Page 33 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)

When we're in range of Professor Eternalis, close enough to see the complete absence of blood on her despite what she just did, Zeke comes to a stop.

"That's the one problem with feline hybrids," he announces, voice carrying the particular tone of education rather than accusation. "They lose their immortality. Or more importantly, they were never granted the same privilege as full-breeds."

Damien spins to face him, desperation making him aggressive.

"You're lying!"

He turns back to Professor Eternalis, demanding truth from the source.

"Tell me he's lying!"

Professor Eternalis sighs— the first sign of any emotion beyond calm authority. She gives Damien a look that promises worse than death if he continues to test her patience, but she answers.

"Zeke is correct. Hybrid felines forego having nine lives compared to full-breed felines who are gifted that trait by nature."

The confirmation seems to break something in Damien. His shoulders slump, the fight going out of him as the reality settles.

Raven is dead.

Truly, permanently, irrevocably dead.

The silence stretches as we all process this information. The unfairness of it— that mixing bloodlines costs such a fundamental protection —seems particularly cruel.

But then, when has the Academy ever been fair?

It’s a place of wickedness after all.

Professor Eternalis continues, her voice returning to that neutral tone of judgment delivered.

"The punishment was delivered due to your group using an unofficial guide to lead you to Year Three versus a real one."

She turns her gaze to Zeke then, and something passes between them—understanding, acknowledgment, perhaps approval.

Zeke responds immediately, dropping to one knee with fluid grace that speaks of practiced ceremony. His scythe appears in his hand, and he lays it on the ground before him like a knight offering oath to sovereign.

"The royals from across our lands," he intones, voice carrying formal cadence, "both of forbidden and royal, darkness and light, flames and ice, of Fae and of dusk—they followed my guidance, confronting the guardians in place and retrieving the keys which are in their leader's possession."

The words feel ritualistic, like something that must be said in specific way to be recognized by whatever forces govern this place.

All eyes turn to me.

Right. The keys.

This should be the moment to show them, to prove we've earned our place through trial rather than trickery. I reach into the space where I've kept them—that pocket between dimensions that my power carved to hold things too important for regular carrying.

The three keys materialize in my grasp, each one radiating its own particular energy.

The first still burns with internal fire, warm against my palm. The second contains its captured starlight, pulsing with rhythm of distant suns. The third holds its perfect nothing, absence given form that makes looking at it directly almost impossible.

I lift them like an offering, presenting proof of our trials, our suffering, our survival.

Professor Eternalis's expression doesn't change, but something in her eyes shifts—approval, perhaps even impressiveness at the edges.

She nods slowly, then asks a question that makes my stomach drop.

"And you survived the child trials?"

I blink, processing.

"Wait... so me being a child was on purpose?"

The transformation I'd attributed to realm weirdness or magical mishap was actually intentional? Part of the trial design?

"The trials were not only for facing death at its rawest and strongest," Professor Eternalis explains, "but to see how one's team would respond when the leader is suddenly a disadvantage."

Each word lands with precision, explaining what we experienced without apology for what it cost.

"What better way to test that than forcing you into a child who hasn't reached the age experienced enough in all arts of survival? Six is the perfect age for such."

The calculation of it makes me simultaneously impressed and furious. They turned me into a six-year-old specifically because that age would be most vulnerable, most dependent, most likely to get everyone killed if the team couldn't adapt.

"No way," Nikolai whispers, voicing the disbelief we're all feeling.

Atticus, ever practical even in shock, asks a different question.

"Was crossing the waters included?"

The question makes my blood freeze. The waters where we discovered Deathshire Academy, where Iris spoke of futures and chalices and things we're clearly not supposed to know yet?—

Professor Eternalis frowns, the first sign of confusion I've seen from her.

"There were no water trials."

The words hang between us like a sword waiting to drop.

We all exchange looks, quick and worried.

If the waters weren't part of the trial, if we've stumbled onto something outside the Academy's design?—

I laugh suddenly.

