Chapter 22 The Writer Of This Story #3
Her ancient features carry pain now—the lava that dripped onto her shoulder has burned through layers that should be impervious to damage, evidence that whatever she is, she's not invulnerable to the elements I've turned against her.
"Something always bothered me," I begin, voice carrying the weight of revelations that have been building since I first sat on that throne and received memories I didn't know I was missing.
"Since I sat in the throne and gained the memories of what I once was," I continue. "One small detail that I haven't shared nor questioned."
I pause, letting the anticipation build.
"Until Gabriel's departure."
The mention of my brother carries weight that makes something in my chest ache—loss that I haven't had time to properly mourn, separation that circumstances forced before we were ready.
"Elena's obsession to be healed," I say, returning to the thread I'm building. "Or more importantly... to take the place of the throne that was never hers to inherit."
Professor Eternalis's ancient eyes narrow.
She's listening.
Good.
"Fae despise women taking the throne," I observe, the statement landing with implications that extend across realms and cultures. "And I feel my parents would have made an exception."
I pause, considering the history I've been piecing together.
"But they did when Gabriel and I were born," I continue. "Because we were a gift. A blessing in two."
The weight of my parents' love settles into my words.
"And thus, they yearned to create an academy," I say. "A world sought out for from those from various paranormal planes. That would want to experience a place that held no boundaries like the rest of the world."
I let that vision hang in the air—the dream that my parents held, the goal that their academy was supposed to achieve.
"When Nikki was abused," I continue, shifting to another thread that supports my argument, "it was bad enough by the world around her that a seed awakened. Awakened the sibling she would have lost."
The memory of Nikolai's explanation surfaces—the trauma that created him, the desperation that gave him form.
"Which created Nikolai and made them into one being."
I pause, letting the connection I'm about to make settle into the consciousness of everyone listening.
"So it had me wondering..."
My voice drops to something approaching dangerous.
"What if Elena did the same?"
Professor Eternalis frowns.
Her ancient features shift through confusion as she processes implications she apparently didn't expect me to reach.
She bangs on the invisible wall.
"We have no time for this!"
The declaration carries desperation that her usual composure doesn't permit—urgency bleeding through whatever mask she's been wearing since the day I met her.
"You need me to get through the final year!"
I giggle.
The sound surprises even me—light and amused and carrying the particular delight of someone who has finally assembled puzzle pieces that others thought they'd hidden successfully.
"Why would I need the female version of Elena coming with me to the final destination?"
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Even the lava seems to pause in recognition of revelations that change everything.
Professor Eternalis remains frozen.
Her ancient features lock into expression that speaks to shock so profound that even millennia of existence haven't prepared her for it. Her eyes widen with the particular horror of someone whose deepest secret has just been exposed.
That's when I grin.
Wide enough that I wonder if I look like the manic smile that Koishii likes to express—the particular expression of someone who has won and wants everyone to know it.
"Wait... what?"
Atticus's whisper reaches me from behind—confusion and concern mixing in words that he probably didn't mean to say aloud.
Zeke chuckles lowly.
The sound carries the particular satisfaction of someone who has been waiting for this moment, who has known or suspected and has finally seen his theories confirmed.
"Finally," he whispers. "The truth is coming to the surface."
I let my attention return to Professor Eternalis—to the being who has been manipulating us since the beginning, who has been wearing a mask that I've finally seen through.
"The one thing I remembered and kept pretending was wrong," I reveal, "was the name Eleanor."
The name lands with weight that makes her ancient features twitch.
"A female name known for today," I continue. "But in the legends, that name was one of the most popular male names in the history of royal Fae history."
I let that information settle.
"Even better," I add. "The second most popular name amongst Fae?"
I pause for effect.
"Eternalis."
Her ancient eyes widen further.
"A definition of eternal power reigning upon the destined throne."
My voice carries the particular satisfaction of puzzles finally solved.
"Elena was a shortened form," I explain, building the case that destroys her facade. "And it got me wondering. Eleanor as a male... and Eternalis as a female."
