Chapter 17 No Rest For The Wicked #4
The prospect of Year Four trials conducted while wrapped in royal silhouette and transparent fabric is absolutely unacceptable.
"Where are our uniforms, jeez," I grumble, frustration with my current presentation bleeding into frustration with circumstances that have left me so thoroughly unprepared.
"Professor Eternalis said we'll get them the moment we get outside," Zeke provides, still reading his book with attention that suggests he's been listening despite appearances to the contrary.
I sigh with relief.
"Good," I mutter. "I'm too feminine right now and it's throwing me off."
The observation is entirely accurate—something about this transformation has amplified aspects of my nature that I've spent years learning to minimize, to weaponize, to control rather than embody. Fighting requires balance that this presentation doesn't provide.
I'm about to head toward whatever exit leads outside—toward Professor Eternalis, toward uniforms, toward whatever chaos Damien's transformation has created—when something makes me pause.
I turn to look at them.
All of them—floating and grounded, annoyed and amused, each one bound to me through connections that have evolved from animosity through alliance into something that resembles family in its complicated, dysfunctional glory.
Grim appears on my shoulder, his transformed golden form cheering with obvious enthusiasm.
"Gree! Gree!" he declares, tiny scythe waving as if trying to capture their attention for whatever I'm about to say.
"Listen," I begin, voice carrying weight that makes even Zeke look up from his book. "I don't know if us leaving this rest place means we're entering Year Four."
The possibility hangs in the air with the weight of uncertainty that has defined our Academy existence from the beginning.
"I know we don't all get along," I continue, acknowledging the obvious tensions that still simmer between various combinations of bond mates and complicated connections. "And we haven't figured out this new dynamic and balance."
My gaze travels across each face—some still floating helplessly, others grounded but carrying their own particular frustrations with circumstances none of us chose.
"But I don't think we'll have an opportunity to figure it all out before whatever comes next," I admit. "The Academy doesn't give us time for processing, for adjusting, for becoming comfortable before throwing new challenges at our heads."
Nods greet the observation—recognition of patterns we've all experienced, trials that arrived before we were ready and demanded response regardless of our preparedness.
"But I'm hoping that when we tackle these final trials," I continue, something like hope coloring words that have carried pragmatism until now, "when we finish what we started three years ago... we'll have all the time in the world to figure it out."
I pause.
Take a moment to really look at them—to appreciate what we've become despite everything that should have destroyed us.
Strangers who became enemies who became allies who became something approaching family.
Supernatural beings whose powers should have consumed rather than complemented.
Bond mates whose connections grew complicated in ways none of us anticipated.
A slight smile curves my transformed lips.
"Wickedness brought us together," I acknowledge, the statement carrying truth that transcends simple observation. "For various reasons, to this Academy. And though it's been frightening as hell... and challenging in ways I couldn't have imagined when I first arrived..."
I meet their eyes—each one, in turn.
"I'm glad we're together. And alive."
The words carry sincerity that I hope they can feel beneath the complicated circumstances of this moment.
"I'm not asking for much," I conclude. "Just survive. For me. For each other. And let's unlock what's hidden in the depths of this final layer of truths as the paranormal elites of Wicked Academy."
They seem to agree with my little speech—nods and acknowledgments and the particular silence of people who have heard something that resonates with their own experiences, their own fears, their own hopes for what comes next.
Movement at the edge of my vision makes me glance toward the door Cassius disappeared through.
Three shadow tendrils hover near my head—smaller than his usual manifestations, more tentative, carrying the particular energy of someone who is too proud to return in person but too concerned to stay entirely away.
He heard.
He heard my speech, even while heading to fetch Damien.
And those tendrils are his way of acknowledging that he's with us.
With me.
Despite the threat I issued.
Despite the command I gave.
Despite everything that still needs to be discussed between us.
The sight warms something in my chest that helps balance the concern still pulsing for Damien's welfare.
We have work to do.
Challenges to face.
A final year of Academy trials that would either kill us or forge us into something strong enough to survive whatever comes after graduation.
And truthfully?
There was no rest for the wicked.
Which now starts with getting Damien.