Or we will be.
Someone clears their throat.
The sound shatters the intimacy of our moment with all the subtlety of a brick through a window.
We look.
Koishii.
Of course.
The fucking prince couldn't let us have five minutes of emotional resolution without inserting himself.
He floats upside down—again—his shifted features carrying amusement that suggests he's been watching this entire exchange with the particular attention of someone who considers other people's emotional struggles to be entertainment.
"Well," he drawls, tone dripping with the particular condescension that defines most of his interactions. "This is romantic and all..."
But.
There's always a but with him.
"But I think the hellhound is about to burn down the gates we need to go through."
What?
"WHAT?!"
Gwenievere's gasp carries alarm that mirrors my own sudden concern.
We look.
Fuck.
Damien's hellhound form has apparently decided that the volcanic destruction it's already causing isn't enough chaos for one day. The three-headed beast has positioned itself before what I now recognize as the gates that lead to whatever comes next in Year Four—massive structures that carry the particular weight of significance that Academy architecture always seems to possess.
And the creature is gathering energy.
Fire builds in all three mouths—flames accumulating into something that transcends simple combustion, power growing with intensity that speaks to hellfire rather than anything natural. The combined heat radiates outward in waves I can feel even from this distance, air shimmering with thermal distortion that makes the gates seem to dance.
The fireball that's forming ismassive.
Big enough to obliterate the gates entirely.
Big enough to strand us in this volcanic nightmare without any hope of progression.
Big enough to end Year Four before it even properly begins.
"CASSIUS!"
Gwenievere's voice snaps me back to immediate priorities.
I don't hesitate.
My wrist extends toward her—the same offering I made before, now carrying urgency that wasn't present during our earlier argument. She needs blood. She needs itnow. Whatever emotional resolution we've achieved means nothing if we can't survive the next few minutes.
She takes it.
Her fangs—fangs, evidence of vampire nature that still exists beneath the Fae transformation—sink into my flesh with the particular sharpness of predator claiming sustenance.
