The gesture is so dramatically victorious, so absolutelyproudof the work he's accomplished, that I can't help but smile. He looks like a student who has just solved an impossible equation, like a knight presenting proof of a slain dragon, like someone who has accomplished something genuinely meaningful and wants the world to acknowledge it.
Adorable.
Terrifying and adorable in equal measure.
The thought makes my smile widen before reality reasserts itself.
Where am I?
The question surfaces with the particular weight of someone only now registering their surroundings. I've been so focused on Grim, on documenting the dream, on processing Gabriel's farewell, that I haven't actuallylookedat the space containing me.
I do so now.
I'm in a pod.
The realization arrives with mild surprise—I'd expected the crystalline chamber from before, the preservation fluid and the magical monitoring equipment. But this is different. This is something designed for comfort rather than medical intervention, soft surfaces cradling my body, warmth surrounding me in ways that feel almost nurturing.
The pod's interior glows with soft bioluminescence that emanates from veins threading through its structure, casting everything in gentle blue-white light. The material itself seems organic—not quite metal, not quite stone, something that exists in the spaces between conventional classifications. It responds to my weight with subtle adjustments, surfaces shifting to better support whatever position I occupy.
Comfortable.
Unexpectedly, impossibly comfortable.
Beyond the pod's edges, the room reveals itself in fragments. Dark walls that absorb light rather than reflecting it, high ceilings that disappear into shadows too deep to penetrate, the particular aesthetic of spaces designed by beings who consider darkness a feature rather than a flaw.
And to my left?—
Oh.
My breath catches.
Cassius.
The Duskwalker sits in a chair positioned beside my pod, arms crossed over his chest, head bowed in what I immediately recognize as sleep. His silver hair falls across his face in disarray that suggests he hasn't moved in hours, strands catching the bioluminescence and transforming it into something almost ethereal. The harsh lines of his features have softened in unconsciousness, revealing glimpses of vulnerability that he would never allow anyone to witness while awake.
He's beautiful.
The thought arrives without permission, cutting through everything else to plant itself firmly in my awareness.
Devastatingly, impossibly beautiful.
I've seen Cassius in many states—furious and cold, protective and territorial, burning with desire that threatened to consume us both. But this? This unguarded rest, this unconscious trust that allows him to lower his defenses in my presence? This might be the most beautiful he's ever been.
I find myself studying him with attention I probably shouldn't indulge.
The way his chest rises and falls with breathing that seems almost optional for his kind. The way his hands—hands that have held me, protected me, claimed me in ways that still make my blood heat at the memory—rest loosely against his crossedarms. The way his lips, usually pressed into lines of concern or twisted in sardonic commentary, have relaxed into something approaching peace.
Do Duskwalkers even need sleep?
The question surfaces from half-remembered conversations, fragments of lore about beings who exist between life and death, shadow and substance. I don't think they require rest the way mortals do—their energy comes from sources beyond simple physical recovery.
But he's exhausted.
Just like I was.
Whatever happened while I was unconscious took something from him too.
The guilt that accompanies the realization is immediate and sharp.
