Page 15 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

"Interesting trick," I mutter, glancing back at him. “Show off…”

His answering smile carries no humor.

"Prison teaches you many things," he replies quietly, "including how to make the unendurable work in your favor." Giving me a wink that taunts his hidden amusement, he holds me partially while keeping himself clinging to Mortimer as we continue this glide through the pulsating cloud.

Before I can question this cryptic statement, we burst through the other side of the cloud. The sudden absence of resistance nearly sends Lysth flying off his perch, his crystalline hands scrabbling for purchase on the smooth scales.

The platform looms before us, much closer than expected.

Its surface gleams with runes similar to those that adorn my skin, ancient magic embedded in what appears to be obsidian stone. The structure hovers impossibly above the lava fields, supported by nothing visible, defying gravity through sheer magical will.

"Brace for landing!" Mortimer's mental voice commands, his massive body already angling for the approach.

Dragon wings extend to their full span, catching the superheated air and using it to brake and slow our momentum. The maneuver is impressive but insufficient to fully counter our velocity. We're coming in too fast, the platform rushing up to meet us with unforgiving solidity.

"Hold on!" I shout, unnecessarily – no one seems inclined to let go as Mortimer makes his final approach.

The impact when it comes is jarring but controlled, Mortimer's claws scrabbling for purchase on the obsidian surface as his body skids across the platform. We cling desperately to his scales, the friction threatening to tear us from our positions despite our best efforts.

Finally, mercifully, we come to a stop near the center of the circular landing zone. For a moment, no one moves, each of us taking inventory of our bodies, assessing damage and confirming survival.

"Everyone intact?" Mortimer asks, his mental voice carrying exhaustion beneath the query.

"Define 'intact,'" Lysth replies, his crystalline voice tinkling with stress fractures.

"I've had worse landings," Nikolai offers, already sliding gracefully from his position to stand on the obsidian surface.

Cassius dismounts silently, his shadows hanging limp around him like exhausted soldiers. The effort of maintaining the barrier has clearly drained him beyond his usual limits, though his expression betrays nothing.

Mordax shifts back to a more humanoid form, wincing as he puts weight on his left leg. "Think I fractured something," he mutters, though his body is already working to repair the damage, tissue visibly knitting beneath his torn uniform.

Atticus releases his hold on my waist, allowing me to slide down Mortimer's scaled side to the platform. He follows withthat same predatory grace I've come to associate with him – a far cry from the awkward movements of "Chubby Atti."

"Seven arrived," he observes quietly. "And seven survived. So much for 'two will fall.'"

As if triggered by his words, a deep rumble emanates from beneath us.

The platform trembles, obsidian surface rippling like disturbed water. The runes embedded in the stone flare to life, their arcane light painting our faces in eldritch patterns.

"You had to say it, didn't you?" Nikolai mutters, casting Atticus a sidelong glare.

Before anyone can respond, the platform separates – splitting into seven distinct segments that begin to drift apart, carrying each of us in different directions.

"What's happening?" Lysth calls, his crystalline form refracting the runic light into kaleidoscopic patterns.

"The real trial begins," Mortimer responds, but the odd thing of his voice, is how it sounds as though it’s fading away. "This was merely the appetizer of the trial.”

“Mortimer?” I acknowledge hesitantly, feeling as if something is oddly wrong with him as our pillar of floating platform is drifting further apart, leaving him in a centerpiece of rock. His massive head looks my way, and I can see the rooted sadness in his eyes that is beginning to shift and lose a sense of recognition.

“I apologize in advance, Gwenivere.”

“What does he mean by that?” Mordax questions, clinging to his injured leg.

“What’s wrong?” Nikolai demands with a frustrated gaze.

“Something is wrong with the dragon,” Lysth acknowledges what I’ve already grown aware of. I’m looking for Atticus, who’s not only deep frowning, but he’s widening his stance, as if preparing for a fleet of warriors to come out of nowhere.

“We fucked up,” he declares, his eyes darkening with a rooted glow of red. “That cloud did more than try to kill us.”

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