I need to understand him.
The imperative surfaces with clarity that cuts through the pleasant fog of satiation. This man—this Fae prince, this centuries-old being who has apparently been waiting for me specifically—represents variables I can't calculate. He seemed practically unhinged during our first interaction, all smirks and suggestive comments and the casual violation of pulling my soul from my body like it was a party trick rather than a potentially fatal procedure.
But now?
Now he's calm in ways that contrast sharply with that initial impression. The manic energy that crackled around him has settled into something more controlled, more contemplative. He sips his tea with movements that speak to centuries of refined manners, posture relaxed in the particular way of someone who no longer perceives immediate threats.
Bipolar, a clinical part of my mind suggests.
Or simply complicated in ways that centuries of isolation might produce.
The soul extraction still haunts me.
Not the experience itself—though watching my consciousness separate from my flesh remains deeply unsettling in retrospect—but what itrevealed. The beauty I witnessed with awakened eyes, the magic that twinkled through every surface of this room, the reality that exists beneath and alongside the physical world I've always known...
Now this library looksdullin comparison.
The shelves that seemed impressive when I first entered reveal themselves as shadows of what they truly are. The floating candelabras appear as simple enchantments rather than the crystallized fire-spirits I glimpsed in my extracted state. The books pulse with contained knowledge I can no longer perceive, their secrets hidden behind filters my normal vision enforces.
I saw the truth.
And now I have to sit with that truth.
I'm potentially Fae.
The admission carries weight that threatens to collapse whatever internal structure I've built my identity around. Half vampire, half witch—that's what I've believed, what I've been told, what has defined my understanding of myself since I was old enough to comprehend the concept of hybrid heritage.
But the vines that emerged from my flesh...
The roses that bloomed in shades of gold and pink and crimson...
The incantations that crawled across my skin with the particular pattern of Fae magic rather than witchcraft...
I have to be Fae.
If I'm bonded to this man—this being who is most definitely Fae in every way that matters—then I must carry the same heritage.
I study him across the table, trying to categorize what I'm observing.
Dark Fae, instinct suggests.
His magic carried the particular weight of midnight and frost, vines in shades of blue and purple and black that spoke to aspects of Fae nature that don't align with lighter courts. The roses that bloomed from his flesh absorbed light rather than reflecting it, beauty that exists in shadow rather than sunshine.
But dark doesn't necessarily meanbad.
I've learned that lesson through trials that taught me to question assumptions about good and evil, light and dark, hero and villain. Cassius commands shadows that could unmake reality, yet his devotion to me burns brighter than any sun. Damien wore the mask of enemy for years while secretly working to ensure my survival. Appearances deceive, and magic that looks threatening often protects rather than destroys.
His magic doesn't feel villainous.
The realization arrives with the particular certainty of instinct that transcends conscious analysis. Whatever power Koishii carries, whatever darkness defines his Fae nature, it doesn't register as threat when it brushes against my awareness. It feels complementary rather than opposing, cold that balances my warmth, night that completes my dawn.
Or maybe he's simply hiding that part from me.
The suspicion refuses to die entirely.
I wouldn't be surprised if centuries of survival had taught him to mask his true nature, to present whatever face serves his immediate purposes. Trust takes time to build, and we've known each other for... what? An hour? Less?
But when I lost consciousness...
