Page 46 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)
The Vision Of Crisis
~GWENIEVERE~
T he return journey to our safe room is punctuated by Cassius's occasional muttered observations about the labyrinth's increasing hostility.
Books dive-bomb us like paper birds of prey, their pages sharp enough to cut. Doorways appear in our path only to slam shut before we can pass through, forcing us to find alternative routes through the dimensional chaos.
When we finally reach our destination, I'm exhausted in ways that have nothing to do with physical exertion.
The door opens to reveal Mortimer and Atticus in what appears to be careful détente—seated on opposite sides of the room, maintaining studied casualness that speaks of deliberate effort not to compete for dominance in the space.
That carefully maintained peace shatters the moment Cassius gets a good look at Mortimer.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me."
I’m fighting hard not to smirk.
The words escape with the particular indignation of someone who's just realized the playing field has shifted dramatically in their absence.
Cassius's shadows writhe with agitation as he takes in Mortimer's transformation—the impossible youth, the casual power, the way he makes leather and partial undress look like royal regalia.
"You bonded with him," Cassius states rather than asks, silver eyes narrowing as he processes the change in Mortimer's scent, the way dragon magic now threads through the air around him mixed with something uniquely mine.
"I was expecting it," he continues, circling Mortimer with predatory assessment. "The bonds were inevitable given our configuration. But not this—" he gestures at Mortimer's entire existence, "—young fool who makes me want to fight for dominance I thought was already established."
Mortimer rises with fluid grace that makes his youth even more apparent. Where the older version moved with careful dignity, this one moves like barely contained power given beautiful form.
"Dominance?" Mortimer's eyebrow arches with academic interest that's somewhat undermined by the smirk playing at his lips. "I wasn't aware we were competing. Though if we are, centuries of experience should count for something."
"Experience in dusty libraries," Cassius shoots back, shadows coiling with increasing aggression. "Not exactly battlefield credentials."
"You'd be surprised what one learns in the right libraries," Mortimer responds, and there's something dangerous in his golden eyes now. "Dragons hoard knowledge the way others hoard gold. Every spell, every technique, every way to destroy an enemy—all catalogued, studied, perfected."
Atticus, who's been watching this exchange with increasing interest, suddenly speaks up.
"If we tag-teamed, do you think we'd have a fighting chance?"
Both Cassius and Mortimer turn to look at him with identical expressions of surprise.
"Against him?" Cassius considers, tilting his head as he evaluates Mortimer's stance, the way power sits on him like a second skin. "Maybe. Shadows and blood against dragon fire and centuries of knowledge."
"It would be an interesting experiment," Mortimer muses, and the scholarly tone is completely at odds with the battle they're discussing.
"You're all being foolish right now," I interject, pinching the bridge of my nose with exhaustion that's bone-deep.
But the words come out wrong—slurred at the edges, like my mouth has forgotten how to properly form sounds. The room tilts suddenly, or maybe I tilt, the distinction becoming academic as my balance completely abandons me.
Cassius's shadows catch me before I can fall, tendrils wrapping around my waist with gentle insistence. But I barely feel them. Something else is happening, something that has nothing to do with exhaustion or dimensional displacement.
"Gwenievere?" Multiple voices, overlapping with concern that sounds distant despite their proximity.
Before I can respond, before I can even process what's happening, my eyes roll back.
The world disappears.
No, that's not right.
The world changes .
I'm suddenly elsewhere, but not physically. This is different from entering someone's trial room, different from mental communication. This is... observation. Like I'm a ghost in someone else's crisis, able to see but not interact.
The chaos is immediate and overwhelming.
Books— thousands of them— fly through space that might be a room or might be a universe compressed into room-shape.
They're not just moving but attacking, their pages razor-sharp, their covers snapping like jaws hungry for flesh.
Pages rain down like snow made of words, each one carrying weight that has nothing to do with paper.
And in the middle of it all is Zeke.
He stands at the center of a barrier that shimmers with desperation more than power.
The shield is failing—I can see it in the way it flickers, in the way each impact from the attacking books makes it thin a little more.
