His voice carries bitterness that makes my chest ache. After everything we've suffered, everything we've survived, to learn others simply bypassed it all?—
"Why are you telling us this now, Mortimer?" Nikolai continues, and there's accusation in the question.
Mortimer meets his gaze directly, no flinching from the implied criticism.
"Because I wouldn't wish a shortcut on my worst enemy."
The statement hangs between us, requiring explanation that Mortimer seems reluctant to give. But we wait, knowing he'll elaborate when ready.
"Shortcuts through the Academy don't remove the trials," he finally explains. "They defer them. Compound them. Whatseems like mercy becomes curse when all the skipped lessons come due at once."
He pushes his glasses up, the reflection hiding his eyes momentarily.
"Damien will reach Year Three faster, yes. But he'll enter unprepared for what waits there. The Academy doesn't forgive debts—it collects them with interest."
We share looks of understanding mixed with something darker.
Not quite satisfaction at Damien's eventual comeuppance, but close.
"We should hurry to the gates," Zeke encourages, his gaze still tracking where Damien's group disappeared. "No telling what other trials his arrival might ignite."
The practicality cuts through our contemplation. He's right—standing here processing won't change what's happened or what's coming. Only forward motion matters now.
We gather ourselves quickly, checking weapons and magic, ensuring everyone is truly ready for whatever comes next. Nikolai still seems shaken, but there's determination beneath the hurt. Damien's cruelty is familiar pain, the kind that scars over rather than heals. But scar tissue is stronger than virgin skin, even if it's less pretty.
The path to the gates is clear now, as if the realm itself wants us to reach our destination.
No more obstacles or tests.
Just a road of packed shadow-earth leading toward structures that defy easy description.
The gates rise before us like possibility made manifest.
They burn with flame that doesn't consume, casting light that creates rather than reveals shadows. The fire is every color and none, shifting through spectrums that shouldn't exist in the same space. Black shadows weave through the flames, notopposing but harmonizing, creating patterns that hurt to follow but impossible to look away from.
These aren't just gates—they're a statement.
A promise…of warning.
Beyond them lies Year Three proper, the true Academy rather than its trials. What we've survived was just the price of admission. The real education begins on the other side.
"Is everyone ready?" I ask, though the question is rhetorical.
Ready or not, we've come too far to turn back.
The gates wait, patient as death, inevitable as dawn. We have three keys, paid for in blood and fear and transformations we're still processing.
Cassius's hand finds mine, cool and steady. Atticus flanks my other side, copper-scent and vampire grace. Mortimer and Nikolai position themselves behind, magic gathering in case the gates demand one final test. Zeke ranges ahead, scouting even this short distance for threats.
Together, we approach the burning gates of Year Three.
The flames reach out as we near, not aggressive but exploring. They taste our magic, our memories, our murders. The shadows do the same, slipping through our defenses to read what we've become through trials designed to break us.
Judgment passes in heartbeat that feels like hours.
Then, with no sound but somehow felt in every bone, the gates begin to open.
Year Three awaits, and despite everything we've survived, I can't shake the feeling that the real trials are just beginning.
