Page 9 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)

Guardian Of Agony

~GWENIEVERE~

D arkness.

Not the comforting shadows Cassius weaves, not the gentle night that cradles secrets. This is absolute void—a suffocating absence that presses against my consciousness like drowning in liquid obsidian.

My hands grip the sides of my head, nails digging into scalp until warmth trickles down my temples. "Stop," I plead, voice cracking on the single word. "Please, make it stop."

But the memories don't listen. They never do.

A child's scream—my scream—echoing through stone corridors as flames lick at small feet. Elena's laughter, twisted and wrong, as she watches from her golden throne. "You wanted to play with fire, sister. Now burn."

The scene shifts.

Blood on marble floors. Mother's eyes—empty, accusing—staring at nothing while Father's hands wrap around my throat. "You should have been the one to die. The weak one. The mistake."

Another shift.

Chains of molten gold around my wrists, each link inscribed with words of binding. My twin's face inches from mine, her breath sweet with stolen power. "I'll take it all, Gwen. Your magic, your birthright, your very name. And you'll thank me for the mercy of letting you exist in my shadow."

"NO!" The scream tears from my throat, raw and primal. These aren't just memories—they're weapons, each one perfectly crafted to flay another layer from my sanity. On repeat. Endless. Merciless.

I slam against invisible walls, fists connecting with barriers that yield like water but hold like steel. The impact reverberates through my bones, but the pain is almost welcome—something real in this nightmare of recollection.

"Let me out!" Another strike. Another. My knuckles split, healing instantly only to split again. "I need to go back. They need me. I need?—"

Them.

The thought crystallizes with startling clarity.

Cassius with his careful control and hidden depths.

Nikolai—Nikki—with her complicated pride and fierce loyalty.

Atticus with his dangerous charm and unexpected protection.

Mortimer with his ancient wisdom and gentle guidance. Even Zeke, new but somehow essential.

I care about them.

The realization should be warming. Instead, it brings fresh agony because I'm trapped here while they're—where? What's happening on the surface? Time moves strangely in this prison of consciousness. Minutes or centuries could have passed.

I bite my bottom lip hard enough to flood my mouth with copper. My fangs descend fully, responding to the cocktail of fury and desperation coursing through my veins. The blood doesn't fall—it spreads across my skin in deliberate patterns, forming incantations I don't remember learning.

Black script writhes across my flesh, each symbol pulsing with its own heartbeat. The darkness shifts to crimson as my rage builds, power responding to emotion in ways that should terrify me. Should, but doesn't.

Terror is for those with something left to lose.

"LET ME OUT!" The words carry more than sound—they're edged with magic that makes reality shudder. The invisible walls crack, hairline fractures spreading like infected veins. "LET ME FREE!"

Silence answers. Then?—

A presence behind me. Not arriving but simply being , as if it had always stood there, waiting for me to notice.

I spin with vampire speed, hand shooting out to close around a throat that feels both foreign and familiar. My snarls reveal fully extended fangs as I lift the figure, muscles coiled with killing intent.

Then I see the face.

My face. But not.

The masculine version of my features stares back with infuriating calm. Same silver eyes but lacking my current crimson rage. Same bone structure carved into sharper angles. Gabriel—not my assumed identity but something else. Someone else.

He doesn't struggle against my grip. Just arches one perfect eyebrow as if my attempt at violence is mildly amusing but ultimately irrelevant.

"Your friends request to see you on the surface," he says conversationally, as though I'm not actively trying to crush his windpipe. "So I'll let them have their wish. Temporarily, at least."

I release him, stepping back as confusion replaces fury. "Who are you?"

The eyebrow climbs higher. "You know who I am.

" His head tilts, studying me with ancient eyes in a young face.

"Just as you know who you're destined to be.

Or at least—" his lips curve in a smile that doesn't reach those silver depths, "—whom your dear sister wished to bury beneath naivety and forsaken wonder. "

Sister. The word triggers fresh rage that has me hissing, fangs fully bared. My hand shoots out again, ready to do more than choke—ready to tear, to rend, to?—

"Stop." The command carries weight that freezes my muscles mid-strike. Not compulsion—something deeper. "You need me, or you'll kill everything you love before you snap out of it."

I breathe steam, literal vapor rising from my skin as fire and ice war within my blood. "Is that a threat?"

