That wasn't my laugh.
Or rather, it was my laugh, but it didn't sound like my laugh.
The pitch that emerged from my throat was higher than I'm accustomed to hearing—lighter, more musical, carrying undertones that feel foreign despite originating from my own vocal cords. The sound sits in registers I don't usually occupy, frequencies that speak to femininity in ways my normal voice doesn't quite achieve.
I pout at my own confusion.
"Why is my laugh so high?"
The question emerges with the particular indignation of someone who has encountered an unexpected change in their own body and doesn't appreciate the surprise.
Nikolai's smile grows.
The expression transforms his grief-ravaged features into something approaching his usual mischievous charm, eyes sparkling with knowledge he clearly finds amusing to possess while I remain ignorant.
"You don't know how you look like right now, do you?"
The question makes me frown, self-consciousness surfacing with unexpected intensity.
How I look?
What's wrong with how I look?
"Probably hideous," I grumble, one hand rising to touch hair that feels... different. Softer, somehow. Finer in texture. "With messy hair from sleeping. But how does that contribute to me sounding like a girlie girl?"
The complaint carries genuine bewilderment. Physical appearance and vocal pitch shouldn't be connected—at least not in ways that would explain the musical quality that just emerged from my throat. Unless something more fundamental has changed, something that affects systems I don't fully understand...
"You are a female, remember," Nikolai points out, his tone carrying patient amusement that borders on patronizing.
"Sure," I huff, the acknowledgment reluctant but accurate. "But like... this is different."
Differentdoesn't quite capture the sensation, but words feel insufficient to express the particular wrongness—or mayberightness—of whatever transformation I've apparently undergone without realizing it.
He snaps his fingers.
Magic responds immediately, moisture gathering from the air to form the same swirling water mirror he'd created earlier for Grim's self-examination. The liquid surface smooths into perfect reflection, hovering before my face with the particular steadiness of elements under Fae command.
"Why don't you see for yourself," he suggests, voice dropping to registers that feel almost tender despite the teasing edge, "little Solstice."
Little Solstice.
That's new.
That's... a nickname?
From him?
I don't have time to process the implications before the mirror commands my attention.
Oh.
Gods.
What...
The face staring back at me is mine butnotmine—familiar features transformed into something that carries my essence while simultaneously appearing entirely foreign. The reflection shows a woman I recognize and don't recognize in equal measure, beauty that makes my breath catch for reasons I can't immediately articulate.
My hair.
