"We'reher mates," Atticus continues, each word sharp as the fangs now fully extended past his lips. "We don't know who thefuckyou are."
The stranger tsks—an actual, deliberate tsk that somehow conveys more condescension than any word could manage.
"Well, it's not as if you gave me time to introduce myself," he observes, sounding genuinely put-upon by our rudeness. "Alas. You average shifters are not only rude but also insulting. I'm wasting oxygen here. Could have been in the Academy eating instead of this foolishness."
Average.
The word grates across nerves I didn't know I possessed. I am the Prince of the Duskwalker Realm, heir to shadows that predate mortal understanding. Nothing about my existence isaverage.
"Then tell us who you are," Zeke demands, his usual calm finally cracking enough to show the steel beneath.
The stranger's smirk widens into something that might be a smile if smiles could carry that much malice.
"No," he says simply. "I don't feel like it."
The refusal hangs in the air, impossibly casual given the situation.
Before anyone can respond, a new voice enters the conversation.
"Oh, you better not be... who Ithinkyou are... or I'mfuckingcommitting treason."
All eyes turn to Nikolai.
The Fae prince—or princess, depending on circumstances, I don't fully understand—has been uncharacteristically quiet since Gwenievere's collapse. I'd assumed he was simply processing the chaos like the rest of us, perhaps more affected given the particular sensitivity Fae possess toward magical upheaval.
I was wrong.
Nikolai kneels on the ground several feet away, barely able to support himself on hands and knees that tremble with visible effort. His head hangs low, silver-gold hair obscuring features that are somehowdifferentfrom what I remember—sharper, more angular, stripped of something I can't quite identify.
And he'sglowing.
Fae luminescence emanates from his skin with intensity that speaks of power barely contained, light that should be beautiful but instead seems sickly, wrong, like a fire burning fuel it wasn't meant to consume.
I do a quick glance toward Grim to ensure Gwenievere remains secure—the shadow-giant holds her with unwavering attention, "greee" rumbling continuously from its approximation of chest—before moving to Nikolai's side.
Up close, the wrongness is more apparent.
His skin is pale past the point of Fae ethereal beauty into something closer to illness. Veins show through translucent flesh, carrying light rather than blood, each one pulsing with a rhythm that seems slightly off from a normal heartbeat. His breathing comes in short gasps, as if the simple act of existing requires effort he doesn't quite have.
"Fuck, Nikolai," I observe, the profanity escaping before I can consider whether it's appropriate. "You look like shit."
The Fae huffs—a sound that manages to be both agreement and offense simultaneously.
"Thanks," he grunts, the word carrying exhaustion that goes beyond physical. "Feel like shit."
"What's wrong with him?" Atticus demands, vampire attention finally splits between the prisoner and his fellow bond-mate.
Mortimer and Zeke exchange a look.
The silent communication carries weight I can't quite parse—shared knowledge that apparently doesn't extend to the rest of us. After a moment, Zeke speaks.
"This is the Fae prince's real form," he explains, each word careful, measured. "When independent."
I reach down, pulling Nikolai's arm over my shoulder and wrapping my other arm around his waist. He leans into the support with gratitude that makes something in my chest twist—this powerful being reduced to dependence through circumstances I don't understand.
"What do you mean by 'independent'?" I ask, helping him to his feet despite his obvious struggle to remain upright.
The stranger answers before anyone else can.