The sound surprises everyone, including me, but I lean into it. Make it performance rather than panic.

"You were drunk on blood, Atticus, remember?"

I give him a look that hopefully conveys 'play along or we're all dead' with sufficient clarity.

Atticus catches on immediately—centuries of vampire politics making him expert at reading unspoken communications. He laughs too, the sound more natural than mine.

"They say purebloods are the easiest to get blood drunk. I'd be seeing oceans in the heart of a desert!"

The explanation is ridiculous.

Blood drunk vampires don't have group hallucinations about specific waters with consistent details. But it's better than admitting we've discovered something that might get us killed for knowing.

The others laugh too, forcing mirth that sounds hollow but might pass for exhaustion rather than deception. Even Mortimer manages a scholarly chuckle, though it sounds like he's reading it from a textbook on appropriate emotional responses.

Professor Eternalis studies us for a long moment.

Her gaze is penetrating, seeming to peel back layers to examine what lies beneath.

But either our performance is sufficient or she chooses to let it pass, because she nods once.

"You have passed and may make way to the side."

The relief is almost overwhelming, but we maintain composure as she continues.

"I will be with you shortly to take you on the official tour of the Academy and explain the requirements. Once I'm finished here."

The emphasis on 'here' makes everyone glance at Damien's group—specifically at Raven's severed remains that still decorate the ground with spreading crimson.

We nod collectively, following Zeke's lead as he rises and begins moving toward the indicated waiting area. But we all look back at Damien, who stands clenching his fists so tightly that blood— his own this time —drips from where nails pierce palms.

He's trembling with rage that has nowhere to go.

Professor Eternalis is too powerful to attack. We're protected by Academy law now that we've officially entered. His shortcut has cost him his guide in the most permanent way possible. It's not the satisfying payback I wanted for what he did to Nikki.

That would involve more personal suffering, more understanding of exactly why his cruelty has earned consequence.

But it's a start.

As we reach our designated waiting area—a section of ground that seems slightly elevated, offering view of both the Academy grounds and the scene we're leaving behind—I can't help but reflect on what just happened.

Raven is dead because she was hybrid. Because she helped others cheat. Because the Academy has rules that transcend power or connection, that collect their due regardless of who owes them.

The casual violence of it should disturb me more.

The way Professor Eternalis removed a head with the same emotional investment most people use to swat flies. How the body fell with no more ceremony than discarded trash.

But I think about all the violence we've already witnessed.

The trials that killed students whose only crime was being weak. The guardians that would have destroyed us without hesitation. The constant, grinding cruelty of an institution that values strength over everything else.

In that context, Raven's death is almost... logical.

She was hybrid, lacking the protection full-breeds enjoy. She chose to guide those who hadn't earned passage, violating fundamental Academy law. The consequence was swift, absolute, and witnessed by all who might think to try something similar.

It's horrible. It's efficient.

It's exactly what I should have expected from a place called Wicked Academy.

"That was..." Atticus starts, then stops, unable to find words for what we witnessed.

"Necessary," Mortimer finishes, though his tone suggests he's trying to convince himself as much as us. "The Academy maintains order through absolute enforcement. Without it?—"

"Without it, everyone would cheat," Zeke interjects, his tone neutral as always. "And cheating breeds weakness. Weakness breeds failure. Failure in Year Three breeds?—"

He doesn't finish, but we all understand.

Failure here doesn't mean expulsion or death, and aside from Zeke, none of us are the kind with nine lives to fall back on.

"Still," Nikolai says quietly, "No one deserves that."

The compassion in his voice makes my chest tight.

After everything Damien put him through, after the mockery and humiliation Raven participated in, he still finds room for empathy toward her.

I t's more than I can manage right now.

Because when I look at Raven's severed head, still wearing that expression of fatal surprise, I don't feel sympathy.

I feel...warned.

