Page 6 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)

Incantations burn across Gabriel's visible skin— ancient symbols that seem to write themselves in lines of golden fire.

They spiral up his arms, across his neck, disappearing beneath his clothes in patterns that suggest complete coverage.

Each symbol pulses with its own rhythm, creating a visual symphony of power that makes my shadows sing in recognition.

Power radiates from that simple gesture—not the raw force we've been throwing around, but something far more fundamental.

Authority .

The kind that doesn't request compliance but simply expects it as natural law.

The blocked attack multiplies , volcanic force splitting into dozens of devastating streams that separate around our group with surgical precision.

Destruction rains down on both sides of us, turning the already desolate landscape into something from primordial nightmares.

Lava geysers erupt where the redirected attacks land, obsidian spires shatter into deadly rain, the very air ignites with transferred force.

But not a single fragment touches us.

We stand in a perfect circle of safety while apocalypse unfolds inches away.

Gabriel's lips move, words emerging in a language that makes my shadows sing .

Not modern tongue or any derivative I recognize, but something that predates civilization itself. The syllables carry weight that has nothing to do with volume, each sound etching itself into reality with permanent certainty.

"Ancient Infernal," Mortimer whispers, awe replacing his usual scholarly detachment. "The first language. The tongue of binding and creation. That's... that's impossible. No one has spoken true Ancient Infernal in millennia."

The beast shudders at the words, its massive form beginning to shift.

Not attacking or defending— kneeling .

The horned head constructed of volcanic glass bows until it touches scorched earth, the gesture carrying submission so complete it transcends mere physical movement.

When it speaks, the words emerge not as roars or grinding stone, but with reverent clarity that makes my blood run cold.

"Welcome home, Master. The centuries of waiting end with your return."

Silence follows the declaration— the kind that carries more weight than any scream.

Even the ambient sounds of the Infernal Realm seem to pause, as if reality itself needs a moment to process what just occurred.

"Master?" Atticus's voice cuts through the quiet, still cradling Nikki's broken form but unable to hide his shock. "Gabriel, what?—"

"Not Gabriel," he corrects, turning to face us fully for the first time since the battle began.

His eyes—those silver depths I've gazed into countless times—now carry flecks of gold that pulse with internal fire.

"Not entirely at least. Gabriel is the mask I wore to survive.

The identity forced upon heirs who refused to submit. "

Heirs? What does he mean by that?

The incantations on his skin fade slowly, leaving only faint traces of their presence like golden scars.

He approaches the kneeling beast with measured steps, each movement carrying the unconscious grace of absolute authority.

His hand extends, touching the creature's volcanic glass skull with surprising gentleness.

"You have served well," he tells it, voice carrying warmth absent from his recent words to us. "But the old trials are obsolete. Stand aside."

The beast rises, moving with careful precision to clear our path.

As it shifts, I notice details previously hidden—inscriptions in that same ancient language covering its form, dedication written in volcanic glass to a master long absent.

"The second key," it rumbles, extending one massive hand. Nestled in its palm sits an object of impossible beauty— a crystal that seems to contain a captured star, light shifting through spectrums that shouldn't exist.

Gabriel takes it without hesitation, the crystal's light immediately harmonizing with the first key's glow.

"Two of three," he murmurs, fingers closing around the artifact with possessive certainty. The way he holds it—palm cupped, fingers spread in perfect symmetry—differs from how Gwenivere handles objects of power.

She grasps.

He cradles.

Details. Always in the details.

The coldness from earlier has fractured slightly, replaced by something more complex. "Nikki requires immediate attention."

"I'm... fine," Nikki gasps, proving herself conscious if not remotely fine. Blood bubbles on her lips with each word, internal damage painting crimson patterns I catalog automatically. Three ribs fractured. Possible punctured lung. Internal bleeding at rate of approximately?—

"Just need... minute..."

"You need more than that," Zeke says, already moving to help Atticus.

His frost magic takes on healing properties, crystalline patterns forming in air before settling against her wounds.

The magic tastes different here—sharper, more desperate.

