Gods.
What happened to him?
The scars covering his body weren't there before.
I'm certain of it.
In Year One, in all our encounters since, Damien's flesh was unmarked—the perfect canvas of pureblood genetics, skin that healed from any injury without evidence it had ever been damaged.
But now...
Scars trace patterns across his torso, his arms, his legs—patterns that speak of systematic damage rather than randomviolence. This isn't the aftermath of battle wounds or trial injuries. This is something deliberate, something repeated, something that was done to him over time with cruel intention.
The magnitude is staggering.
Not one or two marks that might be explained away.Dozens. Covering him like a map of suffering that none of us knew existed.
The room goes heavy.
Silent.
Everyone staring at what we're seeing, trying to reconcile this evidence of prolonged trauma with everything we thought we knew about the arrogant pureblood prince.
Because this isn't a transition of four years that might explain accumulated damage.
It's only been a few months.
Only months since Year One started.
Where did these scars come from? When did this happen? How did none of us know?
"Damien," I whisper his name, the sound escaping before I can stop it.
His expression shifts—discomfort replacing the vulnerability that had briefly shown. Without hesitation, he snaps his fingers, and cloaks of crimson manifest from thin air, wrapping around his scarred form with the particular urgency of someone desperate to hide what's been revealed.
A second cloak flies toward Atticus, who sputters as the fabric settles over his head, hands flailing as he tries to figure out which end is up.
"Can we stop asking stupid questions?" Damien demands, his voice carrying forced composure over whatever emotions he's suppressing, "and get to the elephant in the room?"
He pauses, gaze sweeping across the assembled group.
"As in: what the fuck happened, who's this Prince Douche, and is Gwenievere okay or what?"
Prince Douche.
The nickname is better than Joker, I'll give him that.
For one asking for no more “questions” he just spluttered three, which are pretty vital in needing to be answered.
All eyes turn to Professor Eternalis.
She accepts the attention with the particular grace of someone accustomed to being the center of any room she enters. Moving to a position where everyone can see her easily, she draws the gravity of the space around her like a cloak, commanding attention without demanding it.
Mortimer walks to join Zeke and me on the benches, settling beside the feline with scholarly composure that suggests he's planning to observe rather than participate for the moment.
Atticus finally discovers the hood of his borrowed cloak, yanking it into proper position before shuffling across the room to sit beside still-sleeping Nikolai. One look at the exhausted Fae and sympathy softens his aristocratic features—recognition of someone pushed past reasonable limits.
Then his gaze finds Grim.
