They surge forward with the protective fury I've been suppressing since the barrier first appeared, tendrils of void wrapping around his limbs with strength that could crush bone if I commanded it. The darkness coils and tightens, pinning him in place with the particular thoroughness of someone who has spent centuries perfecting restraint techniques.
He doesn't get to move until I understand what he is.
Frost erupts around my shadows before I can even register Zeke's involvement.
A barrier of crystallized ice encases the stranger in a secondary prison, frost so cold it burns, so thick it distorts the air around it with visible temperature differential. The ice doesn't impede my shadows—Zeke's magic knows better than to interfere with mine—but it adds another layer of security that speaks to his own unease.
Then flame joins the containment.
Mortimer's contribution manifests as handcuffs wrought from dragon fire—golden shackles that wrap around the stranger's wrists with heat that should be agonizing. The flames don't burn through my shadows or melt Zeke's ice; instead, they coexist in impossible harmony, three different magics working together to ensure our prisoner cannot escape.
The stranger grunts as the combined restraints force him still.
"Is such force vital?"
His voice carries irritation rather than fear—the particular annoyance of someone who finds their current circumstances beneath them rather than threatening. The tone makes my shadows tighten involuntarily, darkness pressing against his flesh with pressure that should be uncomfortable at minimum.
I don't like him.
The thought crystallizes with clarity that surprises me. I'm not prone to instant judgment—centuries of existence teachpatience, teach evaluation, teach the danger of acting on incomplete information. But something about this stranger sets every Duskwalker instinct I possess on high alert.
I can't read him.
That's what's wrong.
Every being carries an essence—a fundamental signature that identifies what they are at the deepest level. Vampires taste of copper and eternity. Dragons carry the weight of hoarded knowledge. Fae shimmer with deceptive beauty. Even humans have their particular flavor of mortality and ambition.
But this one...
My shadows probe the edges of his existence, trying to taste whatever he is beneath the surface arrogance. They find... nothing. Not emptiness, not void, butabsence—as if whatever essence he possesses exists in frequencies my magic can't perceive.
It's unsettling in ways I don't have words for.
I drop to Gwenievere's side, unable to resist the pull of our bond despite Atticus's obvious reluctance to share her. My hands reach for her even as his tighten possessively, the conflict between vampire territoriality and Duskwalker need creating tension that we don't have time for.
"Let me see her," I demand, and the command in my voice makes Atticus's crimson eyes flash with challenge before something else wins out.
Worry.
He shifts slightly, not releasing her but allowing me access, and I take the opportunity to examine our mate with the particular attention of someone who has already lost too much.
Her breathing is shallow but steady. Blood continues to trickle from her nose—not arterial, not dangerous, just the inevitable consequence of using one's skull as a weapon against someone else's face. Her incantations have calmed from theirearlier frantic pulsing to something more stable, golden symbols settling into patterns that speak of life maintained rather than life fought for.
She'll be fine.
She'll be fine because she has to be fine because the alternative is unacceptable.
"Zeke," I urge, pulling my gaze from Gwenievere's too-pale features to find the feline shifter. "She needs healing."
Zeke tears his attention from our prisoner with visible reluctance—those extraordinary cat eyes carrying fascination that borders on inappropriate given our circumstances. He moves to our side in that fluid way of his, each step silent despite the chaos around us, and kneels beside Gwenievere with focus that finally seems properly prioritized.
He claps his hands together.
The sound is sharp, deliberate, carrying resonance that suggests ritual rather than simple gesture. Power gathers between his palms—visible as golden light that swirls with increasing intensity—and when his hands separate, something materializes in the space between.
Not his scythe.
The weapon that appears is a staff—golden and ornate, covered in symbols that shift and rewrite themselves with each passing second. It thrums with power fundamentally different from the frost magic I've seen him wield, carrying instead the particular weight of healing knowledge accumulated across nine lives of service.
