Page 21 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

"Focus on extraction first, questions later," I advise, though I know the sylph's confusion is only beginning.

The truth of Gwenivere’s deception will soon be impossible to conceal. Already her form flickers between identities with increasing frequency, the male glamour failing as her consciousness fades beneath the onslaught of corrupted magic.

Nikolai finally moves to assist, perhaps recognizing the gravity of our situation regardless of his personal feelings. Golden vines materialize from his extended hands, reaching toward Gwenivere’s fluctuating form.

"We'll discuss this later," he declares, gaze flicking toward Lysth. "There's no way whatever this challenge is will absorb Gabriel. He's a hybrid. Mortimer is clearly the stronger asset."

Lysth's crystalline features rearrange themselves into an expression of disbelief.

"If you truly believe that, then you're a blinded Fae who could never rule a throne," he retorts, gathering shards of his own substance in preparation for attack. "You can't even see that he's?—"

The sylph's words cut off abruptly, his crystalline body freezing mid-motion. Confusion ripples across his features before our collective gaze follows the source of his sudden silence.

A blood-crystallized thorn protrudes from Lysth's chest, its surface gleaming with unnatural sharpness. The projectile's origin is unmistakable, though impossible to accept.

Gwenivere – half-extracted from the portal, her form still flickering between identities – stares through half-lidded eyes now completely black while vertical slits of venomous purple become visible in seconds.

Her expression remains vacant, face slack with trance-like absence, yet her hand extends toward Lysth with unmistakable purpose.

"No," I breathe, recognition and denial warring in my chest. I've seen this before – the blank stare, the unnatural pupil formation, the aggressive response to rescue attempts.

Possession.

The portal hasn't been trying to consume her; it's been attempting to reprogram her. Just as the cloud corrupted Mortimer, the volcanic rock has infected Gwenivere with the same malevolent consciousness.

"Drop her!" I shout to Cassius, but the warning comes too late.

Another crystallized thorn materializes from Gwenivere's fingertips, launching toward the Duskwalker prince with deadly intent. Only his shadows' instinctive defense saves him, forming a barrier that the projectile penetrates but cannot pass through completely.

"What's happening to her?" Cassius demands, shadows still maintaining their grip despite the attack.

"Same thing that happened to Mortimer," I explain, blood strings tightening as I reinforce the anchoring spell. "The corruption is spreading. Whatever controls him is trying to claim her too."

As if summoned by our discussion, Mortimer's massive form shifts toward us, those sickening purple eyes focusing on our desperate extraction attempt. His corrupted body blocks part of the countdown – less than a minute remains before whatever fate awaits the two who fail to secure positions on the platform.

"We need to decide," Nikolai states, voice cold with practicality. "Either we pull her onto the platform and deal with her corrupted state, or we let her go and save ourselves."

The calculation in his tone makes my blood boil, but I force emotion aside to focus on our increasingly dire situation. Gwenivere continues her transformation, body flickering between identities as the corruption spreads through her system.

Each manifestation of her true form lasts longer, the glamour weakening by the second.

Lysth staggers backward, crystalline hands wrapped around the blood thorn protruding from his chest. Cracks spread outward from the wound, fracturing his translucent structure with increasing rapidity.

"This isn't right," the sylph gasps, his melodic voice distorting with pain. "Gabriel isn't...this isn't..."

Another blood thorn materializes between Gwenivere’s fingers, her expression still vacant as she prepares to launch it. This time, her aim shifts toward Nikolai, the Fae prince's golden aura apparently drawing the corruption's attention.

"Duck!" I shout, releasing one blood string to form a protective barrier between the Fae and the incoming projectile.

The thorn strikes my hastily formed shield, shattering it but losing momentum in the process. The fragments scatter across the platform, each shard hissing with corrupted energy where it contacts the obsidian surface.

"We can't bring her onto the platform like this," Nikolai argues, golden light intensifying around his hands in preparation for counterattack. "She's already turning against us."

"We're not leaving her," Cassius responds, shadows stretching further to strengthen their hold on Gwenivere’s increasingly unstable form.

Mordax remains unconscious near the barrier leading off the platform, his injured body showing no signs of recovery. Lysth struggles to remain upright, crystalline structure continuing to fracture from the corruption spreading outward from his wound.

The countdown shows twenty seconds remaining.

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