Page 35 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

The world falls away.

One moment I stand on the obsidian platform, channeling every ounce of power I possess into the blood prison. The next, I find myself in a space of absolute white –no walls, no ceiling, no floor, yet somehow solid beneath my feet.

And standing before me, dressed not in scales but in robes of ancient magnificence, is Mortimer.

Not the corrupted dragon we've been fighting, but the scholarly member of the Seven I've come to respect. His human form appears unchanged except for his attire – gone are the academy uniform and wire-rimmed glasses, replaced by ceremonial garments that speak of authority beyond mere academic position.

The robes flow around him like liquid silver, embroidered with draconic symbols that shift and move as if alive. A highcollar frames his face, emphasizing the sharpness of his features and the ancient intelligence in his eyes.

Upon his brow sits a circlet of what appears to be obsidian, identical in composition to the platform we were just standing on.

"Mortimer?" I ask, disoriented by the sudden transition. My voice echoes strangely in this white void, each syllable rippling outward like stones thrown into still water. "Where are we?"

"Still in the present timeline," he answers, his voice carrying that familiar scholarly precision despite our surreal surroundings. "I've simply pulled your consciousness aside for a moment, to protect you."

"Protect me?" I frown, trying to make sense of this impossible situation. If this is Mortimer –the real Mortimer– then what is the corrupted dragon we've been fighting? "From what?"

"From what comes next," he says cryptically, studying me with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. "Tell me, Gwenivere…what was your true purpose in coming to Wicked Academy?"

The directness of the question catches me off guard.

"The chalice," I answer automatically. “To save my sister. You know this."

"Indeed," he nods slowly. "Though that's true, there's more, isn't there?"

I open my mouth to deny it, but no words come.

What could he possibly mean?

My mission has always been clear – find the chalice, save Elena, leave this place behind. Yet something in his knowing gaze suggests depths to my presence here that I haven't fully acknowledged even to myself.

My silence seems to confirm something for him.

A small smile forms on his lips as he inclines his head slightly.

"The Headmaster must have allowed all of this to manifest for a reason," he muses, almost to himself. "Your infiltration, your bonds with the princes, even the corruption of this trial…all pieces of a larger design."

"What design?" I demand, frustration cutting through my confusion. "I didn't come here to be part of some grand scheme. I came for Elena."

"And yet, here you are," he counters gently. "A woman in an all-male academy, bonded to princes from three different paranormal factions, at the exact moment when changes centuries in the making are finally coming to fruition."

The implications send a chill through me, despite my confidence that I know exactly what my purpose has always been when it comes to Wicked Academy.

Could my presence here be more than coincidence?

Had I been manipulated into coming…

Or was I always meant to arrive at this precise moment?

"I need you to trust me for what comes next," Mortimer continues, taking a step toward me. "You can scold me later, hate me if necessary, but what I'm about to do is essential."

"What are you talking about?" I ask, wariness creeping into my voice. "What comes next?"

"The corruption you've been fighting isn't some random magical mishap," he explains, his expression grave. "It's a test…one final evaluation before advancement to Year Two can be truly granted. The blood prison ritual you're attempting won't contain it because it was never meant to be contained."

"Then what's the solution?" I ask, increasingly aware that time must still be passing in the real world while we converse in this strange white void.

"Absorption and redirection," he answers, stepping closer until barely a foot separates us. "The corruption must be channeled through a vessel strong enough to withstand its influence without succumbing to it."

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