Page 39 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

Atticus recovers first, crimson eyes scanning the platform with tactical assessment that cuts through emotional shock. His gaze passes over the space where my doppelgänger disintegrated, then continues around the pentagon until?—

He stops, staring directly at my displaced form. Unlike Mordax's corruption-enhanced perception, Atticus's recognition stems from our blood bond – the pureblood connection that transcends ordinary physical limitations.

"Gwenivere?" His voice barely carries above the platform's increasing tremors, uncertainty warring with desperate hope.

Cassius and Nikolai turn toward the sound, following Atticus's line of sight to where I stand in this in-between state. Their expressions shift from confusion to focused concentration as they, too, attempt to perceive me through our respective bonds.

Shadows reach from Cassius, tentative at first, then with growing confidence as they detect my essence. Nikolai's golden aura similarly extends, particles of light gathering around my translucent form like fireflies drawn to familiar energy.

Rather than an explosion or catastrophe igniting at the potential end of this trial, silence descends – absolute and complete. The trembling platform stills, cracks sealing themselves as if time runs backward.

The fiery landscape surrounding us blurs, colors bleeding into one another until the environment becomes indistinguishable from a dream.

I feel myself being pulled – not physically but essentially – back toward the pentagonal formation where my bond mates stand. The displacement that separated me from direct interaction begins to reverse, my translucent form gaining solidity with each passing moment.

As I merge back into physical reality, memories cascade through my consciousness – not just my own but fragments belonging to the doppelgänger who died on Lysth's crystal spear.

Her experiences, her pain, her final moments – all integrate into my awareness with seamless precision, as if we were never truly separate entities.

We weren't.

I realize with dawning comprehension.

Mortimer's kiss created a temporal duplicate – a versionof me that could experience death without actually dying.

The purpose suddenly becomes crystal clear as my body fully materializes between my bond mates.

No fucking way…

The trial required death –genuine sacrifice– but also demanded five survivors. An impossible paradox unless someone could die and yet live.

Mortimer found the loophole. By temporarily splitting my consciousness and physical form, he allowed one version to fulfill the sacrifice while preserving my true self in dimensional displacement. A solution elegant in its complexity, though its execution left much to be desired in terms of explanation or consent.

I'm going to have words with that ancient dragon shifter when he rematerializes.

As my form solidifies completely, the world around us transforms. The volcanic landscape dissolves entirely, replaced by a circular chamber with walls of polished obsidian identical to the platform beneath our feet. Subtle lighting emanates from no visible source, illuminating runes carved into every available surface.

In the chamber's center stands a pedestal bearing five objects: three rings, a pendant, and what appears to be a small key fashioned from material that shifts between metal and shadow depending on viewing angle.

Above the pedestal, glowing letters form in the air:

YEAR ONE COMPLETED. ADVANCEMENT GRANTED.

CLAIM YOUR TOKENS OF PASSAGE.

The formal language can't disguise what we've just accomplished – against impossible odds and hidden manipulation, we've passed the trial and officially advanced to Year Two of Wicked Academy.

Yet victory brings little satisfaction as I contemplate the price paid for this advancement. My own phantom death, Lysth's betrayal and destruction, Mordax's corrupted sacrifice – all orchestrated by forces still operating from shadows.

And looming larger than these immediate concerns is the revelation of this mysterious "Lord" who apparently covets pureblood abilities enough to orchestrate elaborate schemes within Academy trials.

My attention returns to the pedestal with its five objects. The formal advancement tokens seem almost trivial after what we've endured, yet they represent tangible proof of our success – paperwork made manifest in a system that values official recognition above all else.

I don’t wait for the men to snap out of their moment of shock at my obvious survival. Instead, I move toward the pedestal with careful steps. Despite the chamber's apparent safety, recent events have made me wary of surfaces that too closely resemble our trial platform.

My silent movement and strive to obtain what we clearly survived plentiful to obtain must encourage the others to follow, the remainder of us forming a loose semicircle around the offered tokens.

Each object pulses faintly when we approach, as if recognizing its intended recipient through some magical affinity.

---