Atticus, who's been watching this exchange with increasing interest, suddenly speaks up.
"If we tag-teamed, do you think we'd have a fighting chance?"
Both Cassius and Mortimer turn to look at him with identical expressions of surprise.
"Against him?" Cassius considers, tilting his head as he evaluates Mortimer's stance, the way power sits on him like a second skin. "Maybe. Shadows and blood against dragon fire and centuries of knowledge."
"It would be an interesting experiment," Mortimer muses, and the scholarly tone is completely at odds with the battle they're discussing.
"You're all being foolish right now," I interject, pinching the bridge of my nose with exhaustion that's bone-deep.
But the words come out wrong—slurred at the edges, like my mouth has forgotten how to properly form sounds. The room tilts suddenly, or maybe I tilt, the distinction becoming academic as my balance completely abandons me.
Cassius's shadows catch me before I can fall, tendrils wrapping around my waist with gentle insistence. But I barely feel them. Something else is happening, something that has nothing to do with exhaustion or dimensional displacement.
"Gwenievere?" Multiple voices, overlapping with concern that sounds distant despite their proximity.
Before I can respond, before I can even process what's happening, my eyes roll back.
The world disappears.
No, that's not right.
The worldchanges.
I'm suddenly elsewhere, but not physically. This is different from entering someone's trial room, different from mental communication.This is... observation.Like I'm a ghost in someone else's crisis, able to see but not interact.
The chaos is immediate and overwhelming.
Books—thousands of them—fly through space that might be a room or might be a universe compressed into room-shape. They're not just moving but attacking, their pages razor-sharp, their covers snapping like jaws hungry for flesh. Pages rain downlike snow made of words, each one carrying weight that has nothing to do with paper.
And in the middle of it all is Zeke.
He stands at the center of a barrier that shimmers with desperation more than power. The shield is failing—I can see it in the way it flickers, in the way each impact from the attacking books makes it thin a little more. His usual feline grace is gone, replaced by the rigid posture of someone holding on through will alone.
His appearance makes my chest tight with worry.
Gone is the casual confidence, the slight smirk that suggests he knows more than he's telling. His skin is pale—not the attractive pallor of someone who avoids sun but the sickly white of blood loss or magical drain. Sweat beads on his forehead, running down temples in streams that speak of sustained effort beyond sustainable limits.
But it's his eyes that stop my heart.
Those extraordinary cat eyes—usually so calm, so knowing—are wide with fear. Not the hot fear of immediate danger but the cold fear of someone who's calculated the odds and found them impossibly stacked against them. He knows he's losing. Knows he can't maintain this defense much longer. Knows that when the barrier fails, whatever's attacking will tear him apart.
I try to locate the source of the assault, scanning the chaotic space for whatever entity is orchestrating this sustained attack. But there's nothing—no visible attacker, no central source. It's as if the library itself has turned hostile, every book a soldier in an army commanded by invisible general.
Then Zeke's eyes meet mine.
The impossibility of it stops all thought. He shouldn't be able to see me—I'm not really there, this is vision or projection or something equally intangible. But his cat eyes lock onto mine with recognition that transcends physical presence.
I see hope flicker across his features, quickly replaced by increased fear. Not for himself—for me. He's afraid I'll try to help, afraid I'll be caught in whatever trap has him.
I try to speak, to assure him that I'm coming, that he's not alone. But my voice won't work. This projection or vision doesn't include sound, at least not from my end. I can observe but not interact, witness but not warn.
So I mouth the words instead, exaggerating each movement to ensure he can read my lips:
"I'm coming for you."
He shakes his head immediately, violently, the gesture making his barrier flicker dangerously. His own lips move in what's clearly "No," followed by what might be "Too dangerous" or "Stay away."
