Page 53 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)

The shadows are getting denser, pressing in from all sides. The narrow path forces them to fight in tighter formation, backs to each other, each covering angles the others can't reach.

"Why won't they stop coming?" Atticus snarls, his blood magic starting to show signs of depletion. The arrows come slower now, and he's having to use more of his own blood rather than generating it from magic alone.

"Because they're not finite," Mortimer rumbles, his dragon voice carrying despite the chaos. "They're being generated from something. Or some?—"

Understanding hits them simultaneously, and I realize it at the same moment.

The shadows represent everyone who's spoken ill of Nikki and Nikolai throughout their lifetime.

Every cruel word, every dismissive gesture, every moment someone wished for them to be something other than what they are—manifested as shadow beings that burn with the black fire of judgment.

"There must be thousands," Gwenievere whispers, the weight of that cruelty staggering.

"Then we destroy thousands," Cassius responds, his shadows surging with renewed fury.

They fight harder, pushing through exhaustion that wants to claim them. I hover in my in-between state, unable to physically help but present nonetheless. I see every moment of struggle, every wound taken, every small victory against overwhelming odds.

Three-quarters up the hill now.

The platform is visible, Nikki and Nikolai's forms still unmoving. The golden chains pulse faster now, as if sensing potential rescue and trying to finish their work before it arrives.

That's when the world shifts again.

The sky doesn't just change—it fractures , splitting apart like broken glass to reveal something behind it. Not another sky but a memory, playing out in dimensions that exist above and around them.

A vision that makes everything stop.

Even the shadows pause their assault, all eyes drawn upward to witness what unfolds.

It's Nikki, but younger. Maybe fourteen, fifteen at most. She stands in a room that screams Fae aesthetic—all crystal and starlight and beauty that hides cruelty. But she's not admiring the décor.

She's bleeding.

Wounds cover her visible skin—precise cuts that speak of deliberation rather than rage. Her clothing is torn, stripped away in places that make my mind rebel against what I'm seeing. Tears stream down her cheeks in rivers that seem endless, but her eyes...

Her eyes are empty.

Staring at the floor with the particular vacancy of someone who's learned that fighting back makes it worse.

A low chuckle echoes through the memory, making everyone below flinch. The sound is wrong—not just cruel but pleased , satisfaction dripping from every note.

A figure emerges from shadows in the memory, and though his face is obscured, his bearing screams authority.

Power.

Ownership .

He looks down at the broken girl with pride that makes my nonexistent hands clench into fists.

The figure kneels, one hand gripping Nikki's chin to force her to look up. His smile is visible even through the shadow— wicked in ways that transcend simple cruelty.

"There's only one good benefit of you being useful," he whispers, and his voice carries the particular tone of someone who's said this before, who enjoys saying it.

He leans closer, and his next words damn him entirely:

"Pleasing the King how he sees fit."

Dread crashes through me like a physical wave. The implications are clear, horrifying, world-ending in their simplicity.

The first person to betray Nikki wasn't a stranger, wasn't a cruel peer, wasn't even an enemy.

It was her father.

The King of the Fae Court, who should have protected his child above all else, had instead?—

I can't even finish the thought. Rage burns through me with intensity that threatens to make me fully manifest despite the impossibility. My fists clench hard enough that if I were physical, my palms would be bleeding.

This is why Nikki chose to become Nikolai.

Not just because the prophecy demanded it, not just because male was safer in their court, but because her father?—

The memory shatters as applause rings through the air.

Slow, mocking, theatrical clapping that draws every eye to the platform where Nikki and Nikolai hang. A figure stands between them now, having appeared while we were distracted by the horrific vision.

I recognize her immediately despite the changes.

Elena.

She's sickly in ways that go beyond simple illness.

Her skin is pale as parchment, shot through with dark veins that pulse with their own rhythm. Dark bags under her eyes speak of sleeplessness that might be measured in years rather than days. Her once-beautiful hair hangs limp, lifeless, more suggestion than substance.

But her smile—her smile is pure malevolent joy.

"Finally," she says, voice carrying despite distance that should make hearing impossible. "The truth unravels. Though I suppose you'll never discover the secrets I've kept in play."

She's standing at the edge of the platform, and only now do I see what lies beyond.

Water that glimmers with golden power.

And at the edge of those waters, rising from depths that shouldn't exist?—

Golden gates.

The gates to Year Four, close enough to see but impossibly far away with Elena standing between them and their destination.

"Shall we play a wicked game of survival?" Elena teases, her hands coming together in another mocking clap.

Someone appears beside her.

The sight makes everyone gasp, but not with fear—with horror of a different kind.

Damien.

But this isn't the prideful pureblood prince they knew.

This is Damien as victim, as prisoner, as toy .

