tay-ul.

Wrong on purpose, the kind of deliberate mispronunciation that's meant to seem charming but just reveals willful ignorance.

Atticus steps forward, vampire authority radiating from every movement.

"How did your lifeless ass even manage to get down here with your posse? Can’t you simply die or something?"

The insult is perfectly delivered—casual enough to seem unconsidered but cutting enough to draw blood.

Damien's smug expression flickers for a moment before reasserting itself.

He rolls his eyes with exaggerated exhaustion.

"Must I explain everything to those who can't keep up? Your royalty card must have expired since you clearly took the 'long' route down here."

He pauses for effect, clearly loving the sound of his own voice.

"Those of true royal heritage are guided down here. Obviously."

The superiority drips from every word like poison from a blade—sweet on the surface but corrosive beneath.

To prove his point, he snaps his fingers with the particular arrogance of those who've never had to work for anything.

My eyes widen as I realize who their guide is.

"Raven."

The name escapes as a whisper, but it carries enough shock to draw everyone's attention.

She stands slightly behind Damien, and seeing her again after our last confrontation makes several pieces click into place. The way she moved during our fight, the particular grace that seemed familiar but wrong?—

"She's a hybrid," I mutter, the realization bringing new understanding to old encounters.

During our confrontation, when Damien had insisted she wasn't a hybrid, I'd assumed he was lying or ignorant. But now, seeing her here, seeing the particular way she holds herself that speaks of predator wearing prey's clothing?—

Half-feline. Half-vampire.

The combination should be impossible. Felines and vampires don't typically mix—their magics are fundamentally opposed, one drawing from life and cycles while the other feeds on death and stasis. Yet here she stands, proof that impossible is just another word for hasn't been done yet.

Damien shrugs with affected casualness.

"I have to be a jack of all trades. Can't be revealing my secrets, especially to those who don't deserve it."

His laugh is ugly—not the sound itself but what it contains.

Mockery, superiority, the particular glee of someone who mistakes cruelty for cleverness.

His eyes scan our group with the assessment of someone cataloging weapons to use later. They pause on each of us—dismissing Mortimer as mere scholar, calculating how to use Atticus's vampire pride against him, measuring Cassius's shadows for weakness.

Then they land on Nikolai.

The pause is deliberate.

Theatrical.

Designed to draw attention to what comes next.

"Surprised this lot isn't embarrassed to be around you."

Each word is placed with surgical precision, designed to cut deepest where the wounds haven't healed.

"Guess you still have some pride left despite everyone stripping it from you, huh?"

The cruelty is so casual it takes my breath away. Not heated anger or passionate hatred but cold amusement, as if Nikolai's pain is simply entertainment to be consumed when bored.

I'm moving before the last word finishes, protective fury overriding Cassius's restraining shadows through sheer force of will.

But I'm not the fastest to react.

Shadow tendrils shoot from Cassius with lethal intent—not warning shots but killing strikes aimed at every vital point on Damien's body. The shadows move with the particular fury of someone whose protective instincts have been triggered beyond restraint.

They never reach their target.

Metal screams against shadow as Raven intercepts, a scythe appearing in her hands with speed that speaks of spatial magic rather than simple quick-draw. She doesn't just block the tendrils—she redirects them, using their own momentum against them.

The scythe spins in her hands with deadly grace, building momentum for a return strike that would bisect anyone in its path.

Another scythe intercepts hers.

The clash of metal on metal rings through the oasis with a sound like funeral bells.

Zeke stands between us and them, no longer in cat form but fully human, holding a scythe I didn't know he could possess so quickly. The weapons lock, grinding against each other as their wielders test strength and resolve.

"It's rather displeasing to fight before the gates of the Academy outside of trials," Zeke says, his voice carrying that musical quality that makes threats sound like lullabies.

But there's steel beneath the silk, warning wrapped in politeness.

"As a feline hybrid, despite the lack of full power like one such as myself, I would be rather disappointed to see you not take your inherited role seriously so far in one's journey."

The words land with weight that has nothing to do with volume. Raven's eyes narrow, her grip on the scythe adjusting as she processes not just the words but what they represent.

Zeke isn't just more powerful—he's more legitimate . Full-blooded where she's hybrid, carrying authority she can only approximate.

Her frown deepens, but something shifts in her posture. Not submission exactly, but acknowledgment. The scythe pulls back slowly, deliberately, making clear this is choice rather than defeat.

"The feline is right," she announces, addressing Damien without looking at him. "By laws woven in the Academy's foundations between academies, we cannot fight unless declared before the gates. It's best we make way."

Damien's frown carries the particular petulance of a child denied a toy.

"Finish what they started," he demands, but the words lack force. Even he knows better than to push against Academy law when witnesses are present.

Zeke smirks—the expression perfectly feline despite his human face. He jumps backward with liquid grace, landing directly in front of me. The protective positioning is deliberate, adding his threat to Cassius's, creating layers of defense between us and them.

"Then best be on your way," Zeke suggests with mock politeness. "You might as well go first since you're so eager to be ahead, right?"

The challenge is perfectly delivered—using Damien's own superiority against him. To refuse would be admitting fear. To accept means leaving, ending this confrontation without the violence he clearly craves.

