Page 30 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

After we’ve potentially survived whatever this Trial has in store before our return to Wicked Academy.

“Thank you, Prince Cassius.” I acknowledge his royal name so he knows I’m taking this as seriously as he is. He’s grasped that we’re practically starting over again, but at least that’s something.

Maybe this…whatever it is between us…can be rebuilt in a different way.

I can feel Nikolai’s on me, as if he wishes for me to acknowledge his attempt as well, but I don’t give him the satisfaction, returning my attention over to Atticus.

“Continue with the game plan. What do we need to do now that we’re together?”

He bobs his head in understanding, returning his attention to us as a whole.

"The circle requires four participants," Atticus continues, completing another section of the bloody pattern. "North, South, East, West…with the subject for purification at the center."

"Five points total," Cassius notes, shadows analyzing the design with evident curiosity despite his reservations. "Who takes which position?"

Atticus straightens, wiping excess blood on his already ruined uniform.

"Cassius at North. Shadow manipulation aligned with darkness and introspection. Nikolai at East. Fae energies connected to dawn and new beginnings. I'll take South. Blood magic corresponding with passion and transformation."

"And West?" I ask, though I suspect the answer.

"Grim," Atticus confirms, nodding toward the shadow being who seems to sense his need to retreat, which is why he sends out a slough of flames in Mortimer’s way, forcing a barrier of tainted black with odd green and purple shades to spark in protection. His retreat is swift, the once massive shadowed dragon back into human form as he floats swiftly towards our group. "His unique abilities represent twilight and transition – perfect for the Western cardinal point."

"That leaves me at center," I conclude, surveying the completed ritual circle with its intricate bloody patterns. "The first subject for purification."

"Yes," Atticus agrees, expression grave despite the excitement I detect beneath his concern. "Once purified, you'll help extend the cleansing to the rest of us, and eventually to Mortimer."

Speaking of the corrupted dragon, a tremendous crash draws our attention to the far side of the platform where Mortimer seems to throw a miniature fit of stomping while he outstretches his wings as if he’s going to take flight.

Oh no. If he runs away, we’ll never get a chance to do this.

"We don't have much time," Nikolai observes, his golden aura already gathering around his hands in preparation. “We won’t be able to extract him from wherever he flies off to if he escapes.”

“And we’ll no longer have enough living people,” Cassius casually adds, which makes me briefly check on Lysth to make sure he’s still somewhat breathing. He barely is, the movement far too slow for the sylph.

We have to be faster. Every second counts.

"Then let's begin," I say, stepping carefully into the center of the bloody circle.

The moment my feet touch the pattern, energy surges through the obsidian platform – not the corrupted purple ofMortimer's infection, but something richer in shade and primal in vibrations.

Ancient magic recognizing its rooted kin.

As I settle into position, the others take their assigned cardinal points.

Cassius kneels at North, shadows pooling around him in anticipation.

Nikolai stands at East, golden light illuminating the ritual space like the first rays of dawn.

Atticus positions himself at South, crimson eyes reflecting the bloody patterns beneath our feet.

Grim's shadowy form solidifies at West, darkness condensing into an anchor point for the ritual's completion.

"Remember,"Atticus instructs, his voice taking on a resonance that suggests he's channeling something beyond himself,"blood freely given, with clear intent. This isn't just about physical purification…it's about cleansing the spirit from malevolent influence."

One by one, they extend their hands over the circle – palm up, offering the sacrifice needed to power the ritual.

Atticus moves first, drawing a line across his already damaged palm. Fresh blood wells, dripping onto the pattern below which absorbs it with unsettling eagerness.

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