"An observation." He remains perfectly still, unconcerned by my proximity or obvious homicidal intent. "Go ahead—kill the part of you who rules this realm of internal flames. I die, you won't make it to the gates of the academy."

"WHY NOT?!" The walls shake with my fury. "This is MY realm!"

His smirk is a knife between ribs. "Our realm, sweet sister." The endearment drips with condescension. "Though your hate for Fae is going to kill that pretty, weak Fae girl. The one you currently despise."

My entire body goes rigid. Nikki.

"You should be more forgiving, you know." He examines his nails with affected boredom. "I'm sure her excuse is worth her secrecy."

I shove him hard enough to crack the wall he impacts, then I'm in his face, finger pointed like a weapon. "Don't lust for what's MINE!"

He rolls his eyes— my eyes in his face, making the gesture surreal. "You're being selfish. You can keep the old man and the centuries-old cat. The vampire is too loyal to you anyway, and the Duskwalker is getting on my nerves."

"I demand to return." The words come out steadier than I feel. "Now."

He lifts his hands in mock surrender. "You may go back. But I'd warn you to hurry." His expression shifts, amusement replaced by something darker. "The crazed Guardian side of you is killing them right now."

Everything stops.

"What?" I shake my head, ice replacing fire in my veins. "I don't understand. Guardian? I don't—this doesn't make sense! I need to understand!"

His hands clamp onto my face with shocking strength. Claws I didn't see extend pierce my cheeks, drawing parallel lines of agony that make me scream. But he doesn't let go, doesn't even flinch as my blood coats his fingers.

"I am the heir of the Wicked, dear sister." His voice drops to a whisper that carries more force than any shout. "And you? You are the guardian of its pearly gates. You are the biggest threat to us all."

He presses his forehead against mine, the contact burning like a brand. "And YOU will be the one our dear sister needs to acquire the chalice she believes is her birthright and not OURS."

Sister. Chalice. Birthright.

The words tumble through my mind without finding purchase, puzzle pieces from different boxes forced together.

"Now be a good hybrid," he seethes, breath hot against my skin, "and snap out of it before you kill my little Fae pet."

Pain shoots through me—not physical but existential. Like being turned inside out, every nerve firing at once. My eyes snap open to?—

"NO!"

Multiple voices scream the word as my body freezes mid-strike. My hands—no, these aren't hands. These are weapons. Claws longer than swords, edges sharp enough to slice reality itself. They hover inches from?—

Nikki.

She's dying. I can see it in the gray pallor of her skin, the shallow flutter of her chest, the way her body seems to dissolve at the edges.

Blood—so much blood—paints patterns across her tattered uniform.

She's cradled in something that might once have been shadows but now looks like molten obsidian, form holding her even as it burns her.

I did this.

The realization hits as I finally process what I've become.

My body is massive—four times my normal size at least. I wear darkness itself as a dress, the fabric woven from night sky complete with stars that pulse like dying hearts.

But the beauty is corrupted by flames that dance across every surface. My hair?—

My hair is fire. Literal flames in impossible colors: orange bleeding to red bleeding to purple, with white-hot strands that crack like lightning through the conflagration.

I'm not standing. I hover above an apocalypse of my own making.

The landscape below defies description. What was once solid ground is now an ocean of molten stone and twisted reality.

Obsidian spires jut at impossible angles, their surfaces reflecting not light but screams. Lava fountains paint the air with liquid destruction.

And everywhere— everywhere —is evidence of violence that could only come from me.

How long was I trapped in that box of memories? How long have I been this thing?

My gaze finds my companions—what's left of them.

Zeke kneels on a platform of ice that melts and reforms with each labored breath. His usual grace is gone, replaced by exhaustion so complete it's a wonder he remains conscious. Frost patterns spread from his hands, but they're wrong—fractured, desperate. Fighting a losing battle against my flames.

Mortimer—

Oh god, Mortimer.

His dragon form is incomplete, caught between human and beast in ways that speak of desperation rather than choice.

Half his clothing has been incinerated, revealing flesh marked by burns that would kill anyone not blessed with dragon resilience.

His wings—those magnificent appendages I've seen carry us to safety—are tattered.

Holes burned through membrane, scales cracked and weeping golden blood.

And Cassius ? —