15. The Trials Of The Wicked Elites Part Three
15
THE TRIALS OF THE WICKED ELITES PART THREE
~GWENIVERE~
D arkness presses against my senses, a suffocating weight that refuses to lift.
My body feels heavy, immovable, as if submerged in a pool of thick, unyielding tar.
Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, a pulse echoes — a faint rhythm matching the sluggish beat of my heart. It nags at me, whispering to breathe, to fight, to survive.
A shrill hiss pierces the silence, dragging me from the edge of unconsciousness.
My eyelids flutter, heavy and burdened, but the sound drives me to push against the overwhelming fatigue. When my eyes finally crack open, I’m met with a sight so jarring it freezes the breath in my lungs.
A massive snake looms inches from my face, its hollow eyes pits of endless darkness.
The slits of its pupils glow an eerie green, tinged with streaks of purple that pulse like living veins. Its black scales shimmer faintly in the dim light, blending seamlessly into the oppressive darkness around us.
Its aura is so immense, so overwhelmingly malevolent, that it feels as though the very environment is an extension of the creature itself.
The snake hisses again, its forked tongue flicking out to taste the air. The sound is sharp and grating, a sinister promise of its intent. It lashes forward, its fanged maw aimed directly at me, but an unseen force halts its advance.
A barrier flares to life, its pulse bright and defiant against the encroaching shadow. The impact sends ripples through the barrier, forcing the serpent to recoil with a furious hiss.
The barrier holds, but barely.
Its light flickers with each renewed strike, the serpent’s thrashing making the air tremble. My head feels like it’s spinning, and I struggle to process what’s happening.
My memories are a tangled mess, blurred and disjointed. Faces, voices, and emotions swirl together in an incomprehensible haze, leaving me grasping at fragments that slip through my fingers like grains of sand.
I can’t move.
My limbs are numb, my body unresponsive. Yet, there’s something on my neck, something that keeps pulsing in rhythm with the faint beat of my heart.
It’s persistent like a hand gripping my consciousness and refusing to let me fade away entirely. I try to focus on it, to understand what it is, but my thoughts are sluggish, and my senses feel dulled.
Then I hear it — a voice, faint and childlike, cutting through the haze like a blade.
“You like a Duskwalker?”
The voice is so unexpected, so out of place, that my eyes snap open further. The effort is exhausting, but I manage to focus on the figure before me.
A little boy stands between me and the hovering serpent.
He’s impossibly small compared to the massive creature, yet he seems unbothered by its presence. His wide eyes gleam with a curious light, and his expression is calm, almost eerily so.
I frown, confusion tightening in my chest.
There’s something familiar about him.
His dark hair falls in messy waves around his face, and his delicate features remind me of someone. My sluggish mind struggles to piece it together until the realization hits me like a jolt.
He looks like Malcolm, but younger, untouched by the darkness that seems to define him now. There’s an innocence in his gaze, a softness that makes my heart ache.
I try to respond, but my voice is weak, barely more than a whisper.
“I… just met him,” I manage to say, the words slow and broken. My head feels impossibly heavy, and I let it lull forward, the weight too much to fight against.
The boy tilts his head, watching me intently.
When I don’t say more, he waits, as if expecting an explanation. His silence feels like a question, a prompt to continue.
“There’s… something about him,” I say quietly, my voice strained. “Something that resonates… between us. I couldn’t resist it. Even though he’s a stranger, and I don’t know…anything about him.”
The boy remains still, his gaze unwavering.
The snake behind him thrashes against the barrier, but I barely notice it now. My focus is entirely on him, on the strange, surreal moment we’re sharing.
“I don’t know his favorite color,” I continue, a faint, broken laugh escaping my lips. “But…I think it’s white.”
The boy’s expression doesn’t change, but his voice is soft when he replies.
“He’s a Duskwalker. Duskwalkers like black. They always like black.”
I smile weakly at that, the effort draining but worth it.
