My attention scans the frozen landscape until I find him—and what I find makes my breath catch in my throat.
He's not frozen.
Like Koishii, like me, Zeke remains mobile within the temporal suspension. But unlike either of us, he'schanged—transformed in ways that speak to aspects of his nature I've never seen him display.
His staff has shifted form.
The walking stick he usually carries—simple, unassuming, easily dismissed as affectation rather than weapon—has become a golden scythe that gleams with light that seems to originate from somewhere beyond simple reflection. The blade curves with deadly elegance, edges carrying sharpness that suggests it could cut through reality itself rather than merely physical matter.
Magic circles spiral around him.
Above and below, geometric patterns of light rotate with precision that speaks to calculations I couldn't begin to comprehend. Symbols I don't recognize pulse within the circles—ancient script, perhaps, or mathematical formulae that transcend mortal understanding. The patterns layer upon one another in configurations that seem to generate rather than simply channel power.
His aura...
Gods, his aura.
Energy radiates from Zeke's transformed presence with intensity that makes my newly-restored vampire senses scream with input overload. The power that usually simmers beneath his calm surface has erupted into visibility, golden light cascading from his form in patterns that speak to depths he's been hiding since the day I met him.
Electrifyingly strong.
Impossibly strong.
How did I never see this?
How did any of us miss what he's capable of?
"Zeke," I say, relief coloring the word with emotion I don't try to hide.
He meets my gaze across the distance that separates us, golden eyes carrying acknowledgment that suggests he knows exactly what I'm seeing and has been waiting for a moment when revelation became necessary.
I turn to look at Koishii.
The Fae prince floats nearby with the particular casualness that defines most of his physical existence, shifted features carrying satisfaction that suggests he's pleased with how this is developing.
"You wanted his help?"
The question carries surprise I don't bother moderating. Throughout this entire chaotic situation, Koishii has treated the others with something between dismissal and active antagonism. Asking for help—acknowledging that someone else's capabilities might be necessary—seems entirely out of character.
He shrugs.
The gesture carries the insouciance that defines most of his interactions, but something in his expression suggests genuine consideration behind the casual facade.
"Those who are quiet are usually the most dangerous," he observes, shifted gaze finding Zeke's transformed figure with something that might be respect. "I kinda like him."
Like him.
Koishii likes Zeke.
That's... unexpected.
I arch an eyebrow at the admission.
It's odd for him to acknowledge having an ally he doesn't want to taunt—strange to hear appreciation rather than condescension from someone who has treated the concept of allies as something between inconvenience and entertainment.
But I don't question it.
"See," I say instead, allowing a smirk to curve my lips despite the chaos surrounding us. "You're adapting fast to what I like. Good."
