12. Heights And Hierarchies
12
HEIGHTS AND HIERARCHIES
~GWENIVERE~
W ind whips around us with savage intensity, the kind of fierce current that only exists at impossible heights.
From my position on the highest pillar, Wicked Academy looks like a child's plaything — all its imposing architecture and ancient majesty reduced to miniature by sheer elevation.
Don't look down …
Those three words become a mantra in my head, though my enhanced vision can't help but calculate the dizzying distance between us and solid ground.
Way too high up for my fondness.
The pillar beneath my feet thrums with old magic, its surface carved with runes that pulse in a steady rhythm. Despite its size — easily large enough to accommodate several hundred students — the space feels uncomfortably tight with so many bodies pressed together.
I stand in the front row, my masculine form holding its place among the sea of male students. The glamour feels different now, more secure thanks to Mortimer's additional protections, but maintaining it still requires constant attention.
At least the height-induced adrenaline helps with focus.
Already, I can feel my magic stirring beneath my skin, preparing for what seems increasingly likely to be an aerial challenge. The pillars' arrangement practically screams "flying test" — four massive columns of varying heights, each one positioned just far enough apart to make jumping between them a feat of either supreme confidence or absolute insanity.
Or both.
Probably both.
My eyes find Nikolai first, drawn to his position on the second-highest pillar. He stands in the front row, appearing as though he's attending a casual garden party rather than participating in what could very well be a death match. His perfect posture and serene expression suggest complete confidence in his abilities.
Which, given what I've seen of Fae magic, might not be misplaced.
The space around him is notably less crowded than my pillar. Where I'm practically shoulder-to-shoulder with my fellow contestants, Nikolai has enough room to stretch out his arms without the risk of touching anyone. The disparity is striking — a physical representation of the hierarchy at play.
My attention drops to the third pillar, where the contrast becomes even more dramatic.
Cassius occupies the top left corner, his shadows writhing around him like agitated serpents. What catches my attention isn't his presence — commanding as always — but the absolute void of other students anywhere near him. The entire population of his pillar has crowded onto the opposite side, creating a bizarre imbalance that should be comical but instead fills me with unexpected anger.
I knew Duskwalkers faced prejudice, but this is ridiculous.
The sight stirs something protective in me, making the mark on my neck pulse with shared indignation. I have to consciously reign in my emotions, remembering that I'm supposed to be Gabriel right now — collected, controlled, and definitely not ready to kick several hundred asses for displaying such blatant bigotry.
Finally, my gaze drops to the lowest pillar, closest to the ground but still at a height that would make most mortals dizzy. Through the crowd, I spot Damien's distinctive profile, but what surprises me is finding his eyes already fixed on my position.
A frown tugs at my lips as our gazes lock. There's something challenging in the way he stares up at me like he's daring me to look away first. His scowl deepens with each passing second that I maintain eye contact.
So that's how it's going to be.
Instead of breaking first, I flash him my cockiest grin. The kind of smile that says 'watch me survive this' with just a hint of 'and look fabulous doing it.'
I know I shouldn't antagonize him.
This isn't meant to be a competition between us specifically — the trials will be challenging enough without adding personal vendettas to the mix. But something in me needs to prove a point. To show him, and everyone else, that I belong here just as much as they do.
Even if 'here' happens to be standing on a pillar tall enough to make birds nervous.
The wind picks up again, carrying with it the metallic tang of gathering magic. Other students shift restlessly, their own power beginning to rise in response to the growing tension in the air. The very atmosphere feels charged with anticipation, like the moment before lightning strikes.
From my elevated position, I can see patterns forming in the spaces between pillars — shimmering lines of force that seem to connect the columns in complex geometric shapes. Whatever this trial entails, it's clearly been designed with multiple layers of magical complexity.
Good thing I've always been good at improvising.
My fingers flex unconsciously, magic crackling beneath my skin. The composite nature of my power — part vampire, part witch, with whatever other secrets my blood might hold — feels like both an advantage and liability.
No one quite knows what to expect from me.
Including myself, if I'm being honest.
But as I maintain that challenging eye contact with Damien, feel Nikolai's steady presence, and yearn for Cassius's shadows that feel as though they’re reaching out even across this distance, something settles in my chest.
