Scribbles.
The word is generous.
What covers the notepad's surface looks less like writing and more like what might happen if someone gave a pen to a very enthusiastic spider and asked it to document a lecture. Lines cross and recross in patterns that suggest meaning without actually delivering it, occasional symbols that might be letters ormight be artistic interpretation scattered throughout like islands in a sea of chaos.
It takes me a moment—several moments, actually—to parse what I'm seeing.
"You made notes for me?" My voice emerges as a croak, vocal cords protesting the sudden demand for sound after however long they've been dormant.
Grim beams.
The expression shouldn't be possible on a skull, shouldn't translate through void-eyes and bone-structure, but somehow itdoes. His entire form radiates pride as he nods rapidly, the motion making his oversized hood bob in ways that would be adorable if he weren't technically a harbinger of death.
He was taking notes while I was unconscious.
Notes about... what? The conversations that happened? The revelations about Prince Yoshiro and the chalice and everything else?
The thought of trying to decode his enthusiastic scribbling makes my head ache in ways that have nothing to do with physical recovery.
But there's something more urgent.
The dream.
Gabriel's words.
The riddles I need to remember.
"Can you jot down my dream?"
The request escapes before I can second-guess it, instinct recognizing that whatever Gabriel shared—about Deathshire, about Elena, about the key being wickedness at the expense of free will—is too important to risk forgetting as consciousness continues to solidify around me.
Grim's reaction is immediate and enthusiastic.
"GREEEE!"
The old notepad poofs out of existence with a sound like silk tearing, shadow-smoke dispersing into nothing, and a new one materializes in its place. Fresh pages gleam with the particular blankness of potential, waiting to receive whatever information I can provide.
I take another deep breath, organizing thoughts that still feel scattered and dreamlike around the edges.
Then I begin.
The words come slowly at first—fragments of conversation, impressions of the impossible twilight, the feeling of Gabriel's hand in mine as we stood on that silver-gold hill overlooking the Academy's gates. I describe the colors that shouldn't coexist, the stars that burned too close, the wind that carried no temperature. I relay his words about two sides of one coin, about Deathshire Academy waiting on the other side, about Nikki being safe with him.
The key is wickedness, but at the expense of free will.
I repeat the phrase twice, emphasizing its importance, hoping Grim's documentation captures the exact wording even if his transcription style leaves something to be desired in terms of legibility.
I mention the seven—the way Gabriel smirked when I counted only six bond mates, the implication hanging unspoken but impossible to ignore. Prince Yoshiro's face surfaces in my memory, those impossible shifting features, and I add that detail too.
Finally, I describe the ending.
"This is payback for being a bitch to Nikki."
And then the bastard pushed me off a cliff.
By the time I finish, my throat aches and my voice has worn thin, but the essential information has been transferred—hopefully captured in whatever form Grim considers documentation.
He lifts the notepad in triumph.
