Page 143 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

Silk materializes in my grasp — I don't realize I'm doing this until the material is draping around her, my magic oozing out to cloak her frame. A protective spell, a barrier against further violation. She tries to thank me, but the words struggle to emerge, caught in her throat like barbed wire.

I lift her chin, forcing her to meet my gaze. "I'm mad. Very mad. And I don't know when I'm not going to be mad at you... but this. This will never fucking happen again. No one will ever hurt or touch you unless you dare allow it, you understand?"

A slow nod.

The defeat in that simple movement breaks something inside me.

Back to Gwenivere now, the rage settling into something more dangerous. Controlled. "Can you walk?"

Another nod.

The silence that follows isn't empty. It's loaded with everything we're not saying. With every horror we've witnessed. With a promise of retribution that hasn't yet been spoken but is absolutely, unequivocally coming.

"We need you to sit on the throne for the trial," I tell Nikki. "It'll take us to Year Three. We'll deal with the reciprocities after."

Her hand squeezes mine—a response more powerful than words could ever be. The simple gesture carries layers of meaning. Understanding. Resignation. Hope, perhaps, buried so deep it's almost unrecognizable.

We move as a unit.

Atticus leads, Mortimer and Zeke, following with a precision that suggests they understand something we don't. Cassius takes Nikki's left side, while I support her on the right. We're a protective formation, a bond group united against a world that has tried to destroy one of our own.

The stone sanctuary is deceptively simple. A tiny room with a throne that looks unremarkable.

But nothing in Wicked Academy is ever truly what it seems.

I approach the altar, meeting Atticus's gaze. Zeke and Mortimer take their predetermined positions—their movements carry a weight of purpose that suggests deeper knowledge. The familiar bond between us pulses with anticipation.

The peach —that fragment of royal essence—slides into place at the back of the throne. The moment it settles, somethingshiftsin the room's atmosphere.

A subtle vibration, like a heartbeat just beyond hearing.

"Nikki, you have to sit on the throne," I urge.

She shakes her head, a movement filled with such defeat it makes my chest ache.

“Nikki. You’re the only royal fae here. We need you to sit on the throne to activate it. It’s the only way for us to enter Year Three.” When Atticus points out her royal heritage, she whispers words that stop us all cold.

"Nikolai is simply my male persona. The truth was written on those posters. I’m a girl. Born a girl. Forced...to be what I’m not. If I sit there…it won’t work because I’m not worthy. This is who I am…"

The revelation lands like a physical blow.

Year Two's fundamental lesson of acceptance crystallizes with devastating clarity. This isn't just about a throne or a trial. This is about identity—about being forced to wear an identity that never truly fit.

And Nikolai…Nikki just revealed the truth she’s been hiding from the world.

Zeke's warning cuts through our collective shock.

"Guys... poisonous mist!"

The stone windows transform. Purple darkness bleeds across the view, a living weapon more terrifying than any physical assault. The mist approaches with predatory intent as if the very atmosphere wants to consume us.

I look to Atticus, to Mortimer, to Zeke, before Mortimer's voice enters my mind.

“Sit on the throne, Gwenievere.”

I give a quick nod before I look to Cassius who seems to understand the backup plan.

Cassius positions Nikki carefully next to him in a knelt position.

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