Page 34 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)

The Stairs Between Reality

~GWENIEVERE~

W e follow Professor Eternalis through the Academy grounds, but something doesn't feel right.

The sensation creeps in gradually, like fog at the edges of vision that you don't notice until it's already surrounding you.

At first, I attribute it to exhaustion—we've been through trials that would break most people, witnessed casual execution, entered a year of education that promises to redefine everything we thought we knew about survival.

But this is different.

The structures around us aren't... stable.

One moment, I'm looking at a building that breathes with its own life—walls expanding and contracting in rhythm that matches no heartbeat I recognize. The architecture is impossible but solid, defying physics while maintaining presence that makes my teeth ache with proximity to power.

Then I blink.

The same building is burning…

Not on fire— burning . As if the structure itself is made of flame given form, each brick a coal, each window a portal into inferno that shouldn't exist but does. The heat washes over me in waves that make sweat bead instantly on skin, then evaporate before it can fall.

Another blink.

The building is normal again.

If 'normal' can apply to architecture that shouldn't be able to stand but does through will alone.

I wonder if it's just me experiencing this disconnect.

Maybe the trials have damaged something fundamental in how I perceive reality.

Or transforming between child and adult, between singular and shared existence with Gabriel, has left cracks in my consciousness that let other possibilities leak through.

A hand slips into mine.

The touch makes me flinch—I'd been so absorbed in watching reality flicker that I'd forgotten I wasn't alone. Atticus's fingers intertwine with mine, his grip cool and steady in a way that should be grounding but somehow emphasizes how ungrounded everything else feels.

He leans close, vampire grace making the movement seem casual rather than concerned.

"What's wrong?"

His whisper carries directly to my ear, too quiet for others to overhear but weighted with genuine worry. We share a look—his crimson eyes searching mine for answers I'm not sure I have.

Behind us, I can hear Cassius and Nikolai walking together.

Their footsteps are synchronized without trying, the particular rhythm of those who've learned to move as unit through necessity.

Further back, Mortimer and Zeke discuss something about the Academy's architecture—their voices a low murmur of scholarly observation mixed with feline certainty.

The normalcy of their presence should be reassuring. We survived the trials together. We're bonded by more than magic —by choice, by blood, by the particular trust that comes from seeing each other at absolute worst and choosing to stay anyway.

But even their presence feels...distant.

Like I'm experiencing them through layers of glass or time, present but removed.

I squeeze Atticus's hand, the pressure deliberately communicating need for discretion. Leaning in, I match his whisper with my own, lips barely moving to form words that feel too important for volume.

"Something feels odd."

The understatement makes my throat tight. Odd doesn't capture the vertigo of watching reality argue with itself about what's real.

"Like the Academy doesn't feel real."

Even saying it aloud— or as aloud as whispers allow —makes the sensation stronger.

As if acknowledging the wrongness gives it permission to become more wrong.

"I'm seeing burning buildings one moment, then barely walking upon stairs the next. It's as if we're witnessing time in real time but also... not. I can't grasp it."

The explanation is inadequate, words too small for the experience. How do you describe seeing multiple versions of the same moment, each one equally real but mutually exclusive?

Atticus frowns, the expression creating lines in his perfect vampire features that speak of genuine concern rather than performed emotion. His gaze shifts to Professor Eternalis's back as she continues leading us forward, seemingly unaware of or unconcerned by my distress.

"What would Year Three have in store for us?" he asks, voice carrying just enough to reach our guide.

The question seems casual—new student seeking information about curriculum. But I hear the underlying probe, the attempt to understand if what I'm experiencing is intentional or concerning.

Professor Eternalis doesn't turn, doesn't slow, but her voice carries back with perfect clarity despite the distance she's maintained.

"Year Three will require your bonds as a team to be the strongest."

The words float through air that suddenly feels thicker, heavier, like breathing through honey.

"Or else, those you cherish will slip away, like pieces of a puzzle that will never become solved."

