Page 99 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

She grins, a mischievous and almost predatory curve to her lips, but says nothing.

The silence stretches, its weight amplifying the tension. It gives me time to truly see her for the first time.

She stands tall, at 5’10” her posture both commanding and relaxed, as though she’s a queen surveying her subjects.

Her leather jumpsuit clings to her form, accentuated by a short, jewel-encrusted skirt that glints unnaturally under the dim light. High boots, equally bedazzled, reach her knees, the jewels seeming more like arcane artifacts than mere decoration.

Her hair is a vibrant pink, cascading in sleek waves that gleam as if polished, and her eyes are mismatched—one a piercing red, the other a swirling purple. They gleam with an unsettling intelligence, taking in every detail with predatory precision.

I can’t help but feel uneasy under her gaze, wondering what exactly she is. A professor, yes, but how is she immune to whatever curse binds Wicked Academy and its rules against women? The professors, they’d said, aren’t affected. But still, there has to be more to it. Otherwise, why wouldn’t the academyemploy female staff? Why would secretaries and others work remotely?

Before I can spiral further, a sudden, melodic chime cuts through the heavy silence. It’s a hauntingly beautiful sound, like the delicate toll of a bell, yet it carries an undercurrent of something mechanical.

Everyone stiffens.

A disembodied, monotone voice follows, reverberating through the space:

“Trial Officially Concluded: Victory.”

The word hangs in the air like a lifeline and a curse. Even after the announcement, no one moves. The silence remains, almost as if no one can comprehend what just happened.

Finally, Eternalis speaks.

Her voice is smooth and rich, tinged with amusement.

“Fifty years,” she muses, the words rolling off her tongue as if savoring them. “This marks the first time in fifty years that a trial has ended in victory.”

Fifty years.

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut.

Fifty years of students trapped, their souls condemned to those slates. I feel my chest tighten, the weight of their loss crashing over me like a tidal wave.

Their faces flash through my mind —young, old, desperate— and I have to look away, my throat constricting.

Eternalis’s gaze sweeps over the remaining students, her smile growing wider.

“Congratulations to all of you still standing and breathing,” she announces, her tone almost mocking. “You have not only officially passed the entry trial into Wicked Academy but have also gained immunity for the remainder of the year.”

Her words ripple through the crowd like a shockwave. Whispers break out, confusion and relief mingling in hushed tones.

Immunity? What does that mean?

Eternalis answers the unspoken question with a flick of her hand.

“It means that despite the challenges and ignited trials ahead, you will be marked with a symbol of immunity. This mark will ensure your survival against any fatal challenges designed to test you. Consider it a token of your success.”

Her smile turns wicked.

“The mark will appear by morning. Until then, enjoy the thrill of not dying.”

I blink, trying to process her words.

Immunity. That means… no more fighting for my life. At least not in the way these trials demand.Relief wars with unease. Why grant such a powerful boon? And why now, after fifty years?

Eternalis’s eyes find mine, and her smile sharpens.

“Gabriel Hawthorne,” she says, drawing out my full name with deliberate precision. Her gaze shifts briefly to the others. “Cassius, Nikolai, Damien, and Mortimer of the Seven. If you would all follow me. The Headmaster wishes to discuss your performance privately.”

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