A certainty that transcends logic or preparation.
I might not know exactly what's coming, but I know this:
I didn't survive drinking Duskwalker blood, manifesting impossible roses, and kicking a vampire prince in the balls just to fail now.
The mark on my neck pulses once, sharp and clear, as if agreeing with my determination. The sensation draws another scowl from Damien, which only makes my grin widen.
I wasn’t expecting him to sense it, especially from this distance, but it leaves me curious to wonder why that is. Why do the three of them sense the pulsations of a mark that’s not on their own bodies?
Is it because of their connection with one another? Their rooted friendship is probably centuries old. I can only wonder if Mortimer is a part of that equation.
I haven’t seen him around, but I can only assume he’s contributing to his own set of duties as one of the Seven. Contributing to this mastermind of a game plan that’s about to unravel before our eyes.
And hopefully not kill us…
Around me, students gather in tight clusters, their voices carrying on the wind as they discuss the Seven — those mysterious figures who hold our fates in their hands.
"Professor Mortimer Kaine," one student recites, his voice carrying equal parts fear and respect. "Master of Death Magic and Necromantic Arts. They say he can resurrect the dead without the usual limitations. No decay, no mindless servitude. True resurrection."
Another student nods eagerly.
"But that's nothing compared to Professor Thaddeus Blackthorn. His mastery of Blood Magic goes beyond simple manipulation. He can literally rewrite a being's entire bloodline, changing their inheritance of power at its source."
"What about Professor Lilith Shadowmend?" a third student joins in. "Her Void Manipulation abilities are legendary. She can create and collapse entire pocket dimensions on a whim."
The names of the Seven flow through the crowd like dark honey, each one carrying its own weight of power and implications.
"Professor Xavier Mindweaver," someone behind me whispers. "They say his Mind Arts can break the strongest psychic barriers, reshape memories as easily as molding clay. Even the other professors fear his abilities."
"And Professor Helena Fleshcraft," another adds with a shudder. "Her experiments in biological transformation... I heard she once turned an entire class into living art pieces because they failed to appreciate the complexity of cellular manipulation properly."
The wind carries more whispers and more details about these beings of immense power who guide our education with iron fists and unfathomable knowledge.
"Professor Dmitri Chaosborn," comes another voice. "Master of Pure Chaos itself. No one knows his true form anymore — he exists in a constant state of probability and possibility."
Each name adds another layer to the mystique surrounding the Seven, but it's the last member that draws the most intense discussions.
"The Headmaster chose each of them personally," a student near me explains. "Each one represents a different aspect of forbidden knowledge. But Professor Astrid Eternalis...she's different."
Eternalis…like the flower I manifested in Damien’s room?
"Different how?" I find myself asking, drawn into the conversation despite my better judgment.
The student glances around nervously before continuing.
"She's the only one who masters all six disciplines. Death Magic, Blood Magic, Void Manipulation, Mind Arts, Flesh Crafting, and Pure Chaos — she can wield them all. Some say she's the Headmaster's true heir, chosen to carry on their legacy of power and pain."
The information settles heavily in my mind. Seven professors, each wielding power that shouldn't exist in our realm. Each one is chosen for their mastery of arts that most consider too dangerous to even study.
“But I thought Wicked Academy can’t have female professors.”
“Remember, they’re not professors,” one of the students speaks up in a matter-of-fact tone. “They’re “The Seven”. They’re like untouchable beings when you think about it. It’s a blessing if one even looks your way, let alone speak to you.”
They’re regarded that highly…
Mortimer's earlier behavior takes on new meaning in this context. As one of the Seven, his interest in my unique situation might go deeper than simple curiosity.
"But why seven?" I ask, careful to keep my deep voice appropriately masculine despite my growing unease. "Why not six to match the disciplines, or eight for symmetry?"
The question sparks a new round of whispered theories.
"They say seven is the number of perfect power," one student offers. "The point where magic becomes unstable if you add more, unusable if you subtract any."
"No, it's because of the original betrayal," another counters, and suddenly the conversation shifts from the Seven to the dark history that spawned their creation.
The wind carries more whispers now, darker ones about the academy's origins. About the Headmaster's lost child and the woman who allegedly betrayed them.