"Several ribs are broken. Internal bleeding. If we don't?—"

"The third trial will kill her," Gabriel states bluntly.

No emotion. Just fact. But the timing of his blinks has changed—2.

3 seconds between instead of Gwenivere's usual 3.

7. "Kill most of you, actually. These tests were designed for Infernal royalty, not.

.." He pauses, something flickering in his expression.

Manufactured hesitation? "Not my friends. "

The admission seems to surprise him as much as us. But I catch the micro-delay between apparent realization and expression. Performed. Calculated. Like watching an actor remember their cues half a beat late.

I study the micro-expressions that flash across his features—the slight widening of eyes — 0.

2 seconds too long — the minute tensing of jaw muscles; left side only, when Gwenivere favors right.

Each detail files away in the mental catalog I maintain of those who matter. And the discrepancies are multiplying.

He's conflicted. The awakened memories war with recent connections.

Or so he wants us to believe.

"Then we find another way," I state, moving closer despite the waves of power still radiating from his form. My shadows taste that power, cataloging its flavor—ancient, yes, but tinged with something else. Like wine poured over wine. Same vessel, different vintages. "Together."

"There is no other way," he responds, but the certainty wavers. Deliberately? "The academy requires three keys. The trials?—"

"Were designed for a different time," Mortimer interrupts, scholarly mind already analyzing possibilities.

Dragon intelligence misses the performance, focused on theoretical solutions rather than immediate deception.

"A different political structure. If you truly are the returned heir, then perhaps the rules themselves can be. .. adjusted."

Gabriel's laugh is unexpected and bitter.

Sharp. Wrong. The sound originates from his chest rather than throat—completely different resonance pattern.

"Adjusted? Do you have any idea what—" He stops, hand rising to his temple.

The gesture is too delicate, fingers splaying in a way that suggests longer nails than he possesses.

Muscle memory from a different form? "No. That's... that's not..."

"Gabriel?" I reach for him, shadows extending with careful intent. They recoil slightly upon contact—not from heat or cold, but from something more fundamental. A dissonance in his magical signature. Like touching a chord played in two different keys simultaneously.

He doesn't pull away this time. Instead, he looks at me with eyes that carry too much pain for any single lifetime. But there's something else there. A flicker of... amusement? No. Darker. Mockery . The emotion sits wrong in familiar features, like seeing a sneer on a saint's statue.

It’s as if Gabriel or even Gwenivere are potentially fighting with a third entity?

Did the throne trigger a third individual entering them and creating a personality problem?

"I remember everything," he whispers. Volume modulated for maximum emotional impact.

I've heard Gwenivere whisper—it carries breath, life.

This is technique. "Every betrayal. Every loss.

Every reason I have to hate this place and everyone in it.

But I also remember..." His gaze shifts to encompass all of us.

The pause extends exactly three heartbeats.

Rehearsed. "I remember why I chose differently. Why Gabriel exists at all."

"Then tell us," Atticus says, his tone gentler than usual.

The vampire's instincts are sharp—he senses something off but hasn't identified it yet. His weight shifts subtly left, unconscious preparation for violence. "Help us understand."

The internal war playing out across Gabriel's features is fascinating to observe.

Muscles contract and release in patterns suggesting genuine emotional conflict. But I catch it—the moment where one expression doesn't quite transition naturally to the next. Like watching two faces occupy the same space, taking turns at the surface.

"The Infernal Academy isn't just a school.

It's a prison. A testing ground. A place where the previous generation sends their failures to either die or prove themselves worthy of acknowledgment.

" His smile holds no humor. The left corner lifts 0.

3 centimeters higher than the right—opposite of Gwenivere's natural asymmetry.

"I wasn't sent here to learn. I was sent here to disappear. "

"By who?" The question emerges as a growl, my shadows responding to the fury building in my chest. But I'm watching.

Always watching. The way his weight shifts; favoring left leg instead of right.

The angle of his shoulders — pulled back extra 2 degrees.

The positioning of his hands; thumbs tucked in—Gwenivere never does that.

All wrong. All performed.