Page 61 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

For now, the academy settles into temporary quiet, though ancient powers stir beneath its carefully maintained facade.

And somewhere in the Faerie libraries, answers await those brave enough —or desperate enough— to seek them out.

Welcome to Year Two indeed.

Whispers Of Truth In Wilted Fields

~GWENIVERE~

The meadow stretches before me, endless and dreamlike, yet something is wrong.

Where vibrant colors should bloom, decay has taken hold.

Flowers —once magnificent in their beauty— now wilt beneath a sky that seems unable to decide between dusk and dawn. Petals fall in slow motion, their withering forms traced with veins of corruption that pulse with sickening familiarity.

Each step I take disturbs more dying blooms, releasing particles that float upward like dark snow in reverse. They cling to my skin, leaving trails of ashen residue that burn slightly before fading into my flesh.

The sensation isn't painful exactly, but carries warning — as if my body recognizes something my mind hasn't yet comprehended.

The air tastes wrong, carrying metallic traces that remind me of blood, yet sweeter. More ancient somehow, like sampling history itself. I breathe it in regardless, each inhalation sending tendrils of awareness through my system that sharpen my perception of this strange dreamscape.

This isn't an ordinary dream.

The realization comes with certainty that defies explanation. Something about the weight of the soil beneath my feet, the way the decaying petals seem to whisper as they fall, speaks of magic beyond mere subconscious wandering.

A flash of movement in the distance catches my attention.

My heart recognizes her before my mind can process the implications — making the beating organ in my chest constrict in agony.

Elena.

My sister stands amid the field of dying flowers, her slender form a stark contrast to the decay surrounding her. Even from this distance, I can see that she's wearing the same white nightgown she's worn since falling ill — the simple cotton garment now hanging loosely on her frame, emphasizing how much weight she's lost to her mysterious ailment.

"Elena!" I call, my voice sounding both too loud and impossibly distant in this strange space.

Without conscious thought, I begin running toward her, feet carrying me across the withering meadow with desperate speed. Each stride crushes more decaying blooms beneath my feet, releasing clouds of ash that trail behind me like a mourner's veil.

My sister turns slowly at the sound of my voice, her movements carrying the careful deliberation of someone conserving precious energy. The sight sends a pang through my chest — how many times have I witnessed that same measured motion at her bedside, her body too weak for sudden movements?

As I draw closer, details emerge with heartbreaking clarity. Her face, once full of vibrant joy, now appears gaunt, cheekbones too prominent beneath translucent skin. Dark circles shadow eyes that used to sparkle with mischief. Her hair — the same silver-white as my own — hangs limply around hershoulders, lacking the luster I remember from before her illness took hold.

Yet despite these changes, she smiles when she sees me. That smile –unchanged despite everything else she's lost— sends another ache through my heart, fiercer than the first.

"Gwenivere,"she says, her voice carrying the same ethereal quality as our surroundings. My name in her mouth sounds like a spell, like something precious held between cupped palms.

I reach her —or try to.

Three feet from where Elena stands, I collide with something invisible but impenetrable. The barrier yields just enough to absorb the impact without injury, then firms again, an unyielding wall between us. I press my palms against it, feeling smooth resistance like glass warmed by sunlight.

"No," I whisper, frustration building as I push harder against the unseen boundary. "Elena, I'm right here. I'm so close."

My sister watches my struggle with sad understanding, making no move to approach the barrier from her side. Perhaps she already knows its nature, has already tested its limits and accepted what I'm only now discovering.

"I've missed you,"she says simply, those three words carrying the weight of months spent apart while I searched for the chalice that might save her.

"I've missed you too," I respond, throat tight with emotions I can't fully process in this dreamlike state. "I'm sorry I've been gone so long. But I'm making progress… I'm at Wicked Academy now, working to find the chalice."

I hesitate, suddenly aware of how little I've accomplished toward my original goal.

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