“Why does he have to like what the world wants him to like?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “He can like white… even if the world thinks his soul belongs in the dark. At least… that’s what I believe.”
The boy tilts his head again, his expression unreadable. Then, after a moment, he speaks.
“Aren’t you sad?” he asks quietly. “You’re not going to see him again.”
The question pierces me, but I don’t flinch.
I sigh softly, the sound heavy with weariness.
“It’s not sadness,” I say, my voice distant. “Maybe…it’s longing. Longing to know him. To understand him. To find out who he is…and maybe even the others.”
The boy remains silent, watching me with an intensity that feels almost otherworldly. I force myself to keep speaking, the words spilling out like a confession.
“This academy doesn’t feel like what it’s supposed to be,” I murmur. “Who wants to be wicked to one another? To feel like an outcast because of ranks and labels created long before we existed?”
The boy’s gaze doesn’t waver, but there’s a faint flicker of emotion in his eyes—a shadow of understanding.
“Why is this place a sanctuary of menacing repercussion for men,” I continue, my voice growing softer, “but a death sentence for women? I want to find out. I want to know why it’s like this. Hmmm…that’s probably stupid…maybe that’s not the road meant for me.”
I’m so tired…
My words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning.
The boy doesn’t reply.
Instead, he simply watches me, his expression thoughtful and solemn. The snake behind him thrashes one final time before falling unnaturally still, its hollow eyes fixed on me as if waiting for something.
The weight of my exhaustion finally overtakes me, and my vision begins to blur. The boy’s face fades into the encroaching darkness, his presence lingering like a phantom in my mind.
“It’s a shame you must perish.”
The boy’s voice pierces the silence, soft and lilting, yet dripping with an undertone of finality.
“You intrigue me. I would’ve liked to study you,” his voice thick with an indescribable sense of power ; his words carrying an eerie calmness that chills me to the core. “But you’re wrong. Or perhaps… ” he pauses, tilting his head as if reconsidering, “perhaps you’re too right for this domain. And that is why you must be eliminated.”
The weight of his statement hangs in the air, heavy and undeniable. My eyes flutter open, though every effort feels monumental.
All I see is his shadow, dark and foreboding, yet unmistakably solid against the ephemeral void around us. My gaze shifts downward, catching a glint of something sharp and metallic.
A scythe.
It’s massive, its blade impossibly curved and etched with runes that seem alive, pulsing faintly with dark energy. The boy holds it effortlessly, its length towering above him, and yet it doesn’t diminish him.
If anything, it amplifies the menace he exudes. The blade rises slowly, deliberately, until it’s poised above me like the hand of fate itself.
I can’t help but smirk, the irony of it all hitting me in a way that makes the corners of my cracked lips curl upward.
My voice is barely a rasp, but it carries the faintest edge of humor.
“How… ironic is this?” I whisper. “I should’ve…been cool. Learned…how to use a scythe. Maybe…I could’ve gotten myself…out of death’s grasp.”
A brittle laugh escapes me, broken and faint, but genuine nonetheless.
I’m staring death in the face, yet there’s an odd sense of peace that washes over me. The fear that had once gripped me so tightly has melted away, replaced by a strange acceptance. Disappointment lingers somewhere in the background, but it’s muted now, a dull ache rather than a sharp sting.
As the moments stretch into eternity, I find my thoughts wandering.
I’d always assumed that, in these final seconds, my mind would be flooded with memories of Elena, of our childhood, of the fleeting moments of happiness we shared. But instead, my thoughts drift to the others.
Cassius. Nikolai. Damien. Mortimer.
Their faces flicker in my mind like a gallery of moving portraits, each one etched with the sharp details of curiosity and wonder.
I think about their fates, about whether they’ll make it out of this cursed place alive. Will they survive? Will they escape to continue their lives, their royal statuses intact?
Or will they, too, be swallowed by this relentless void?
I think of Damien first, the abrasive incubus whose sharp tongue and seductive demeanor hide something deeper.
