Damien—the pureblood prince whose transformation into hellhound we all witnessed, whose redemption apparently earned him a place among our unlikely group—has similarly been aged down to childhood. His features carry the promise of the devastating beauty he'll grow into, but right now he looks like an angry schoolboy plotting revenge against a particularly cruel teacher.
Nikolai—or perhaps some aspect of him; the Fae situation remains confusing—stumbles around with the particular coordination of someone whose body no longer matches their motor memory. His Fae grace has been replaced by the clumsiness of youth, each step a negotiation between adult mind and child limbs.
And the source of this chaos?
The stranger.
The Joker.
The being whose name we still don't know because he apparently finds our ignorance amusing.
He stands in the opposite corner of the room, leaning against a conjured wall with the casual arrogance of someone who has never encountered a situation he couldn't control. His impossible eyes—those color-shifting irises that refuse to settle on any single hue—dance with amusement as he watches our companions rage against circumstances they can't overcome.
His laughter fills the space.
It's the kind of laugh that makes you want to commit violence—rich and genuine and carrying the particular satisfaction of someone who finds everything around them deeply entertaining. Each chuckle seems designed specifically to irritate, each grin calculated to infuriate.
Joker.
The nickname fits better than I want to admit.
The door opens.
Professor Eternalis enters first, her eternal features carrying the particular patience of someone who has witnessed enough chaos to know that this too shall pass. Mortimer follows close behind, his dragon eyes scanning the room with scholarly assessment that quickly shifts to something approaching disbelief.
Neither looks surprised by the pandemonium—a fact that speaks either to their experience with our group specifically or their experience with chaos in general. But Mortimer's eyebrow arches with judgment that's almost audible, his gaze sweeping from the child-formed heirs to the laughing stranger to me, sitting on my bench like this is all perfectly normal.
What the fuck is actually happening?
The question is clear in his expression even if he doesn't voice it.
All I can do is shrug.
My shadows have maintained a careful barrier around my position—an almost invisible bubble of protective darkness that seems to be the only thing preventing whatever magic the stranger is using from affecting me as well. The tendrils coil and shift within their dome, agitated but contained, ready to strike if necessary but smart enough to recognize that attack might invite retaliation I'm not prepared to face.
I can't read him.
The thought surfaces again, as it has countless times since the stranger first appeared.
Every being I've ever encountered carries some fundamental essence I can taste with my shadows. Vampires feel like copper and eternity. Dragons like hoarded flame. Fae like deceptive beauty given power. Even humans have their particular signature of mortality and ambition.
But him...
My shadows probe the edges of his existence and find nothing. Not emptiness—absence. Whatever he is exists in frequencies my darkness can't perceive, in dimensions my power can't access. It's like trying to grasp smoke, like trying to hold water in a net designed for catching fish.
Unsettling doesn't begin to describe it.
Zeke is the only one seemingly unaffected by the chaos.
The feline shifter sits on a higher bench in the corner of the room, legs crossed with casual elegance, attention focused entirely on inspecting his nails as if their condition is the most important matter currently requiring attention. His golden eyes carry the particular detachment of cats who have decided that the drama unfolding around them is beneath their notice.
Nine lives of experience apparently teach you what's worth worrying about.
This apparently isn't.
"I'M A FUCKING PUREBLOOD AND YOU'VE CHANGED ME INTO A FUCKING KID!"
Damien's child-voice cracks on the final word, the pitch shift only adding to his humiliation. His small fists clench at his sides, body trembling with rage that his diminished form can't properly contain.
