The logic is sound. Six supernaturally enhanced beings—each carrying power that has proven capable of surviving three years of Academy trials designed to kill—should be able to contain a single creature. The math supports this conclusion. The reality... does not.
Well, technically five.
My attention shifts to where Koishii floats.
Upside down.
The Fae prince has apparently decided that his contribution to our current crisis will be entertainment rather than assistance. He hovers in the air with complete disregard for conventional orientation, his body inverted, his shifted features carrying expressions of absolute delight as he watches the others scramble to contain Damien's monstrous form.
Laughter spills from his lips—manic, delighted, the particular sound of someone who has found genuine joy in circumstances that should probably concern him.
How is he even doing that?
The gravity magic he demonstrated earlier apparently extends to personal application, allowing him to exist in whatever orientation amuses him most regardless of what physics might suggest. Whether it's Fae magic or something else entirely, I don't have the energy to investigate.
Below his floating form, chaos reigns.
Damien—or what Damien has become—ismassive.
The hellhound that replaced my vampire bond mate stands easily fifteen feet at the shoulder, three heads snapping and snarling with independent fury that somehow coordinates into devastating effectiveness. Each head carries its own particular brand of menace: the left one seems to breathe fire, the right one appears to exhale some kind of toxic smoke, and the center one—the largest—simply bites with teeth the size of my forearm.
Muscles ripple beneath fur that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it, void-black coat carrying the particular weight of something that belongs in infernal realms rather than Academy grounds. His paws leave scorched earth with each step, claws carving furrows in stone that should be too hard to mark.
Atticus ducks as the left head snaps in his direction, crimson energy flaring along his forearms as he counters with bloodmagic that seems to do absolutely nothing beyond irritating the creature further. The blood mage curses with creative profanity that would impress sailors, his usual composure entirely abandoned in favor of survival instincts.
Nikolai weaves between strikes with Fae grace that looks almost effortless—except I can see the sweat dampening his silver-blonde hair, the tension in his shoulders, the particular strain of someone using everything they have just to stay alive. Vines erupt from his hands in attempts to bind the hellhound's legs, but the creature tears through them like tissue paper.
Cassius's shadow tendrils multiply with desperate intensity, darkness spreading across the battlefield in patterns that attempt to restrain what cannot be restrained. The void-black appendages wrap around legs and necks and jaws, but Damien's hellhound form carries strength that shrugs off even Duskwalker shadows.
Mortimer's draconic features flicker with increasing frequency—scales appearing along his arms, his eyes shifting toward reptilian slits, his body preparing for the transformation that might be necessary if this continues. Fire builds in his chest, heat radiating outward in waves I can feel from my observation position.
Zeke moves with feline precision that defies the chaos surrounding him, but even his supernatural reflexes seem stretched to their limits. He dodges and weaves and retreats, contributing what he can while clearly recognizing that direct confrontation with this particular opponent falls outside his skillset.
Every spell in the book.
And none of them are working.
I turn to look at Koishii, frustration building with each passing second of his unhelpful amusement.
"Why is he in hellhound form?"
The question emerges with demand rather than curiosity, my patience for his entertainment wearing dangerously thin.
He pauses in his laughing fit—actually stops, the sound cutting off with the particular abruptness of someone who has been addressed by authority they recognize. His inverted position rotates slowly until he's facing me properly, still upside down but at least giving the conversation the attention it deserves.
"Well," he begins, shifted features settling into something approaching seriousness, "because he doesn't have a master."
The statement lands with confusion that doesn't immediately resolve.
Master?
What does that mean?
I frown at the explanation that isn't actually an explanation, my transformed features probably broadcasting my frustration clearly to anyone paying attention.
Before I can demand clarification, Professor Eternalis decides to grace me with actual knowledge.
"Hellhound creatures are usually bound to a master to control them," she explains, her ancient voice carrying the particular cadence of academic instruction. "They still roam and exhibit aggressive behaviors, but with proper bonding, they can be directed. Managed. Prevented from attempting to kill everything that moves."
