We survived the trials through strength, cunning, and frankly ridiculous amounts of luck. But that was just the entrance exam. The real education begins now, in a place where professors can kill students for administrative violations and that's considered normal.
"Look," Cassius says quietly, drawing our attention back to where Professor Eternalis still stands with Damien's group.
She's speaking to them, too quietly for us to hear at this distance. But their faces tell the story—shock shifting to understanding shifting to fear. Whatever she's explaining, it's not good news for those who tried to shortcut their way to power.
Damien looks like he might be sick, all his earlier bravado completely evaporated. His remaining companions cluster together, seeking safety in proximity that won't save them from whatever comes next.
"Think they'll be expelled?" Atticus wonders.
"Expelled?" I repeat, looking at him with disbelief. "After what we just saw? I think expulsion might be the best case scenario."
"They can't kill them all," Nikolai protests. "Can they?"
The uncertainty in the question reflects what we're all thinking. We don't know the rules here. Don't know the limits.
"They won't kill them," Mortimer states with scholarly certainty. "Death is lesson, not solution. They'll face something worse—consequences that teach rather than end, and it’ll be when they least expect it."
"Worse than death?" I ask, though I can imagine several possibilities.
"Death ends suffering," Mortimer explains, adjusting his glasses in that way that means he's about to deliver uncomfortable truth. "Education requires the student survive to process what they've learned."
The implications settle over us like a shroud.
We watch as Professor Eternalis finishes whatever she's telling them.
Damien's group doesn't move—not toward the Academy, not toward escape, just frozen in place like they're afraid movement might trigger something worse.
Then Professor Eternalis turns and begins walking toward us.
Her movement is graceful despite her imposing height, each step covering more ground than should be possible. She arrives before we're quite ready, towering over our group with presence that makes even standing feel like genuflection.
"Welcome," she says, and the word carries weight of ritual, "to Year Three of Wicked Academy."
The formal acknowledgment makes it real in a way the gates closing didn't quite manage. We're here. We've made it. We'reofficially students of the third year, whatever that means in this place of burning skies and breathing buildings.
"Your dormitory awaits," she continues, gesturing toward one of the impossible structures. "You'll find it... adjusted to accommodate your particular configuration."
Configuration.
Interesting word choice for our group of bonds, complications, and Zeke’s role as our guide.
"Classes will begin soon, different in nature than previous years, of course. Don't be late—punctuality violations in Year Three carry steeper consequences."
Steeper than death?
I want to ask but don't, recognizing this isn't the time for questions.
“I rather not be the headless student of Wicked Academy,” Atticus mutters, which does give a hint of relief in the humor of it.
"Your schedules will manifest as your roles will be chosen in a unique order. Follow the blessed instruction. Deviation is... inadvisable."
Every statement carries threats wrapped in administrative language.
Follow the rules or face consequences that make death look merciful.
"Questions?" she asks, though her tone suggests she'd prefer we don't have any.
We collectively shake our heads, even though I have approximately thousand questions fighting for priority in my mind.
