The little reaper has been watching everything with the particular attention of beings who exist to witness rather than interfere. His tiny form hovers at my shoulder, scythe held at the ready, skull-face somehow conveying curiosity despite lacking the features necessary for expression.
"Grim," Atticus says, "make notes for Nikolai."
"GREEEE!"
The acceptance is enthusiastic—Grim apparently delighted by this new responsibility.
A shadow-blob poofs into existence beside him, materializing into a notepad and pen that float obediently, readyto record whatever information the sleeping Fae will need when he finally wakes.
Cute and diabolical at the same time.
We all look at Professor Eternalis.
Even as Joker—Prince Yoshiro—Prince Douche—decides this is the appropriate moment to skip across the room and position himself beside her, as if he belongs at her level, as if they're peers rather than whatever hierarchy actually exists between them.
Skip.
He literally skipped.
Like a child excited for candy.
I'm still trying to stop my eye from twitching at the purebullshitI just witnessed.
There's something about this shifter—this prince, this king, or whomever he believes he is—that grinds my gears in ways I can't articulate. It's not just that he's a threat. I've dealt with threats before. It's not just that he's powerful. I've faced power before.
It's that I can't understand him.
Can't read, predict, or even identify what heisat the most fundamental level.
My shadows have never failed me like this before. They've always been able to taste essence, to identify nature, to provide information that helps me navigate encounters with unknown beings.
But him...
Nothing.
Just an absence where understanding should be.
It's unsettling in ways that go beyond simple wariness into something closer to existential unease.
Professor Eternalis surveys the assembled group—her gaze touching each of us in turn, cataloging our conditions, assessing our readiness for whatever information she's about to share. Herexpression carries weight that suggests she's about to change everything we think we understand.
"Well," she begins, voice carrying harmonics that command attention despite their soft volume.
She pauses, letting the moment stretch, building anticipation with the particular skill of someone who has delivered countless significant announcements across an impossibly long lifetime.
"Why don't I be the first to say congratulations."
Congratulations?
The word lands in the silence with weight that doesn't immediately make sense.
Congratulations for what? For surviving the chaos of the past however-long? For not murdering each other despite ample provocation? For somehow assembling in this chartered space without anyone dying permanently?
Her smile carries knowing that makes my stomach tighten with anticipation.
"You've survived Year Three."
CHAPTER 6
