The blood flows into my mouth with the particular richness that defines Duskwalker essence—shadows and void and power intertwined in sustenance that my vampire nature drinks with grateful desperation. The taste has changed since my Fae awakening, carrying notes I couldn't perceive before, depths that speak to his nature in ways that transcend simple consumption.
But more importantly—I feelnormalagain.
The transformation that had trapped me in Fae form, that had made my own body feel foreign and uncontrollable, begins to release its hold with each swallow. The excessive femininity that made me cringe retreats behind barriers I understand how to maintain. The confusion of awakened heritage that I don'tknow how to wield gives way to the familiar power of vampire strength and hybrid capabilities.
Rejuvenated.
Empowered.
Myself again.
Relief floods through my system with intensity that makes my eyes burn with moisture I refuse to shed. Despite the thrill of realizing I'm Fae—of understanding that my heritage extends beyond the vampire-witch combination I always believed myself to be—there was genuine anxiety in not being able to tap into powers I didn't comprehend. Fear that I would be useless in situations that demanded contribution. Terror that my awakening would become a liability rather than an asset.
I could learn in time.
Willlearn, when the opportunity and environment are right, when there's space for discovery rather than desperation, when failure doesn't mean death for everyone I love.
But right now is not that time.
We're still in survival mode.
The fireball continues to grow.
Even within Koishii's time manipulation, the hellfire that Damien's form has been gathering maintains its expansion—flames feeding flames, heat building toward detonation that will obliterate the gates we desperately need to pass through. The creature itself is frozen, all three heads locked in position, but the magic it was working continues to develop with the particular momentum of forces that transcend simple temporal constraints.
We have limited time even within stopped time.
The irony isn't lost on me.
But Damien can't release the blast while frozen.
His muscles have locked mid-action, his intention captured at the exact moment before execution. The fireball grows butcannot be directed, cannot be unleashed, cannot achieve the destruction it was created to deliver.
Window of opportunity.
Small, but present.
We need to use it.
Movement catches my attention.
Chains descend from the sky with the particular grace of magic given physical form—links forged from frost and silver that seem to have condensed from the very clouds themselves. The metal carries cold that I can feel even from this distance, temperature dropping as the chains pass through air that was superheated moments ago. Ice crystallizes along their length in patterns that speak to power beyond simple temperature manipulation.
Beautiful.
Dangerous.
And definitely not Koishii's magic.
The chains wrap around Damien's hellhound frame with precision that suggests intelligent direction—links finding purchase around massive legs, around the base of all three necks, around the torso that carries enough muscle to shatter buildings. The frost that coats them spreads across void-black fur, ice claiming territory that fire previously dominated.
Below the suspended hellhound, more magic activates.
Ice ignites across the volcanic landscape—ignitesbeing the only word that captures the particular violence of its appearance. Frost erupts from cracks in the stone with force that suggests explosion rather than growth, crystalline structures spreading with speed that defies natural formation. The fissures that were releasing lava seal with layers of ice so thick they seem permanent, cold overwhelming heat with the particular totality of magic that refuses to accept limitations.
Who—
I look for Zeke.
