Page 22 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

I make my decision.

"Keep her restrained," I instruct Cassius, approaching the edge of the platform where Gwenivere hangs suspended between salvation and consumption. "I'm going in after her."

"That's suicide," Nikolai objects, though whether from concern or tactical assessment is impossible to determine.

"Probably," I agree, calculating the exact point of entry that will bring me closest to Gwenivere without being immediately consumed by the portal. "But I've survived worse."

Without further hesitation, I leap from the edge, angling my body toward the translucent surface where Gwenivere remains partially submerged. As I approach, I slice my palm open with elongated nails, fresh blood welling to the surface.

Blood magic requires sacrifice – always has.

The forbidden art demands payment in vital essence, a principle I learned through brutal experience during my imprisonment. The more powerful the spell, the greater the blood price required.

What I'm about to attempt will cost me dearly, but the alternative is unacceptable.

I strike the portal's surface feet-first, the translucent barrier parting around me like mercury. Immediately, vines erupt to greet my intrusion, reaching for my limbs with hungry determination. I allow them to make contact, using their touch to orient myself within this strange dimensional pocket.

The interior of the portal exists in negative space – not quite our reality, not quite elsewhere. Corrupted energy flows likecurrents through what appears to be an endless void punctuated by floating fragments of volcanic rock.

At the center of this chaotic environment, Gwenivere hangs suspended, her body completely reverted to its true form as the corruption strips away all pretense and protection.

Her eyes remain black with purple slits, but now I can see the veins beneath her skin darkening as the infection spreads through her system. The runes that once provided protection have inverted, their patterns twisted into channels that guide the corruption rather than repel it.

Outside, the countdown must be approaching zero.

I have seconds, not minutes, to act.

With practiced precision, I slash my other palm, completing the blood circuit necessary for what comes next. The forbidden spell forms in my mind, ancient syllables arranging themselves into patterns of power I shouldn't possess.

These weren't arts taught willingly during my imprisonment. I extracted them from fellow inmates through methods I prefer not to recall – techniques that left me hollow and them, emptier still.

The cost of vengeance always comes due, usually paid in pieces of one's humanity.

“El Ruke De la Rose Fruitanda!”

As I initiate the spell, it takes form, my blood rises from the wounds, suspended in the strange gravity of the portal's interior. The droplets orbit my hands like tiny planets around twin suns, each one glowing with internal fire as the magic takes hold.

“De La Sonte Le Va Ruin Anatanda!”

The words, when I speak them, feel like razors in my throat – each syllable cutting deeper than the last.

This is old magic, predating most modern paranormal disciplines. Blood arts from before the vampire courts established civilization, before the Fae negotiated treaties withother realms, before Duskwalkers emerged from their ancestral shadows.

This is the magic of survival, of desperation, of refusing to accept defeat even when victory seems impossible.

The orbiting blood droplets accelerate, their glow intensifying as they absorb ambient corrupted energy. The spell creates a purification circuit – my blood serving as both conductor and filter for the infection attempting to claim Gwenivere.

I reach for her, hands extended through the orbiting blood drops. Where they contact the corruption surrounding her, small explosions of light erupt – purification battling infection in miniature warfare.

Her blank eyes find mine, the vertical pupils narrowing further.

Her mouth opens, but the voice that emerges isn't hers.

"Crown...requires...sacrifice..." The words carry the same disjointed quality as Mortimer's corrupted mental communication. "Royal...blood...necessary..."

The countdown outside must have reached zero by now.

Whatever fate awaits those who fail to secure positions on the platform will find us soon. I have seconds, perhaps less, to complete the purification.

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