"It wasn't just any forbidden love," a student explains in hushed tones. "The child fell for someone from the Lightborn realms! Beings of pure radiance who opposed everything the dark arts stand for."
Lightborn realms? Dark Arts…
"The woman who betrayed them," another adds, "she was a Lightborn spy. She promised the child sanctuary, promised them understanding and acceptance. Instead, she led them straight to their execution."
The theories spiral outward, each student adding their own version of events. Some claim the Headmaster's hatred runs so deep it's become part of the academy's very foundation. Others insist there are layers to the story that only the Seven truly understand.
It almost feels too much to consider which is the truth woven in layers of deception.
I’m beginning to feel the urge to discover the truth myself, knowing well if I can get into the depths of a library, I most certainly can discover the ultimate truth hidden in the depths of plentiful ancient knowledge and papers.
"That's why the trials are so brutal," someone behind me mutters. "They're not just tests. They're punishment. Revenge against a world that would destroy anything it doesn't understand."
A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the wind. If there's any truth to these whispers, it adds another layer of complexity to my already precarious position.
A woman who betrayed them.
A forbidden child.
A curse of misery and chaos.
The elements of the story strike uncomfortably close to home, though I can't quite say why. Something about it tugs at the edges of my memory, like a half-remembered dream.
I’ve certainly read this tale somewhere. Woven in legends in ancient books abandoned in the depths of the library. I can’t remember for sure, but the familiarised sensation has to revolve around that possibility.
Through it all, one theme remains constant: whatever sparked Wicked Academy's creation…drove its founder to forge this place of power and pain…it all comes back to that initial betrayal.
The question forms before I can stop it, slipping out in a deep baritone.
"What's the endgame?" I ask, drawing curious looks from nearby students. "After graduating from Wicked Academy, what's the point of it all?"
The silence that follows my question feels heavier than the wind-whipped air around us. Several students exchange meaningful glances, but no one seems eager to answer.
Perhaps that answer is enough.
"Wicked Academy exists to carve merciless elite soldiers who will have no urge to give anyone salvation."
The words come from somewhere to my left, spoken in a voice that carries echoes of Cassius's darkness but is somehow wrong.
They are tainted, like shadows that have forgotten their purpose or perhaps never truly understood it to begin with.
I turn to find their source — a student whose presence seems to bend the light around him as if reality itself recoils from his touch.
His uniform is impeccable; pressed, and positioned with military precision, but there's something about him that speaks of decay rather than discipline.
Of rot masquerading as refinement.
His energy reminds me of Cassius's shadows, but where Cassius's darkness feels natural — like night itself given a physical form . This student's aura seems artificial.
Manufactured darkness trying to imitate true shadow, like a portrait attempting to capture starlight.
The sight ignites an odd sensation in the depths of my heart. Not necessarily making me feel ill, but more so a sickening fluttering in the depths of my stomach.
I frown, unable to hide my skepticism, though I make sure to keep my voice pitched in deeper tones to not give myself away.
"That's what everyone's fighting for? To become emotionless weapons?" The concept sits wrong in my chest, like swallowing glass. Each word tastes bitter on my tongue. "Why would anyone risk their life for that kind of existence?"
Laughter erupts from the surrounding students, sharp and mocking. The sound carries on the wind, mixing with the constant thrum of gathering magic that seems to pulse through the very air around us.
"Don't listen to Malcolm Drake," one of them says, waving a dismissive hand. His gesture is casual but his eyes never quite meet Malcolm’s direction. "He's just our resident gothic reject. Probably practicing that speech for years."
"Yeah," another chimes in, his grin cruel though something like fear flickers in his eyes. "He's been repeating the first year so long he's practically furniture. Too dumb to advance but not quite stupid enough to get himself killed."
More insults follow, each one designed to cut deeper than the last.
The other students seem to gain courage from each other, their mockery growing bolder with each barb thrown. But Malcolm doesn't react to any of them.
His eyes — an unsettling shade of grey that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it — remain fixed on me with uncomfortable intensity.
Something about his gaze makes my skin crawl.
It's not just observation; it's like he's trying to see through the glamour, through every layer of deception I've wrapped around myself.