His usual feline grace is gone, replaced by the rigid posture of someone holding on through will alone.
His appearance makes my chest tight with worry.
Gone is the casual confidence, the slight smirk that suggests he knows more than he's telling.
His skin is pale—not the attractive pallor of someone who avoids sun but the sickly white of blood loss or magical drain.
Sweat beads on his forehead, running down temples in streams that speak of sustained effort beyond sustainable limits.
But it's his eyes that stop my heart.
Those extraordinary cat eyes— usually so calm, so knowing —are wide with fear.
Not the hot fear of immediate danger but the cold fear of someone who's calculated the odds and found them impossibly stacked against them.
He knows he's losing. Knows he can't maintain this defense much longer.
Knows that when the barrier fails, whatever's attacking will tear him apart.
I try to locate the source of the assault, scanning the chaotic space for whatever entity is orchestrating this sustained attack.
But there's nothing—no visible attacker, no central source.
It's as if the library itself has turned hostile, every book a soldier in an army commanded by invisible general.
Then Zeke's eyes meet mine.
The impossibility of it stops all thought. He shouldn't be able to see me—I'm not really there, this is vision or projection or something equally intangible. But his cat eyes lock onto mine with recognition that transcends physical presence.
I see hope flicker across his features, quickly replaced by increased fear. Not for himself—for me. He's afraid I'll try to help, afraid I'll be caught in whatever trap has him.
I try to speak, to assure him that I'm coming, that he's not alone. But my voice won't work. This projection or vision doesn't include sound, at least not from my end. I can observe but not interact, witness but not warn.
So I mouth the words instead, exaggerating each movement to ensure he can read my lips:
"I'm coming for you."
He shakes his head immediately, violently, the gesture making his barrier flicker dangerously. His own lips move in what's clearly "No," followed by what might be "Too dangerous" or "Stay away."
But I've made my decision.
The same fierce protectiveness that drove me into Atticus's trial, into Cassius's mirrors, rises now for Zeke. He might have joined us later, might not carry my mark the way the others do, but that doesn't make him less mine.
I mouth the words with deliberate force, making sure he understands this isn't negotiable:
"You are mine as well. I'm coming for you, Zeke."
His eyes widen with something between shock and... something else. Something softer that we don't have time to explore. His barrier flickers again, weaker now, and I can see him gathering himself for what might be a final stand.
Then the vision shatters.
I come back to myself with violence—gasping, coughing, my body convulsing as it tries to process the sudden return to physical existence. I'm on the floor, though I don't remember falling, surrounded by concerned faces that swim in and out of focus.
"Don't move," Mortimer commands, his hand on my forehead checking for fever that won't be there because this isn't physical ailment.
I push myself up anyway, too quickly, and the room spins with enthusiasm that makes my stomach revolt. Something warm drips from my nose—blood, I realize, tasting copper as it reaches my lips.
"Zeke's in danger."
The words come out rough, urgent, cutting through whatever examination Mortimer was about to perform.
"What kind of danger?" Cassius asks immediately, tactical mind already working through possibilities.
I explain what I saw as quickly as possible—the attacking books, the failing barrier, the fear in eyes that never show fear. With each word, the concern in the room ratchets higher.
Mortimer's frown deepens as he closes his eyes, clearly attempting mental contact.
"I can't reach him at all," he reports after a moment, golden eyes opening with worry that makes my chest tight. "It's not like the trial blocks—those create interference. This is complete silence. Either he's unconscious or something is deliberately severing communication."
The three men exchange looks that carry entire conversations in glances. Then they turn to me with unified certainty.
"We have to go together," Atticus states.
"How?" The frustration makes my voice crack. "I'm the only one who can enter trial rooms. We've established that. Unless you want to wait outside while I?—"
"GREE!"
The interruption comes from Grim, who materializes with unusual fanfare.
He waves his tiny scythe with enthusiasm that would be comical if not for the genuine power radiating from his small form.
We all stare at the miniature reaper, confused by his apparent excitement about our impossible situation.
Then he puffs out his little chest with pride that makes his skull face somehow express smugness despite lacking features capable of expression.
And he blows.