Is he really the asshole he seems to be, or is there more beneath the surface? Perhaps he’s a piece of work with self-esteem issues, covering his vulnerabilities with bravado and charm.
Then there’s Nikolai, with his radiant energy that feels like blooming flowers bathed in sunlight.
Does he have a warm, loving side to match the brilliance of his power? Or is his golden aura merely a mask, a facade to shield him from the harsh realities of this world?
Mortimer…his name lingers in my mind longer than I expected.
What knowledge does he hold, and why is he among the Seven? He seems so different from the others, as though he carries a fragment of mercy in a place devoid of it. Is that mercy genuine, or is it a calculated illusion?
And then there’s Cassius and Grim.
My thoughts linger on them the longest, my heart twisting with an ache I can’t fully comprehend. I wonder what conversations Cassius and I could’ve had in the quiet depths of the long night, where shadows stretch endlessly and secrets come alive. Would we have shared moments of steamy intimacy, his tendrils wrapping around me, their touch both sinful and consuming?
Would Grim have grown beyond his shadowy form, finding a way to communicate in more than just puffs of smoke?
If I survived, I would’ve gone back to my roots.
I would’ve explored where my magical gifts truly came from, whether they were born within me or passed down. I would’ve learned to use other weapons and honed skills that would make me more than just a fighter.
I would’ve smiled more…
Laughed more…
Allowed myself to be vulnerable in ways I’ve never dared.
But now…
It’s too late now.
The boy’s voice pulls me back from the haze of my thoughts.
“Farewell,” he mutters, his tone almost regretful.
I close my eyes, letting the words settle over me like a final curtain call.
I don’t fight it. I don’t resist.
The end is here, and I’m ready to embrace it.
I wait for the scythe’s bite, for the darkness to consume me entirely. Perhaps I’ll be trapped in this abyss, a soul among thousands, waiting for someone stronger to break the cycle.
But then… everything shifts.
The sound of shattering glass pierces the void, sharp and deafening. It’s a sound so jarring that it makes me flinch, my body trembling despite its weakness.
The boy’s shadow wavers, his presence faltering for the first time. The oppressive aura around me shatters like a fragile pane, the shards scattering into the emptiness.
My drooping eyes fight to open, though it feels like dragging leaden weights.
Through the haze of my vision, I sense a presence behind me, something vast and overpowering. The pulsing mark on my neck burns with a sudden intensity, as though reacting to the newcomer.
With immense effort, I manage to tilt my head just enough to glimpse over my shoulder. My breath catches, my body locking in place despite the weakness coursing through me.
A figure looms in the darkness, shrouded in shadow yet unmistakably there.
His pure white hair glows faintly, a stark contrast to the void surrounding him. His eyes, completely white and devoid of pupils, burn with an otherworldly light that seems to pierce straight through me. His aura is suffocating, an overwhelming force that makes the boy’s presence feel insignificant in comparison.
He doesn’t speak much, but the single word he hisses sends a chill down my spine, cutting through the chaos like a blade.
“Mine.”
The boy’s voice slices through the tension like a blade, his tone sharp with indignation.
“Why does a dusk reaper dare interfere with my reaping?” he demands, the power in his voice suddenly gone while his hollow eyes narrowing with fury.
The scythe in his grasp lowers slightly, but its presence remains menacing.
“She’s my claim, one I got fair and square.”
The man — no, the creature behind me — doesn’t reply immediately.
Instead, he lets out a slow, deliberate puff of smoke. It coils around me like a living thing, its tendrils shifting in mesmerizing patterns.
The scent that fills the air is an intoxicating blend of familiarity, carrying hints of Grim’s distinct cedar-like aroma mixed with the sharp, cold essence of Cassius’s shadows.
It’s grounding in a way that defies the chaos around me.
A sudden realization dawns on me as my gaze drifts toward the creature’s neck.
There, pulsing faintly, is a mark.
It’s eerily similar to the one on my own neck, though his is darker, tainted, and glowing with runes of ominous magic. The sight sparks a flicker of recognition deep within me.