The metaphor should be simple, but something in how she says it makes my skin prickle. Not threat exactly, but prophecy. Statement of natural law rather than curriculum requirement.

"What do you mean by that?" I ask, needing clarification even as part of me fears the answer.

My eyes focus on Professor Eternalis's back as we continue walking.

When did we start climbing stairs? The transition from level ground to ascending happened without my notice, each step taking us higher through architecture that shouldn't be able to support itself.

The stairs spiral.

Not in regular helical pattern but in something more complex—sometimes curving left, sometimes right, occasionally seeming to double back on themselves in ways that should have us walking on our own heads but don't.

"Everyone believes this Academy was made out of wickedness," Professor Eternalis says, her voice carrying that particular tone of educators about to correct fundamental misunderstanding. "Out of the agony of its creators who lost their heir."

Lost heir.

The words resonate through me, connecting to memories that might be mine or might be Gabriel's…

Hell…it might be something inherited from ancestry we're only beginning to understand.

"But what if that's fable?"

The question hangs in air that's definitely getting heavier. Each breath requires more effort, as if oxygen itself is becoming scarce despite no change in altitude that should warrant it.

"Created by students who wished to blame some sort of ill fault to the Academy that was once built on love and power?"

Love and power.

Not wickedness and suffering but love and power.

The reframing makes me think about what I saw with Gabriel when we floated on that makeshift log raft. The waters Professor Eternalis claims didn't exist but definitely did, where memories surfaced of academies split like twins, of our parents speaking of creation rather than inheritance.

There's a page missing from this story.

Multiple pages, probably. Entire chapters that would explain how love became wickedness, how creation became destruction, how Elena's jealousy transformed from sibling rivalry into realm-shattering betrayal.

But how are we going to discover the truth?

The question loops through thoughts that are becoming increasingly sluggish. My eyelids feel weighted, each blink lasting longer than the last. The exhaustion isn't natural—I've pushed through physical tiredness before, operated on minutes of sleep during the trials.

This is different. Heavier. More insistent.

Like the realm itself wants me unconscious.

I try to keep walking while using my free hand to rub at my eyes, trying to clear vision that keeps multiplying. The stairs aren't just spiraling now—they're fragmenting. I see three different versions of our path, each one equally real but impossibly different.

"Are you okay?" Atticus asks, but his voice sounds distant.

Not quiet—distant.

As if he's speaking from much further away than the hand still clasped in mine would suggest. The disconnect between physical proximity and auditory distance makes my stomach turn with vertigo I can't explain.

I don't want to look back, don't want to trouble him or the others with what might just be my own failing. My eyes fight to focus on Professor Eternalis, who seems to be getting further ahead despite maintaining the same pace.

Or is she maintaining the same pace?

The stairs feel endless.

Each step should bring us closer to whatever destination she's leading us toward, but instead we seem to be climbing through infinity itself.

The spiral tightens and loosens without pattern, sometimes so wide I can't see the central column, sometimes so tight I should be able to touch it but can't because my arm won't extend that far even though it should be able to reach.

I try to answer Atticus, to reassure him that I'm fine even though I'm increasingly certain I'm not.

But now I'm seeing three versions of everything.

The stairs we're on, solid beneath our feet but increasingly uncertain in their connection to anything else.

Stairs that float free in space that shouldn't exist within building interior, each step a leap of faith that gravity will work as expected.

Stairs that invert, running along ceilings that are also floors, where up and down become matters of perspective rather than physics.

All three versions exist simultaneously, overlapping in ways that make my eyes water trying to track which one is real.

Maybe they all are.

Or none are.

I take a step forward, trusting muscle memory more than vision to find the next stair.

My foot finds nothing.

The sensation of falling forward is immediate and inevitable. My body pitches into space that should contain solid surface but doesn't, or does but not where I expected it, or exists in a dimension slightly to the left of where I'm trying to step.

Exhaustion pulls me under before I can even scream.