As if he knows exactly what kind of creature stands before him, wearing masculinity like an ill-fitting coat.
Suddenly, I feel shadows wrap around me — but not Cassius's familiar darkness.
This is different, wrong in a way that sets every instinct on high alert. Grim's energy is there, but it's as if he's been muffled, hidden behind some sort of invisible barrier that dampens his usually commanding presence.
"Did it just get colder?" someone nearby asks, rubbing their arms as goosebumps rise on exposed skin. The question carries hints of genuine worry beneath its casual tone.
"Probably just wind chill," another responds with a shrug that seems just a little too forced. "We're high enough to freeze a phoenix up here."
The excuses sound hollow even as they're spoken, but before anyone can question further, a bell rings out across the pillars. The sound isn't quite physical — more like someone striking a chord against reality itself, making the very air vibrate with potential energy.
All conversation dies instantly as a robotic voice fills the air, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once:
"INITIAL TRIALS COMMENCING. REQUIREMENT FOR PASSAGE IS SIMPLE: SURVIVAL."
I find myself repeating those words under my breath, tasting their implications while others around me chuckle at what they perceive as obvious instruction.
The laughter carries notes of bravado now, tension bleeding through their attempted nonchalance.
But something feels wrong.
Very wrong…and approaching.
My instincts ring like chimes rustling hymns in a usually quiet space. All I can think of is a cemetery, the thought immediately telling me that Death is too close for comfort.
That it’s time to react for the sake of my own survival.
Now.
Without questioning the urge, I launch myself upward, gathering magic in my legs to propel me higher than any normal jump should allow. The wind whips past my face as I rise above the crowd, my enhanced senses hyper aware of every shift in the air around me.
It’s been a long time since I’ve used magic to aid me publicly like this, which could be risky and make me an eyesore because no one really knows what I am yet.
They could assume I’m a Fae for all I know, but I guess that doesn’t matter because the initial reaction happening below is…
Not what I’m expecting.
Immediately, the mockery begins, though it carries an edge of uncertainty now.
"Look at the coward!"
"Can't even wait for the trial to start before running away!"
The corner of my lips dips by default, not quite understanding the negative responses to my attempt to protect myself. It’s almost as if students thrive for being menacing to one another in this space, which may correlate to what the guys were warning me about.
That they would have to treat me poorly by default because that’s how it is…
I feel like an oddball thrown into an environment that I know nothing about, despite doing my initial research regarding the protocols and initial assumptions revolving around Wicked Academy.
Now, I’m finding out that could just be a layer of facade that’s pushed to the outside surface.
That leaves me feeling uneasy because if being “wicked” to one another is the true premise of this academic environment, I don’t think I’m going to last.
I have enough trauma on my plate.
The bickering continues as some point and laugh. Others call me the wicked Peter Pan which seems rather stupid, because what’s wrong with flying off a platform to avoid potential danger?
"Well, that's one less competitor to worry ? —"
The final taunt dies unfinished as something massive and darker than the void itself materializes beside our pillar.
The movement is so fast it defies perception — one moment there's nothing but air, and the next a wall of pure darkness larger than the pillar itself is sweeping toward us like death's own scythe.
Time seems to slow as I watch from my elevated position, suspended in that perfect moment between action and consequence.
Hundreds of faces turn toward the approaching darkness, their expressions shifting from amusement to horror in perfect synchronization.
The slate of shadow moves with impossible speed, but in that stretched moment before impact, I catch details that make my blood run cold:
Runes of ancient magic glowed along its surface like cruel stars, each one pulsing with malevolent purpose.
Edges sharp enough to cut reality itself, leaving trails of distorted space in their wake.
And worst of all — faces pressed against its surface from the inside, screaming silently as if trapped in eternal torment. Their features twist and writhe, a gallery of endless agony frozen in shadow.
This is what "survive" means in Wicked Academy.
No preparation.
No warning.
Just pure, merciless chaos designed to separate the worthy from the dead in the most efficient way possible.
And here I am…
Hovering above it all, watching the dark slate surge toward hundreds of unprepared students, I realize with crystal clarity that we haven't even reached the actual trial yet.
This is just the opening act.