Page 32 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)

The Price Of Shortcuts

~GWENIEVERE~

T he gates seal behind us with finality that resonates through bone and soul—a sound like the universe clicking a lock that will never open the same way twice.

We've crossed the threshold.

No more trials, no more guardians, no more tests to prove worthiness. We stand on the grounds of Year Three proper, and the difference is immediate, overwhelming.

The architecture defies conventional understanding.

Buildings rise from the ground like organic growths rather than constructed things, their walls breathing with subtle life.

Towers twist into impossible spirals that should collapse under their own weight but instead seem to be held up by the very audacity of their existence.

Bridges span between structures with no visible support, made from materials that shift between solid and ethereal depending on the angle of observation.

The sky above burns without sun—a constant twilight of crimson and gold that provides light without source, warmth without heat. The ground beneath our feet pulses with its own heartbeat, each throb sending ripples through reality that make my teeth ache with power barely contained.

This is Year Three. The true Academy…or at least…whats left?

The place where those who survive the trials come to learn what survival actually means.

But my attention is drawn immediately to the group ahead.

Damien's posse stands perhaps fifty feet from us, clustered near one of the breathing buildings. Their posture speaks of uncertainty—the particular discomfort of those who've arrived somewhere they're not quite prepared for, despite their earlier bravado.

And with them ? —

"Professor Eternalis."

Relief floods through me at the sight of her, profound enough to make my knees weak. After everything that happened in Year Two, after her interference that surely saved our lives when the administration would have preferred our deaths, seeing her here feels like finding an anchor in a storm.

She stands apart from Damien's group, and even from this distance, I can feel the tension radiating between them. Her posture is different here—more commanding, more present . As if the realm itself recognizes her authority and amplifies it.

We move forward as a unit, drawn by the need to understand what's happening, to reconnect with the one professor who showed us genuine protection rather than mere observation.

As we approach, the tension becomes palpable—thick enough to taste on the air like copper and ozone.

Damien gestures animatedly, his voice carrying in bursts of indignation that don't quite form words at this distance.

Professor Eternalis remains still, statuesque, letting him exhaust himself against her immobility.

Then she moves.

The motion is so swift, so perfectly executed, that my brain doesn't immediately process what I'm seeing. One moment she stands still as carved stone. The next, her hand has completed an arc through space, something silver flashing in the twilight.

We all stop mid-stride.

Every single one of us freezes as if time itself has hiccupped. I see Zeke's eyes begin to widen—the first time I've seen genuine surprise on his feline features. The rest of us are far past that, jaws dropping in pure shock.

And horror…

Because something is soaring through the air.

It moves in a graceful arc, rotating slowly enough that I can track its features. Hair streaming like a banner. Expression frozen in surprise that will never resolve into understanding. Eyes still open but already empty of everything that made them more than mere organs.

Raven's head.

The sound it makes hitting the ground is eerily mundane—a soft thump like dropping a melon, followed by a rolling that draws our horrified gazes as it travels several feet before coming to rest.

Face up.

Still surprised.

Still dead…

Then comes the second sound—liquid hitting earth with force, the particular splatter of arterial spray released from sudden severance. The body, still standing for one impossible moment, fountains crimson from the perfectly clean cut across the throat.

Then it falls.

The thump of the body is louder than the head, carrying more weight in every sense. It doesn't bounce or roll—just impacts and stays, limbs splayed in the graceless arrangement of death delivered too quickly for the nervous system to process.

Silence follows.

Not peaceful silence but the horrible quiet that comes when even breathing seems too loud, when the world holds its breath waiting to see what follows such casual violence.

None of us move. None of us dare breathe. The shock of what just occurred seems to need time to sink in, to transform from impossible image to accepted reality.

When someone finally speaks, it's not Professor Eternalis but Mortimer.

"And this is what you meant."

His voice carries an odd tone—realization mixed with something that sounds disturbingly like awe. As if he's witnessing a theorem proven rather than a life ended.

