"Are you all okay?"
The question encompasses everyone—floating and grounded, frustrated and amused, all of them bound to me through connections that have grown complicated and essential over years of shared survival.
Nods answer from various positions around the destroyed space.
Relief warms something in my chest, even as concern for Damien continues to pulse with urgent insistence.
"What's with the new look?"
The question comes from somewhere among the floating figures—Atticus, I think, his tone carrying curiosity that edges toward teasing despite his current predicament.
I look down at myself.
The golden hair that falls past my shoulders. The sheer panels of the ridiculous Fae dress that clings to my transformed form. The shimmer of skin that broadcasts magical nature I didn't ask to possess.
"I'll fix it," I declare, the words carrying determination that I hope translates to actual ability. "Because no way am I fighting in a damn dress."
The prospect of Year Four trials conducted while wrapped in royal silhouette and transparent fabric is absolutely unacceptable.
"Where are our uniforms, jeez," I grumble, frustration with my current presentation bleeding into frustration with circumstances that have left me so thoroughly unprepared.
"Professor Eternalis said we'll get them the moment we get outside," Zeke provides, still reading his book with attention that suggests he's been listening despite appearances to the contrary.
I sigh with relief.
"Good," I mutter. "I'm too feminine right now and it's throwing me off."
The observation is entirely accurate—something about this transformation has amplified aspects of my nature that I've spent years learning to minimize, to weaponize, to control rather than embody. Fighting requires balance that this presentation doesn't provide.
I'm about to head toward whatever exit leads outside—toward Professor Eternalis, toward uniforms, toward whatever chaos Damien's transformation has created—when something makes me pause.
I turn to look at them.
All of them—floating and grounded, annoyed and amused, each one bound to me through connections that have evolved from animosity through alliance into something that resembles family in its complicated, dysfunctional glory.
Grim appears on my shoulder, his transformed golden form cheering with obvious enthusiasm.
"Gree! Gree!" he declares, tiny scythe waving as if trying to capture their attention for whatever I'm about to say.
"Listen," I begin, voice carrying weight that makes even Zeke look up from his book. "I don't know if us leaving this rest place means we're entering Year Four."
The possibility hangs in the air with the weight of uncertainty that has defined our Academy existence from the beginning.
"I know we don't all get along," I continue, acknowledging the obvious tensions that still simmer between various combinations of bond mates and complicated connections. "And we haven't figured out this new dynamic and balance."
My gaze travels across each face—some still floating helplessly, others grounded but carrying their own particular frustrations with circumstances none of us chose.
"But I don't think we'll have an opportunity to figure it all out before whatever comes next," I admit. "The Academy doesn't give us time for processing, for adjusting, for becoming comfortable before throwing new challenges at our heads."
Nods greet the observation—recognition of patterns we've all experienced, trials that arrived before we were ready and demanded response regardless of our preparedness.
"But I'm hoping that when we tackle these final trials," I continue, something like hope coloring words that have carried pragmatism until now, "when we finish what we started three years ago... we'll have all the time in the world to figure it out."
I pause.
Take a moment to reallylookat them—to appreciate what we've become despite everything that should have destroyed us. Strangers who became enemies who became allies who became something approaching family. Supernatural beings whose powers should have consumed rather than complemented. Bond mates whose connections grew complicated in ways none of us anticipated.
A slight smile curves my transformed lips.
