Page 88 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

I’m no longer hidden, no longer masked.

The illusion crumbles and the weight of my true self crashes down around me.

Voices reach me as if from a great distance.

“Gabriel!” someone shouts.

Another voice curses loudly.

I can’t tell who it is; their words are drowned out by the roar of blood rushing in my ears. Warmth trickles down my face, and I realize from the metallic scent that plagues my failing sensesthat it’s blood, dripping from my nose and pooling at the corners of my mouth.

I glance down, my body trembling as I take in the sight of the shadowy tendril that pierces through me.

It’s alive, writhing like a serpent, pulsing with an ominous energy that seeps into my veins. My knees buckle, but I force myself to stay upright, my gaze snapping back to Malcolm.

But he’s no longer on the ground eons away.

My breath catches as I realize he’s standing inches from me, his presence suffocating.

His hollow eyes are darker than the void itself, empty yet piercing as if he sees straight through me. His smile is eerie, and unnatural, curving just a little too wide to be human. His skin is pale to the point of translucence, almost waxy, and his very being radiates an unnatural stillness that sets every nerve in my body on edge.

“You,” I rasp, my voice barely more than a whisper. “You’re the one who did this. You’re the one…behind all of it.”

He tilts his head, his smile widening as if amused by my realization.

“It took you long enough to piece it together,” he says, his voice a soft purr. “But I suppose I shouldn’t expect too much. After all, you’re new here. Fresh meat. Compared to the dimwits I’ve dealt with for years, finally, one unselfish being is willing to test my limits.”

His words send a chill down my spine.

The rumors flood back to me — whispers of Malcolm, the strange, gothic student who seemed to linger in the shadows of Wicked Academy. The eerie presence, his habit of repeating Year One over and over again, and the sense that something about him was fundamentally wrong.

It all makes sense now.

He’s not just a student.

He’s the ruler of this chessboard, the puppet master controlling the game.

And now, he’s making his final move.

“Checkmate,” Malcolm murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

I try to pull away, to break free, but his hand shoots out, gripping my chin with inhuman strength.

His touch burns, the skin of his fingers morphing into long, sickly tendrils that coil around my face like the limbs of some monstrous creature.

“This is the first time I’ve seen a female flawlessly blend into Wicked Academy,” he muses, tilting my head slightly as if examining me. “How fascinating. Perhaps that makes you special.”

I struggle to breathe, my chest heaving as I try to fight off his hold. The runes on my body flare to life, burning with an intensity that makes my skin sear.

But no matter how hard I push, his grip doesn’t falter.

My vision blurs as blood pools in my mouth, the metallic taste flooding my senses. Tears stream down my face, but they’re not clear— they’re red, tinged with blood.

“Let…me…go,” I manage to choke out, my voice weak but defiant.

Malcolm’s smile widens, his hollow eyes gleaming with a cruel amusement.

“Oh, but why would I do that? You’ve walked into my cage of endless ruin, and I’ve no intention of letting you leave.”

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