The statement lands with implications that extend beyond this specific moment.
Learning to work with others.
Recognizing value in people he previously dismissed.
Growing toward the cooperation that surviving Year Four will require.
A blush appears on his cheeks—faint, easily missed if you weren't looking for it, but definitelythere. The color speaks to embarrassment or pleasure or some combination that his usual arrogance doesn't permit. He looks away with the particular avoidance of someone who has been caught caring about something they'd rather pretend doesn't matter.
My grin grows at the reaction.
Good.
Very good.
There's hope for him yet.
I take a few steadying breaths, using the moment of temporal suspension to center myself after everything that's happened in the past several hours. My body still carries the echoes of transformation—the ghost of golden hair, the memory of pink eyes, the lingering shimmer that Fae awakening imprinted on flesh that's slowly returning to familiar configurations.
My hand lifts to my hair.
I grasp a handful of strands and pull them into my field of vision, needing visual confirmation of what my other senses are already telling me.
Silver.
The familiar metallic sheen that has defined my appearance since birth reflects the ambient light from magic and frozen lava alike. Not gold, not the transformation that made me feel like a stranger in my own skin, butsilver—the color that speaks to vampire heritage and the nocturnal nature that has always been part of who I am.
"Good to be my wicked self again," I declare, defiance coloring words that carry genuine relief.
My confidence rises with the statement—not the artificial performance I sometimes maintain, but real assurance that comes from feeling capable rather than compromised. I know how to wield vampire power. I understand the magic that flows through hybrid veins. I cancontributenow in ways that my Fae form didn't allow.
I look up at Koishii.
His shifted features carry attention that suggests he's listening, waiting, ready to provide whatever support this next phase requires.
"Can I touch those chains?"
The question addresses the frost-and-silver bindings that currently wrap around Damien's frozen form—magic that didn't originate from me, power that might reject contact from sources it doesn't recognize.
He nods slowly.
"What's mine is yours."
The statement lands with weight that extends far beyond permission to touch magical chains.
What's mine is yours.
Everything he has.
Everything he is.
Available to me because of bonds I still don't fully understand.
Something in my chest flutters at the unexpected support—warmth that has nothing to do with the volcanic environment and everything to do with the complicated prince who keeps surprising me with moments of genuine care hidden behind layers of arrogance and trickery.
He didn't need to help in this dire situation.
Could have watched from the sidelines, entertained by chaos that didn't directly threaten him. Could have let us struggle without intervention, maintaining the distance that his earlier behavior suggested he preferred.
