Tendrils shift within my protective dome, creating an opening just large enough for Nikolai to pass through while maintaining the barrier against whatever voodoo magic the Joker has been using to keep the others in child form. The darkness parts like a curtain, welcoming the Fae into the protected space before sealing closed behind them.
The transformation is immediate.
One moment, Nikolai is child-sized, features round with forced youth. The next, adult proportions reassert themselves with the particular grace of magic being released rather than overcome. Bones lengthen, muscles mature, the Fae's natural beauty returning to its usual ethereal splendor.
"Thank the Fae gods," Nikolai breathes, the relief in their voice palpable. "Fuck, I need a nap."
He doesn’t hesitate to drop onto the bench beside me, his body collapsing with the boneless exhaustion of someone who has been running on willpower alone for far too long.
"Join the club," I observe, my voice carrying dry amusement that feels appropriate given our circumstances. "But I guess the Wicked don't get breaks."
Nikolai groans—the sound carrying eloquent complaint about everything we've endured and everything that apparently still awaits.
"I'm using your arm," he announces, the words slurring slightly with approaching unconsciousness, "'cause I can't handle feeling like shitandneck pain."
I smirk at the warning, but the Fae is out in literally five seconds—consciousness surrendering to exhaustion with the particular speed of someone who has been fighting sleep for too long. His weight settles against my shoulder with familiar comfort, silver-gold hair spilling across my arm in waves that carry the particular shimmer of Fae magic even in sleep.
Teammates.
Mortimer has been observing us from his position near the door, those dragon eyes missing nothing.
His gaze tracks from my protective barrier to sleeping Nikolai to the continued chaos of Atticus and Damien still attempting to murder our unwanted guest.
"Are you guys done fighting?" he asks, voice carrying the particular patience of someone who has decided that waiting is more efficient than intervening. "Because we need to talk."
"NO!"
Atticus and Damien's response comes in perfect unison—child voices harmonizing in fury that would be impressive if it wasn't so ridiculous.
Then they look at each other.
Realize they've agreed on something.
And immediately begin fightingeach otherinstead, small fists swinging with the particular lack of coordination that makes children's brawls more amusing than threatening.
The Joker laughs.
That fucking laugh.
It echoes through the chartered space like nails on a chalkboard, each note calculated to irritate, each chuckle designed to make anyone listening want to commit violence just to achieve silence.
Is that all we have to listen to?
Is his entire personality just "annoying chaos gremlin"?
My eye begins to twitch with irritation, which I usually pride myself on suppressing.
Professor Eternalis sighs—the sound carrying weight that speaks of countless similar situations she's apparently navigated across whatever impossibly long lifespan she possesses.
"Prince Yoshiro," she says, and there's something in her tone that makes everyone pause. Not authority exactly—respect. The particular deference given to those whose power demands acknowledgment even from other powerful beings. "Can we pause?"
Prince Yoshiro.
The name settles into my consciousness with weight I don't fully understand. The title carries formality that suggests a legitimate claim rather than self-proclamation.
Prince.
But prince of what? Of where?
