"Hmm," he considers, the sound carrying theatrical contemplation. "A submissive little Solstice is kinda hot."
The statement makes me splutter with indignation.
Submissive?
I kiss him firmly and somehow that translates to submissive?
I push him with force that carries genuine annoyance behind it, my palm connecting with his shoulder hard enough to rock him backward.
"Go fuck yourself," I declare with the particular venom of someone whose generosity has been repaid with teasing they didn't deserve.
His laugh echoes through the cocoon, bright and genuine and carrying none of the grief that weighted his voice earlier. The sound bounces off flowers and vines and thorns, filling our protected space with joy that feels almost healing after everything that came before.
"That ain't ladylike at all," he observes, still chuckling, eyes sparkling with the particular light of someone thoroughly enjoying himself at another's expense.
"Fuck you and your lady shit," I respond with eloquence that would make any Fae court proud.
His laughter only intensifies, the sound carrying acceptance and affection that contradicts the vulgar words we're exchanging. This is intimacy in its own form—the particular closeness of people comfortable enough with each other to be rude without fear of genuine offense.
Eventually, his amusement subsides enough for focus to return.
He takes a deep breath.
The inhale is deliberate, filling his lungs with the cocoon's flower-scented air, drawing in whatever energy this protected space contains. His eyes close as he centers himself, features smoothing into the particular concentration that precedes significant magical working.
He lets it out slowly.
The exhale carries visible energy—shimmer that matches my transformed skin, light that flows from his lips in patterns too complex to track. The magic he's about to work builds around him in visible manifestation, power gathering for whatever dissolution he's planning.
His hands lift.
Position themselves in gestures that speak to training I've never received, configurations that Fae magic apparently requires for certain workings. His fingers arrange themselves with precision that suggests each angle matters, each position contributing to the effect he's about to achieve.
The air around us changes.
The flowers begin to pulse with increased intensity, their bioluminescence responding to magic that's building toward release. The vines shift with movements that suggest awareness, thorns catching light in ways that make them gleam like tiny stars scattered across organic architecture.
Magic builds.
Rises.
Reaches toward the moment of release that will determine whether his reserves are sufficient or whether my offered boost will prove necessary.
His lips move with words I can't quite hear—incantation or intention or simply the particular muttering that some magic workers need to focus their will. The sounds carry weight despite their quiet volume, power gathering around each syllable like water gathering behind a dam about to break.
Grim floats closer, his transformed golden form radiating obvious interest in whatever's about to occur. His tiny scythe—flowered and thorned and gleaming—waves with what might be anticipation or might simply be his usual inability to stay still.
"Gree," he whispers, the sound carrying reverence that his usual declarations lack.
Nikolai's hands move.
The gesture is elegant—palms pressing together, then separating with fingers spread, creating space between his hands that fills immediately with golden light. The illumination pulses with rhythms that match his heartbeat, power made visible, magic taking shape before my transformed eyes.
Symbols begin to form in the light between his palms—Fae script that I recognize from my own awakening, characters that carry meaning I can almost grasp but not quite articulate. They spin and weave, creating patterns that speak to dissolution and release, to structures being unmade with the same care they were originally constructed.
The spell cascades outward.
Magic flows from his positioned hands in waves of golden illumination that wash through the cocoon's interior like sunrise claiming territory from retreating night. The energy touches flowers and they respond—petals beginning to fold, bioluminescence beginning to dim, the entire structure recognizing the will of its creator and beginning the process of dissolution.