The Academy doesn't care about our bonds, our growing power, our potential destinies. It has rules, and those rules are written in blood that can't be washed away by tears or good intentions.

We survived the trials through strength, cunning, and frankly ridiculous amounts of luck. But that was just the entrance exam. The real education begins now, in a place where professors can kill students for administrative violations and that's considered normal.

"Look," Cassius says quietly, drawing our attention back to where Professor Eternalis still stands with Damien's group.

She's speaking to them, too quietly for us to hear at this distance. But their faces tell the story—shock shifting to understanding shifting to fear. Whatever she's explaining, it's not good news for those who tried to shortcut their way to power.

Damien looks like he might be sick, all his earlier bravado completely evaporated. His remaining companions cluster together, seeking safety in proximity that won't save them from whatever comes next.

"Think they'll be expelled?" Atticus wonders.

"Expelled?" I repeat, looking at him with disbelief. "After what we just saw? I think expulsion might be the best case scenario."

"They can't kill them all," Nikolai protests. "Can they?"

The uncertainty in the question reflects what we're all thinking. We don't know the rules here. Don't know the limits.

"They won't kill them," Mortimer states with scholarly certainty. "Death is lesson, not solution. They'll face something worse—consequences that teach rather than end, and it’ll be when they least expect it."

"Worse than death?" I ask, though I can imagine several possibilities.

"Death ends suffering," Mortimer explains, adjusting his glasses in that way that means he's about to deliver uncomfortable truth. "Education requires the student survive to process what they've learned."

The implications settle over us like a shroud.

We watch as Professor Eternalis finishes whatever she's telling them.

Damien's group doesn't move—not toward the Academy, not toward escape, just frozen in place like they're afraid movement might trigger something worse.

Then Professor Eternalis turns and begins walking toward us.

Her movement is graceful despite her imposing height, each step covering more ground than should be possible. She arrives before we're quite ready, towering over our group with presence that makes even standing feel like genuflection.

"Welcome," she says, and the word carries weight of ritual, "to Year Three of Wicked Academy."

The formal acknowledgment makes it real in a way the gates closing didn't quite manage. We're here. We've made it. We're officially students of the third year, whatever that means in this place of burning skies and breathing buildings.

"Your dormitory awaits," she continues, gesturing toward one of the impossible structures. "You'll find it... adjusted to accommodate your particular configuration."

Configuration.

Interesting word choice for our group of bonds, complications, and Zeke’s role as our guide.

"Classes will begin soon, different in nature than previous years, of course. Don't be late—punctuality violations in Year Three carry steeper consequences."

Steeper than death?

I want to ask but don't, recognizing this isn't the time for questions.

“I rather not be the headless student of Wicked Academy,” Atticus mutters, which does give a hint of relief in the humor of it.

"Your schedules will manifest as your roles will be chosen in a unique order. Follow the blessed instruction. Deviation is... inadvisable."

Every statement carries threats wrapped in administrative language.

Follow the rules or face consequences that make death look merciful.

"Questions?" she asks, though her tone suggests she'd prefer we don't have any.

We collectively shake our heads, even though I have approximately thousand questions fighting for priority in my mind.

"Good." She looks past us to where Damien's group still stands frozen.

"I have other matters to attend. Don't wander tonight—the grounds are still settling your arrival.

They can be... aggressive toward new presences until properly introduced.

You may follow me until you reach your designated spaces. "

Designated spaces….

With that cryptic warning, she moves past us, encouraging us to follow swiftly unless we wish to be left behind.

"Well," Atticus finally says, "I think we can officially say Year Three is going to be different."

The understatement makes me laugh, though it comes out slightly hysterical.

As we begin walking toward our designated dormitory—the building that seems to breathe in rhythm with our approach—I can't shake the feeling that we haven't seen anything yet.

The real education begins now...or will there be newfound trials awaiting for our guards to be down?

Based on our introduction, it's going to be written in blood, delivered through violence, and graded on a scale where failure means more than death.

Welcome to Year Three indeed.