And not just any man—this smirking, unreadable, impossible stranger who seems to find our suffering entertaining.
Professor Eternalis says nothing.
Her silence is more damning than any confirmation could be.
We all groan—a collective expression of frustration and disbelief that transcends species, magic, and the various complicated histories that define our group.
"Like six men weren't enough," I huff, throwing my hands up in exasperation, "which, by the way—" I pause to point directly at Damien, "—we all still haven't forgotten you're a fucking traitor."
Damien scowls back at me, but doesn't defend himself.
Good.
He knows better than to pretend his choices didn't hurt.
The scars covering his body tell their own story—one we haven't fully heard yet, one that might explain or excuse or complicate everything we thought we understood about his betrayals. But that's a conversation for another time, when Gwenievere is awake and capable of participating in decisions that affect her heart.
For now, the accusation stands.
Zeke speaks up, his frost-touched voice carrying genuine curiosity beneath the wariness.
"Why is he destined to be her mate? The only reasoning for that is arranged marriages, which only happen between the fae pretty much."
He's not wrong.
Mate bonds—true mate bonds, the kind that connect souls rather than simply bodies—are sacred things. They don't manifest through political convenience or strategic advantage. They appear because the universe itself recognizes a connection that transcends mortal understanding.
Unless someone has manipulated the process.
Unless there are rules at play that we don't understand.
Unless the fae—with their ancient magics and incomprehensible customs—have found ways to engineer connections that should be spontaneous.
I'm not the only one who catches the way Prince Yoshiro smiles at Zeke's question.
The expression sends goosebumps racing across my skin despite the vampire blood that should make me immune to such involuntary reactions. There's something predatory in that smile—something that suggests he knows exactly what we're afraid of and finds our feardelightful.
I want to claw his eyes out.
Slowly.
While he screams.
The violent fantasy provides brief satisfaction before reality reasserts itself.
Cassius rises then, his movement drawing every eye in the room.
The Duskwalker has always commanded attention—his presence carries the particular weight of someone born to darkness, someone who has learned to make shadow his domain rather than his prison. But there's something different in his bearing now. Something that suggests the events of the past hours have forged him into something sharper, something more defined.
Second-in-command,I realize.
That's what he's become.
The realization doesn't sting the way it might have in Year One, when my ego demanded primacy in all things, when I believed my blood right and my power alone entitled me to stand at Gwenievere's side.
I've grown since then.
We've all grown.
