I take off again and soar straight down, ice detonating on impact as I crash into the ridge, freezing two fae solid beneath my weight, before surging forward and taking flight once more, leaving shattered bodies behind.
The center of the ridge becomes a warzone.
From above, I spiral, watching formations shatter as seelie precision unravels under layered chaos. I pick targets that threaten my brothers, freezing weapons mid-swing, icing limbs, breaking momentum without ever staying long enough to be pinned.
Maul hits the fae formation like a battering ram. Werewolf form erupts from human skin in a transformation so violent it tears through leather and denim like paper. Eight feet of corded muscle and dark fur crashes into the line of warriors with enough momentum to send three of them flying backward, and the sounds that follow—bone cracking, flesh tearing, the wet percussion of Werewolf violence at its most primal—echo off the ridge.
He doesn’t stop moving, he doesn’t pause between strikes, he just drives forward through the fae line with the relentless, devastating efficiency of something that was built to end fights quickly and permanently. A fae blade catches him across the ribs, and he barely registers it, dark fur matting with blood as he backhands the warrior hard enough to send him cartwheeling against a tree, his back breaking with a sickening thud.
Then I spot Flux flowing through the battle like water finding its path, shifting between forms with speed that makes tracking him impossible, wolf lunging at a fae archer, hawk diving to knock a weapon from another’s hands, something vaguely humanoid but fundamentally predatory slamming into a cluster of warriors from above and scattering them like leaves in a storm. His amber eyes glow regardless of what shape he wears, and the fae warriors who catch a direct look into them hesitate for that critical half-second that turns the tide of each exchange.
From above, the battlefield fractures into motion and chance.
Ruckus moves through the chaos below like the universe itself has decided to play favorites. Blades miss him by inches that should have been fatal. A fae warrior lunges and trips overnothing but bad probability, crashing into a fallen log hard enough to break a bone. Another swings wide, magic sputtering as if the realm itself forgot how to support him.
Ruckus laughs, breathless and bright, gold flashing at his throat as he flicks a coin into the air. It spins once, twice, and lands with a sharp metallic kiss against stone. Three fae stumble at the same time, their formation collapsing into a mess of tangled limbs and shattered pride.
He reaches into a saddlebag like this is just another Monday ride instead of a war between realms, pulls out a folded pair of worn black jeans, and glances up.
Right at me.
The leprechaun grins, crooked and knowing. Gives me a lazy wink. Then he tosses the jeans onto a fallen log near the edge of the ridge like he’s setting out a peace offering to gravity itself.
Luck is always thinking two moves ahead.
I descend again, slower this time, the rush of the sky giving way to gravity’s pull as I choose the moment instead of letting instinct take it.
My dragon resists.
Power coils and fights as I force it inward, wings folding against my will, their immense span collapsing with a sound like glaciers grinding together. Scales fracture and shear away in a storm of frozen mist, cold tearing through me while mass condenses violently, bones grinding and reshaping under pressure that burns in its own brutal way. The vastness I just inhabited compresses, locks down, slams back into flesh that feels suddenly too small, too fragile to contain it.
For a heartbeat, it hurts worse than the change going up.
The loss of scale.
The loss of reach.
The loss of certainty.
I feel the ice drag itself back under my skin, power snapping into place with hard, final clicks as muscle and sinew reassert themselves, breath crashing into lungs that suddenly need it again. The world narrows, weight settling heavy and real, and I hit the ridge on two feet instead of four.
My feet crack frozen stone on impact. Cold bleeds outward from me in reflex, ice racing up my arms as my hands come up already sheathed and ready, instinct shifting seamlessly from annihilation to precision.
The jeans sit exactly where Ruckus left them, draped over the log like a silent joke at my expense. Still breathing hard from the shift, I snatch them up and drag them on fast, denim scraping over skin that hasn’t fully decided whether it belongs to man or dragon. The fabric grounds me in a way nothing else does, pulling me back into the shape the world expects, even while power hums just beneath the surface.
Behind me, I hear Ruckus call out, voice bright with wicked satisfaction. “Figured you’d want pants, Prez.”
I don’t look back. I roll my shoulders once, ice cracking softly along my forearms as I step forward into the fray.
My dragon isn’t gone, it never is, but it coils beneath my skin now, restless and watchful, waiting for the next excuse to tear free.
Human again.
For now.
Thorn moves as if the forest becomes a weapon beneath his direction, roots erupting from frozen ground to snake around fae ankles and drag them down, branches sweeping inward like arms reaching for prey, thorns sprouting from every surface within thirty yards until the entire ridge becomes a cage of living wood designed to trap, contain, and destroy anything that tries to fight through it.
Ruckus doesn’t fight the way the others do. He simply tilts the odds until they stop being odds at all. A fae blade aimed at Maul’s exposed back catches on a root that wasn’t there a heartbeat ago. A warrior’s foot finds a patch of ice at precisely the moment his momentum carries him past his point of balance. An archer’s bowstring snaps under tension that shouldn’t exist in enchanted weaponry, sending the arrow wide by inches that might as well be miles.