My throat tightens, my voice a fragile whisper as the name escapes my lips.
“Grim?”
The creature — Grim —turns his head at my call, and for the first time, I see a more tangible shape forming from the swirling shadows.
Smoke curls from his nostrils like a dragon on the verge of unleashing a torrent of relentless fire. His arm lifts, the shadows shifting and coalescing into something close to a physical form. His fingers stretch, long and tendril-like, before curling around the front of my neck.
The grip is possessive, almost protective, as though I’m some precious treasure he refuses to relinquish.
It doesn’t hurt.
In fact, I’m not sure I feel anything at all. My body remains frigid and numb, save for the faint pulse at my neck. But Grim’s growl reverberates through me, low and primal, as he turns his menacing gaze back to the boy.
“ My claim. My mate. My Wicked Heart,” Grim snarls, his voice a guttural echo that sends shivers down my spine.
The phrase hangs heavy in the air, its weight wrapping around me as I struggle to comprehend its meaning.
Wicked Heart.
The words echo in my mind, foreign yet strangely familiar. What could they possibly mean?
The boy frowns eerily, his head tilting in a way that’s almost mechanical.
“A claim?” he sneers. “You’re nothing but shadows. You have no heart. No soul. You can’t be with a concoction of imperfections that shouldn’t exist in any realm. She’s an abomination, and even Wicked Academy can’t protect her. You most certainly can’t.”
Grim responds with another breath of smoke, this one denser and darker, as if the shadows themselves are growing angrier.
The smoke twists and spirals around me, curling over my limbs like a protective blanket. As each tendril engulfs me, warmth begins to seep into my frozen body. Pins and needles prickle across my skin, sensation slowly returning with each passing moment.
Only my head remains untouched, free from the shadows as they swirl around me.
“Destined to unravel the secrets of this academy,” Grim growls, his voice colder than ice. “You will not interfere.”
His hand shifts, moving to my face with surprising gentleness. His long fingers rest against my skin, careful not to obscure my vision. Despite the protective warmth spreading through me, I can’t look away from the boy. His eyes blaze with rage, and the hissing snake behind him thrashes violently, its body coiling and uncoiling in agitation.
“She’s my claim!” the boy snarls, his voice breaking into a higher pitch as the snake lunges forward.
But Grim’s shadows react instantly.
Mist swirls and glows faintly with hues of green and purple, wrapping around the serpent in a coordinated attack. The snake’s massive body strikes the barrier, shattering it with a deafening crack.
Yet, just as it seems the creature will reach us, a wall of gold erupts from the ground, shooting upward with blinding brilliance. The snake screeches in agony as the golden light engulfs it, its form writhing and contorting before it begins to dissolve into ash.
The boy steps back, his hollow eyes wide with shock.
“Fae craft?” he hisses, his voice dripping with venom. His gaze snaps to me, narrowing sharply. “You dare mate with a Fae?”
Confusion clouds my mind, and I’m too disoriented to respond.
What does he mean by that?
The words make no sense, but before I can dwell on them, my head is forced upward, as if guided by an unseen hand. My breath catches as my eyes widen, taking in the figure looming above me.
The golden being towers over everything, its light so radiant that it seems otherworldly. It gleams with an intensity that borders on the divine, its form almost too perfect to be real.
For a fleeting moment, I wonder if it’s a god come to deliver me to paradise.
“Guess we can’t get rid of you, my little Solstice ,” the being says, its voice thick with power yet laced with a hint of humor.
The nickname sends a ripple of warmth through me, though I don’t understand its meaning.
My lips part, the name tumbling out in a faint whisper.
“Niko?”
The golden light flickers faintly, and I catch a glimpse of what I hope is a smile. It’s brief, barely there, but it’s enough to ease some of the tension coiling in my chest.
“Come back to us, Gwenivere,” he says softly, his voice washing over me like a balm.
He leans closer, the warmth of his presence enveloping me until his lips brush against mine, tender and fleeting.
And then, the world tilts.