They begin to glow—not metaphorically but literally, light consuming iris and pupil until she regards me with orbs of pure luminescence. Her body remains still but somehow becomes more present, as if power has given her additional dimensions I can't quite perceive.
When she speaks, her voice carries harmonics that shouldn't exist in single throat.
"Ask what you truly seek, Heir of the Wicked."
The title resonates through me like struck bell, each syllable finding matching frequency in my bones. Heir of the Wicked. Not fire, not shadow, not even Academy. Wicked itself, as if wickedness is a realm or force or birthright all its own.
I think about it, but thinking requires effort I don't have.
Instead, I let the words flow from some deeper place, lips moving while consciousness fades.
"What do I need to do to unlock our paths as separate entities, while on the same conquest of vengeance?"
The question emerges perfectly formed despite my deteriorating awareness.
Separate but united.
Individual but allied.
Free but bound by purpose rather than flesh.
Someone calls me from far away—voice familiar but muffled by layers of dream and distance.My carrier has noticed something, is trying to wake me, but Iris's words are already flowing, and I can't miss this. Won't miss this.
"Seek knowledge in the depths of the Grand Library of Infernal Realms."
Each word etches itself into memory with the permanence of carved stone.
"You will discover the recipe that will unravel your desire."
Recipe. Not spell or ritual but recipe—something that must be constructed from components, mixed in proper proportions, created rather than simply cast.
"Bring the one with centuries of lives."
Zeke. Has to be—the cat with nine lives, each one carrying experience and power accumulated across impossible spans.
"And the scale of burning knowledge on your conquest."
Mortimer. Dragon scale, but specifically one carrying knowledge. His scholarly nature made manifest, perhaps, or some deeper connection between dragons and information I don't understand.
"You will find the way to make this come to fruition."
The promise resonates with certainty that transcends hope. Not might find or could find but will find. Predetermined. Inevitable. Waiting only for us to walk the path to reach it.
"Do this, and you will complete Year Three a lot faster than any will expect."
The addendum confuses me even through the fog of approaching waking. Faster? But isn't the point of these academy years to challenge us? To test and temper and transform through trial?
The thought must be visible on my face or perhaps readable in whatever energy I emit in this space, because Iris laughs. The sound is everything good—soft and gentle, harmonic andwondrous, like listening to the universe express joy through human throat.
"The academies' conquest was never meant for learning, Heir of the Wicked."
The revelation should shock, but somehow it only confirms suspicion I've carried without acknowledging. The trials are too cruel for simple education, too deadly for mere assessment.
Then…
"Their purpose always aligned with bringing what was stolen from them back to where it always belonged."
Stolen.
