All eyes seem to be on Professor Eternalis.
She stands before my bond mate with posture that radiates displeasure rather than triumph—the particular expression of someone who has been forced to intervene in circumstances they would have preferred to simply observe. Her ancient features carry assessment that I can't read from this distance, evaluation that probably includes my own existence in its calculations.
She frowns.
The expression carries weight that makes my hellhound instincts bristle with warning—recognition of predatorencountering superior predator, acknowledgment of hierarchy that this cursed form apparently respects regardless of what my conscious mind might prefer.
Her voice reaches me even across the distance that separates us.
"You should head to the gates and leave him behind."
The words land with the particular authority of ancient beings whose opinions carry the weight of commands. She's not suggesting—she's instructing. Telling them what to do with the confidence of someone who has already calculated the optimal outcome and expects compliance.
"His sanity is clearly gone."
My sanity isn't gone.
The protest erupts through my consciousness with the particular desperation of someone who has been misunderstood in ways that could prove fatal. I'm still here—still present, still aware, still the person who has been fighting against this curse since Elena first inflicted it.
But I can't communicate in this form.
The realization crashes through whatever hope was building with the force of inevitability that can't be denied. As a hellhound, there's no way to speak—no method of expressing the thoughts that still exist in my mind, no path between consciousness and communication that this form provides. The curse stripped more than just my physical appearance; it stole my ability to advocate for myself when advocacy matters most.
I don't wish to act like this.
Don't want to destroy.
Don't want to threaten the people I've been protecting.
Don't want to exist as weapon without will.
But it's against my nature.
The hellhound's instincts don't care about my preferences, don't consider what the man beneath the beast might want,don't make exceptions for bond mates or allies or anyone else who might deserve different treatment. This form operates on imperatives that transcend individual desire—destruction, dominance, the particular violence that hellhounds apparently require as fundamental aspect of existence.
I don't know how to change back.
The admission carries weight that settles into my consciousness with the particular despair of problems without solutions. No one ever explained how to reverse a hellhound transformation—no one ever told me what conditions might allow the curse to release its hold and let the man return from the monster. Elena certainly didn't include an instruction manual with her revenge.
I don't know what to do.
Nothing.
There's nothing I can do.
I'm trapped in this form with no way out.
If they abandon me like this?—
Please.
Please don't leave.
Please don't let her curse win.
I'll be a hellhound forever.
The prospect stretches before my consciousness with the particular horror of eternities spent wrong. Years, decades, centuries of existence as nothing but destruction incarnate—no voice, no choice, no connection to the bonds that gave my existence meaning. Just flames and fury and the endless repetition of violence that this form demands.