I meet her gaze with the sharpness of someone who has seen through deception that others missed.
"Could they be two sides of one coin?"
The silence that follows is broken by screeching.
Professor Eternalis—or whatever her true name is—moves back with sudden violence, retreating from the invisible barrier as a larger splash of lava falls from the converging walls above.
The molten rock lands on her shoulder, burning through ancient flesh with the particular violence of elements that don't discriminate between powerful and powerless.
She glares at me.
Fury burning in eyes that have been pretending calm for far too long.
I take a single step forward.
The motion carries the particular confidence of someone who has decided to deliver their final argument—allowing Damien to release me from his protective grip, standing firmly on words that will seal her fate.
"It all makes sense."
The declaration lands with the weight of conclusions that explain everything.
"For how would Elena know what I’m doing?" I ask, rhetorical questions building the case against her. "Where am I? How am I progressing?"
My voice hardens.
"Or dare try to hurt my men without an informant?"
I let the accusation settle.
"The only one who was at every step of the way..."
I meet her gaze with the particular intensity of someone delivering judgment.
"Was you, Professor."
Her ancient features shift through expressions that might be denial, might be calculation, might be the desperate search for arguments that could counter what I'm presenting.
"And despite being a figure of knowledge," I continue, "not once have you truly tried to help us."
The observation lands with accuracy that makes her flinch.
"Never gave us enough information to succeed," I press. "Just enough to reach the next trial."
I let my contempt show.
"Why would I need someone like that in the academy I wish to unravel to the world?"
My voice carries the particular dismissal of someone who has weighed another's value and found them wanting.
"You'd be rather useless."
She rushes to the wall.
Her ancient body moves with desperation that contradicts everything her usual composure suggested—banging against the invisible barrier with magical essence that crackles against surfaces designed to resist exactly this kind of assault.
"Without me, the final year won't unlock!"
The declaration carries desperation that makes my satisfaction grow.
I sigh.
The sound carries theatrical disappointment that I don't try to hide.
"A shame, wouldn't it be?"
The question is rhetorical—mockery disguised as inquiry.
"To not go through more unnecessary trials that make us learn nothing?"
I let the criticism settle.
"We don't grow," I continue. "We don't excel. We barely get time with one another."
My voice hardens with conviction.
"Frankly, that isn't an academy that's building its students to be the best they can be."
I shake my head with the particular disappointment of someone who expected better.
"It's simply setting them up for failure."
I meet her desperate gaze with steady resolve.
"And I won't account for that at all."
I smirk then.
The expression carries the particular satisfaction of someone who is about to deliver their final blow.
I lift my hand.
The motion draws attention to incantations that trace along my arm—magical symbols that have been accumulating since I first touched the throne, power that has been building toward this exact moment.
"These gates were controlled by you," I observe, "for us to enter these worlds and trials."
The accusation lands with weight that makes her ancient features pale.
"The deaths and chaos," I continue. "It was made by you."
I let the full weight of judgment settle into my words.
"You are the creator of this Wicked Academy that you assumed was what my parents yearned for."
My voice softens then—not with sympathy, but with the particular sadness of someone recognizing misunderstanding that has cost everything.
"And that's what makes you so different from my parents."
I meet her gaze with eyes that carry centuries of wisdom I didn't know I possessed.
"For you never truly understood their vision for the Academy of the Wicked."
I pause.
And smile.
The expression is genuine—softness entering features that have been hard with accusation, warmth replacing the cold that judgment required.
"But I do."
The declaration carries conviction that comes from genuine understanding.
"I know what they yearned for," I say. "And through those gates will lead to the answers I've been yearning for."
My voice grows stronger.
"And now I have the seven men who will replace the structure you thought was right."
I let that promise hang in the air.
"At least... when it's time for them to ascend to their roles as the new Seven."
The vision of what we're building crystallizes in my words.
"The Seven Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy."
I pause, letting the title settle.