Why are they?—
But my attention follows Joker's gaze, tracking to where Gwenievere's form floats in that sphere of incantations and protective magic. The golden light that surrounds her pulses with the rhythm of her heartbeat, symbols rotating around her body in patterns that speak of life maintained through artificial means.
My Queen.
MY Queen.
Not yours. Never yours.
"My lovely Queen," Joker declares, the words landing in the silence with weight that makes everyone's blood run cold.
We all follow his gaze.
Gwenievere floats peacefully, unconscious and unreachable, silver hair drifting around her face like a halo made of starlight. The incantations that crawl across her skin pulse with a steady rhythm, life signs stable and secure.
Beautiful.
Vulnerable.
Mine.
The possessive thought surges through me with force that surprises even my own awareness.
And then I realize I'm growling.
The sound that emerges from my throat has nothing to do with human vocal cords, nothing to do with the Duskwalker nature I usually present. This is something older, something more primal—a warning from parts of myself that rarely surface, a declaration that this woman isclaimedand any threat to that claim will be met with violence beyond rational restraint.
Everyone is looking my way.
Their expressions range from surprise, to wariness, and a certain feline amusement; cat felines clearly find amusement in many things.
"Cassius," Mortimer warns, his voice carrying the particular caution of someone trying to defuse a situation before it explodes.
I don't understand why they're being so careful around me.
I'm merely sitting. Relaxed. My tendrils clearly multiplying, maybe coiling with slightly threatening energy, possibly carrying an aura that suggests anyone who approaches will be unmade at the molecular level.
Okay.
Fine.
Maybe I'm not as calm as I thought.
Two can play this game of possession.
If Joker thinks he can simply declare Gwenievere his "Queen" and have that accepted, he's about to learn exactly how wrong he is. My shadows continue to multiply, darkness spreading from my protected bubble to cast the room in deeper shadow, each tendril carrying the particular weight of a Duskwalker who has decided something needs to die.
"WHY THE FUCK ARE WE NAKED?"
Atticus's declaration cuts through the tension with the particular grace of someone entirely unaware they've interrupted a potentially violent confrontation.
Attention shifts.
My shadows pause their aggressive expansion as everyone registers what Atticus has just noticed. He and Damien are indeed naked—their clothes apparently casualties of whatever transformation magic Joker employed, leaving both men exposed to the room in ways that would be embarrassing if anyone currently had the capacity for embarrassment.
My eyes land on Damien.
Not with any inappropriate interest, but because?—
