Page 45 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three
An ending.
The thought arrives with surprising peace.
Would it be better this way? To simply step forward and let liquid fire solve everyone's problems? No more burden for them to carry. No more Fae weakness slowing their progress. No more constant reminder of how even my own realm considers me abomination.
Gwenivere hates me now—or at least the Guardian part does, responding to ancestral fury I had no part in creating but must bear the weight of regardless. The marks we share mock what they once meant. Love twisted into obligation, desire transformed to endurance.
And I'm so tired of enduring.
Tired of performing strength I don't feel. Tired of being two people who are both wrong in different ways. Tired of carrying prophecy that damns me whether I follow it or fight it.
The lava calls with the voice of ending. Not death—that's too simple. This would be erasure. No body to bury, no memory to mourn. Just absence where failure used to stand.
My foot moves forward.
Another inch and gravity will decide what courage can't.
Another inch and?—
Something holds me back.
Not gentle. Not careful. A grip around my wrist that feels like being claimed rather than saved.
I don't want to be saved.
"Let me just die with an ounce of dignity!" The words tear from my throat, raw and desperate.
I turn to glare at whatever force denies me this one choice in a life stolen by others' decisions.
Gabriel.
Not the child we've grown accustomed to but an adult version—what he might have been if development hadn't been arrested by sharing space with his sister.
Taller than me, features carved from the same impossible beauty as Gwenivere but sharpened into masculine angles. His silver hair falls past his shoulders, and those impossible eyes hold depth that speaks of centuries despite the youth of his borrowed form.
He looks wiser. Colder. Ancient in ways that have nothing to do with time.
Yet his hand remains firm around my wrist, denying me the ending I've chosen.
The sight ignites fury I didn't know I still possessed. He must hate me too—another judge in the endless trial of my existence. Gwenivere's hatred makes sense now, filtered through memories of Fae cruelty. But knowing the source doesn't ease the sting.
"Let go," I snarl, tugging against his grip.
He doesn't release me. Doesn't even acknowledge the attempt.
I grit my teeth, pulling harder.
"Let go!"
His response comes in a voice that matches his adult form—deeper than the child's piping tones, carrying weight that makes reality pay attention.
"You really want to ruin your destiny before it unravels?"
The question triggers bitter laughter that hurts my throat.
"Why do you care?" The words drip venom and desperation in equal measure. "You hate me. Let me die while I still have the strength and conviction."
I pull again, expecting resistance.