Zeke speaks next, his words confirming what they'd discussed earlier but with new, terrible context.

"And this is why shortcuts never leave you victorious."

The statement hangs in the air like judgment made manifest.

Then Damien screams.

The sound tears from his throat with raw emotion—terror mixed with shock mixed with rage boiling over into something primal. He scrambles to the ground, falling to his knees beside Raven's body, hands reaching out to shake shoulders that will never respond.

"Raven! RAVEN!"

He's shaking her corpse with increasing desperation, as if enough force might reconnect head to body, might restart a heart that's already emptied itself across the Academy grounds.

The others in his posse stand frozen, faces masks of shock that mirror our own. They came here expecting shortcuts to power. Instead, they're witnessing the price of cheating death—death collecting what it's owed with interest.

Atticus is the first of us to find voice, asking the question everyone's wondering but can't quite form.

"Is she actually dead?"

The question sounds absurd given the separated state of head and body, but in a world of magic and resurrection, of healing and transformation, death isn't always as permanent as it appears.

When no one answers immediately, I look to Zeke, my whisper carrying far too loudly in the unnatural quiet.

"If she's a feline, doesn't she have nine lives?"

The question is reasonable.

Zeke has made references to his own multiple lives, the particular immortality of feline shifters.

Surely Raven, being half-feline, would have some version of that protection?

But Zeke's silence speaks volumes.

The lack of answer seems to trigger something in Damien. He rises swiftly, blood covering his hands and knees from where he'd knelt in the spreading pool. His face transforms from grief to rage as he turns to glare at Professor Eternalis.

"REVIVE HER!"

The demand cracks like a whip, but Professor Eternalis doesn't even flinch. She stands there, calmly meeting his trembling fury with the particular stillness of those who've seen too much to be moved by tantrums.

"How dare you slice her throat when we've been victorious? This makes no fucking sense! We made it by following what was privileged to us, and you just killed our guide!"

His voice rises with each word, hysteria creeping in at the edges.

The entitlement is staggering—as if following shortcuts somehow grants immunity from consequences.

Professor Eternalis shakes her head slowly, deliberately.

When she speaks, her voice carries authority that makes the air itself pay attention.

"Cheating will not be tolerated at Wicked Academy."

The words are simple, but the weight behind them makes them feel like natural law being stated rather than rule being enforced.

"Especially," she continues, and now there's something darker in her tone, "by an abomination."

Damien's eyes widen with shock before narrowing into slits of pure hatred.

His arm darts out suddenly, one finger pointing directly at me with the particular accuracy of accusation.

"My Raven is an abomination, but you accept that hybrid?!"

The possessiveness in 'my Raven' makes my skin crawl. She was a person, not property, regardless of what arrangements they'd made.

"Slice her head off then, if that's what you deem as cheating!"

The command falls on deaf ears.

Professor Eternalis remains standing there, unimpressed by his demands, unmoved by his rage. The height difference is suddenly apparent—she towers over him, over all of us really.

Here in Year Three, she must be well over seven feet tall, though the proportions don't seem wrong so much as emphasized . As if the realm itself is showing us what she really is beneath the constraints of lower years.

Damien's voice cracks with desperation.

"Why was she killed? We don't understand at all!"

The confusion seems genuine.

He truly doesn't comprehend why his shortcut has resulted in death rather than reward. The particular blindness of those who've never faced real consequences.

Zeke begins moving forward then.

The motion seems to give us permission to follow, though we exchange wary glances first. After what we just witnessed, approaching Professor Eternalis feels like approaching a force of nature—necessary but potentially fatal.

My men surround me as we move, positioning themselves at every corner.

Cassius to my left, shadows coiled and ready.

Atticus to my right, blood magic humming beneath his skin.

Nikolai behind, recovered enough from Damien's presence to be protective rather than protected.

Mortimer flanking him, scholarly demeanor replaced by dragon wariness.

The formation is protective without being obvious, but I understand the impulse.

After "that"—and none of us are ready to name it more specifically—taking chances seems foolish.