Yoshiro.
The name carries Japanese undertones, descent from that corner of the mortal world where supernatural beings have their own particular flavors and traditions. But he doesn'tgive offJapanese aesthetics in any way I can identify—no cultural markers, no behavioral patterns, nothing that suggests connection to those islands or their supernatural communities.
What exact being is he?
The question has been nagging at me since his first appearance. He's definitely a hybrid—whatever sorcery of magic he possesses is multilayered in ways that suggest multiplesupernatural bloodlines combining into something unique. But the specific components escape my analysis, hidden behind that frustrating absence that makes my shadows useless for reading him.
Still prefer calling him Joker.
He pouts.
The expression is theatrical, exaggerated, the face of someone told that the party is over and finding this development personally offensive.
"I'm aKing, mind you," he corrects, the emphasis on his title carrying genuine irritation beneath the performance. "I'm simply waiting for my Queen to wake and claim the throne destined for us."
King.
Queen.
Throne.
The words trigger protective instincts that make my shadows writhe within their barrier. I don't like the implications of his phrasing. Don't like the possessive way he speaks of destinies that apparently involve Gwenievere.
"And who is that Queen?"
The question escapes me before I can consider whether asking is wise. My voice carries edges that suggest the answer better not be what I suspect it is.
Nikolai shifts against my shoulder—still asleep, somehow undisturbed by the conversation happening around them. It's only now that I realize Zeke has moved, the feline having materialized beside me with the particular silence that makes cats so unsettling.
When did he?—
How did he?—
You know what, it doesn't matter.
Cat magic. Feline bullshit. I’m too tired to figure this out.
Joker—Prince Yoshiro, whatever title he actually holds—smirks.
The expression transforms his already unsettling features into something that sends actual shivers down my spine.
This isn't his usual theatrical amusement. This is something darker, something that carriesintentrather than mere entertainment.
Tension shifts through the room like a living thing, everyone sensing the change in atmosphere, everyone suddenly paying closer attention than they were moments before.
His teeth show—white and perfect and somehow sharper than they should be, as if his smile itself is a weapon he's choosing to display.
He walks toward the glass.
The glass.
The barrier separating our chartered space from the smaller room where Gwenievere floats in her stasis sphere.
His movements break whatever spell had been affecting the others. I feel the magic shift, release, dissipate—and suddenly Atticus and Damien are no longer children fighting on the floor but adults sprawled in positions that would be embarrassing even if they weren't apparentlynaked.
Wait.
When did their clothes?—