Damien laughs, but the sound is forced now, performance rather than genuine amusement.

"We'll gladly take the head start, seeing as we have every opportunity to reach the final year. Won't take us long at all."

He pauses, needing the last word like addicts need their fix.

"Only those not worthy struggle."

The laugh that follows is worse than the words—dismissive, degrading, designed to echo in memory long after he's gone.

They proceed past us, Damien's posse following with varying degrees of smugness. Some look uncomfortable with their leader's cruelty but not enough to speak against it.

Others mirror his expression, finding safety in aligning with the one who hurts rather than is hurt.

We watch them go in silence that vibrates with suppressed violence.

Only when they're beyond immediate threat distance does Atticus curse with creativity that speaks of centuries of practice.

"How the fuck did that bastard reach this far? What does he know that we don't?"

The questions voice what we're all thinking. Damien isn't powerful enough to survive what we've survived. His magic is mediocre, his combat skills more performance than practice. Yet here he is, unmarked by trials that nearly killed us.

Zeke and Mortimer exchange a look—one of those wordless communications that speaks of shared knowledge we're about to learn whether we want to or not.

"Their answer may be in the library," Mortimer declares with scholarly certainty.

"Why?" I ask, needing to understand the connection.

Mortimer adjusts his glasses, the gesture buying time to organize thoughts.

"If Damien found such an easy path to reach these realms versus what we went through, it means he made a deal with someone in the library."

His expression darkens with disapproval that goes beyond academic.

"Someone who aids those who wish for speedier ways of reaching the next year of Wicked Academy."

"So there's shortcuts," Nikolai grumbles, speaking for the first time since Damien's appearance.

His voice carries bitterness that makes my chest ache. After everything we've suffered, everything we've survived, to learn others simply bypassed it all?—

"Why are you telling us this now, Mortimer?" Nikolai continues, and there's accusation in the question.

Mortimer meets his gaze directly, no flinching from the implied criticism.

"Because I wouldn't wish a shortcut on my worst enemy."

The statement hangs between us, requiring explanation that Mortimer seems reluctant to give. But we wait, knowing he'll elaborate when ready.

"Shortcuts through the Academy don't remove the trials," he finally explains. "They defer them. Compound them. What seems like mercy becomes curse when all the skipped lessons come due at once."

He pushes his glasses up, the reflection hiding his eyes momentarily.

"Damien will reach Year Three faster, yes. But he'll enter unprepared for what waits there. The Academy doesn't forgive debts—it collects them with interest."

We share looks of understanding mixed with something darker.

Not quite satisfaction at Damien's eventual comeuppance, but close.

"We should hurry to the gates," Zeke encourages, his gaze still tracking where Damien's group disappeared. "No telling what other trials his arrival might ignite."

The practicality cuts through our contemplation. He's right—standing here processing won't change what's happened or what's coming. Only forward motion matters now.

We gather ourselves quickly, checking weapons and magic, ensuring everyone is truly ready for whatever comes next.

Nikolai still seems shaken, but there's determination beneath the hurt.

Damien's cruelty is familiar pain, the kind that scars over rather than heals.

But scar tissue is stronger than virgin skin, even if it's less pretty.

The path to the gates is clear now, as if the realm itself wants us to reach our destination.

No more obstacles or tests.

Just a road of packed shadow-earth leading toward structures that defy easy description.

The gates rise before us like possibility made manifest.

They burn with flame that doesn't consume, casting light that creates rather than reveals shadows.

The fire is every color and none, shifting through spectrums that shouldn't exist in the same space.

Black shadows weave through the flames, not opposing but harmonizing, creating patterns that hurt to follow but impossible to look away from.

These aren't just gates—they're a statement.

A promise…of warning.

Beyond them lies Year Three proper, the true Academy rather than its trials. What we've survived was just the price of admission. The real education begins on the other side.

"Is everyone ready?" I ask, though the question is rhetorical.

Ready or not, we've come too far to turn back.

The gates wait, patient as death, inevitable as dawn. We have three keys, paid for in blood and fear and transformations we're still processing.

Cassius's hand finds mine, cool and steady. Atticus flanks my other side, copper-scent and vampire grace. Mortimer and Nikolai position themselves behind, magic gathering in case the gates demand one final test. Zeke ranges ahead, scouting even this short distance for threats.

Together, we approach the burning gates of Year Three.

The flames reach out as we near, not aggressive but exploring. They taste our magic, our memories, our murders. The shadows do the same, slipping through our defenses to read what we've become through trials designed to break us.

Judgment passes in heartbeat that feels like hours.

Then, with no sound but somehow felt in every bone, the gates begin to open.

Year Three awaits, and despite everything we've survived, I can't shake the feeling that the real trials are just beginning.

But at least we face them together—bloodied but not broken, scarred but not stopped, bonded by more than magic or circumstance.

We step through the gates as one, leaving the realm of trials behind and entering what awaits beyond.

The flames close behind us with finality that makes my skin prickle.

Home…

Iris had called it.

Looking at the impossibility that spreads before us— architecture that shouldn't exist, sky that burns without sun, grounds that pulse with their own heartbeat —I'm beginning to understand what she meant.

This isn't just a school.

It's a kingdom waiting for its rulers to return.

And apparently, we're expected.