His mouth is sewn shut with thread that looks like it might be made from his own hair.

A thick collar of thorns circles his neck, each one drawing drops of blood that run down his chest in crimson rivers.

Chains bind his wrists, his ankles, connecting to a leash that Elena holds with casual possession.

The fear in his eyes is absolute.

This isn't the theatrical terror of someone playing victim—this is real, bone-deep, soul-destroying fear of someone who knows exactly what's coming and can do nothing to stop it.

Elena pulls out something from the folds of her diseased-looking robes.

A paper covered in symbols that hurt to look at directly, each one writhing with its own malevolent life.

"The darkest, most powerful monsters," she says conversationally, as if discussing weather, "are in the depths of hearts. Trauma that's never healed manifests into something...well, frighteningly ugly."

Damien tries to pull away, tears streaming from eyes that beg for mercy he knows won't come. The chains hold him in place with strength that has nothing to do with metal.

Elena places the talisman on his forehead with deliberate slowness, savoring his muffled screams. The paper adheres like it's been glued, then begins to blaze with darkness that makes the shadow beings' torches look bright by comparison.

The transformation is horrific.

I watch Damien's body melt, flesh running like wax before reforming into something that shouldn't exist. Bones crack and extend, muscle tears and rebuilds, skin stretches to accommodate mass that expands exponentially.

His screams are muffled by his sewn mouth, but the sound finds other ways to escape—through pores, through tears, through the very air around him that vibrates with agony.

When it's over, Damien is gone.

In his place stands a hellhound that makes every other monster we've faced look tame. Three heads sprout from shoulders broader than Mortimer in dragon form.

The first head has a sewn mouth like Damien's was, but the stitches are part of the flesh now, not added but grown.

The second head has no eyes—smooth flesh where sockets should be, but somehow it sees everything.

The third has no ears, just more smooth flesh, but it reacts to sounds others can't hear.

The heads that can screech do so—the one with no eyes and the one with no ears—and the sound is agony given voice.

It's not just loud but wrong , hitting frequencies that make reality itself want to flee.

Everyone below flinches, hands rising to ears that feel like they might be bleeding. The sound continues, building, feeding on itself until?—

Elena laughs.

The sound cuts through the hellhound's screech like a blade, sharp and mad and absolutely delighted.

"I can't have you fulfill your conquest of being separate," she says, her diseased eyes locked on my sister. "Two heirs? Nope. The Wicked world can't handle that."

She tsks, shaking her head with theatrical disappointment.

"There will be no Year Four," she continues, grin spreading wide enough to split normal faces, "because you won't survive me, the true Queen destined for these lands. The throne was destined for ME!"

The declaration rings with the particular certainty of madness, but also with power that makes the words more than simple ravings. She believes this absolutely, and her belief has weight that reshapes reality around it.

I take a breath I don't need, filling lungs that don't exist with air that isn't there.

This is the moment.

I can no longer stand behind, letting my sister and the men she loves fight alone.

Can no longer be the observer, the passenger, the one who watches but doesn't participate.

My hand opens, revealing something I've kept hidden even from myself.

The artifact none of them know is truly what they're looking for.

It's small, almost insignificant looking.

An artifact no bigger than a child's cup, made from metal that can't decide if it's gold or silver or something else entirely. Symbols cover its surface—not carved but shifting , constantly rewriting themselves in languages that predate speech.

The chalice.

The one Elena seeks.

The one our parents encouraged us to retrieve and protect.

Hidden in the only place of purity that would keep it safe…

Gwenievere’s heart…

"It's time," I whisper, my form solidifying from thought to substance, from possibility to certainty.

I'm not borrowing Gwenievere's body now.

Not manifesting temporarily through borrowed power.

This is me, fully realized, independent for the first time since Elena's curse forced us together.

The chalice pulses in my hand with warmth that has nothing to do with temperature.

It recognizes me—not as bearer but as heir , as one of the two it was created for.

"It's time to reveal Wicked Academy's true destiny," I say louder, my voice carrying across the battlefield with authority that makes even Elena pause.

He knows all eyes are on him, and this is the moment he needs to ignite the final stance against the evil within their family.

No more running away…

The chalice begins to glow, soft at first then brighter, light that isn't light spreading from its surface. The symbols on its surface lock into place, spelling out words in language that everyone suddenly understands despite never learning it:

WHAT WAS UNITED SHALL DIVIDE AND CONQUER.

WHAT WAS STOLEN AND FORBIDDEN SHALL RETURN AND VANQUISH.

WHAT WAS WICKED SHALL REMEMBER AND EMBARK ON THE ROAD TO LOVE.

"Starting," I say, raising the chalice high as power older than the Academy itself begins to wake, "with Death."

TO BE CONTINUED.

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ACADEMY OF THE WICKED: YEAR FOUR