"A perfect cocoon and reflection of wickedness."
My voice softens into something approaching satisfaction.
"Could mean one hundred days or one thousand."
I shrug.
"Who knows."
The uncertainty is part of the punishment—the not-knowing that will accompany each cycle of death and resurrection.
"Either way," I conclude, "it'll go down in history of the Academy of the Wicked as the true representation of where wickedness gets you."
I turn away.
The motion is deliberate—dismissal manifested as physical separation, judgment delivered and no longer requiring my attention.
Behind me, a portal forms.
Colors blend together with the particular beauty of magic that creates passages rather than simply opening them—gold and red and green and purple morphing into something that speaks to the combined heritages of everyone who has contributed to this moment.
Zeke stands at the entrance.
His golden scythe has returned to staff form, his magic circles faded, but his eyes still carry the particular glow of someone who has revealed power that was previously hidden. He gestures toward the portal with the particular patience that defines him—encouraging the others to enter, to trust what I've created, to believe that what waits on the other side is better than what we're leaving behind.
The others move toward the portal.
Atticus goes first, then Nikolai, then Mortimer and Koishii. Each one passing through the magical gateway with the particular trust of bond mates who have chosen to believe in their Queen.
Soon enough, it's just me and Cassius.
He pauses at the portal.
Turns back.
Offers his hand to me.
The gesture carries weight that extends beyond simple invitation—understanding that has been building throughout this entire confrontation, appreciation for methods he didn't initially comprehend.
Relief floods through me.
I can see in his eyes he finally gets it.
Finally understands why I did what I did.
Finally trusts the choices that must have seemed insane in the moment.
I'm grateful he stuck with me to understand my actions.
Professor Eternalis screams.
The sound is manic—sanity that has been maintained for millennia finally cracking under the weight of circumstances she never anticipated.
I look back.
Just in time to see the first half of the lava walls pour over.
Molten rock spills onto half of her body with the particular violence of elements that don't discriminate between powerful and powerless. Her screams intensify as ancient flesh burns, as the fire I've condemned her to consumes the form she's been wearing since I first encountered her at the Academy.
