Zeke takes a deep breath, centering himself, and begins to chant.
The words are nothing I recognize—not Ancient Infernal, not Fae tongue, not any language my centuries of existence have encountered. They rise and fall in patterns that seem to followno logical structure, syllables blending and separating according to rules that exist only in the spaces between sound and silence.
Gwenievere's incantations respond.
Golden symbols flare across her skin with sudden brilliance, answering Zeke's chant with their own silent song. The magic recognizes magic, power calling to power, and her body begins to rise.
She levitates slowly—not the violent ascent of being grabbed but the gentle lift of beingcradledby forces that want her whole. Atticus releases her reluctantly, crimson eyes tracking every inch of her ascent with the particular attention of someone who expects to need to catch her at any moment.
I have no choice but to let her go.
My hands fall empty to my sides as magic takes her from my reach, and the loss—brief as it is—makes my shadows writhe with agitation I have to actively suppress. The darkness wants to reach for her, to wrap around her, to ensure she never leaves my grasp again.
Not yet,I command them.Let the healing work.
Power swirls around Gwenievere's floating form.
It begins as simple gold—Zeke's magic, recognizable and warm—but quickly gains complexity. Navy blue joins the mix, deep and mysterious, carrying the particular weight of depth magic I associate with oceanic power. Then shadows enter the dance, and I startle because those aren'tmine.
Hers.
The shadows that join the healing come from within Gwenievere herself—the Duskwalker power she gained through our bond, manifesting now to assist in her own recovery. They weave between gold and navy like threads in a tapestry, each color supporting the others, creating patterns that speak of wounds being mended on levels beyond the physical.
The process takes a full minute.
Sixty seconds of watching magic do what magic does, of trusting power to accomplish what force cannot. The swirling colors pulse and dance and weave, and with each passing moment, Gwenievere's pallor improves. The blood stops flowing from her nose. Her breathing deepens from shallow survival to genuine rest.
Then the magic decides it's finished.
The gold and navy and shadow retreat as suddenly as they appeared, withdrawing into Gwenievere's form like tide returning to sea. Her body begins to descend—not falling but lowering, controlled by forces that refuse to let her crash.
My shadows move before I consciously command them.
Tendrils of darkness surge upward, positioning themselves beneath her falling form with the particular care of someone who has learned that catching requires cushioning. They wrap around her with gentleness that contradicts their usual violence, cradling her in a cocoon of void that will let nothing harm her.
Mine.
The possessive thought pulses through our bond, and somewhere in her unconscious mind, I feel her respond with warmth that makes my chest tight.
But the shadows don't stop at simply catching her.
They continue to move, to reshape, tobecome. Darkness that was formless gains structure, tendrils that were individual merge into something unified. My shadows construct a figure around Gwenievere—a tall, humanoid shape that cradles her against its chest with protective intent that mirrors my own.
Grim.
I recognize the familiar being immediately, though this version is different from the tiny reaper who usually floats at Gwenievere's shoulder. This is Grim grown massive, Grim given form by my shadows, Grim transformed into the guardian he always wanted to be.
"Greeeee."
The sound that emerges from the shadow-figure's approximation of mouth is deeper than the miniature version's chirp—resonant with protective intent that makes even my agitated darkness settle slightly. Grim-giant holds Gwenievere with the particular care of something that has finally been given the means to protect what it loves.
Good.
With her secured, my attention can return to the problem I've been trying not to think about.
The stranger.
He's still wrapped in my shadows, encased in Zeke's ice, bound by Mortimer's flame. The restraints should be agonizing—three different magics designed to contain and cause discomfort in equal measure. But when I focus on him, he looks merely... inconvenienced.
