Even the ambient sounds of the Infernal Realm seem to pause, as if reality itself needs a moment to process what just occurred.
"Master?" Atticus's voice cuts through the quiet, still cradling Nikki's broken form but unable to hide his shock. "Gabriel, what?—"
"Not Gabriel," he corrects, turning to face us fully for the first time since the battle began. His eyes—those silver depths I've gazed into countless times—now carry flecks of gold that pulsewith internal fire. "Not entirely at least. Gabriel is the mask I wore to survive. The identity forced upon heirs who refused to submit."
Heirs? What does he mean by that?
The incantations on his skin fade slowly, leaving only faint traces of their presence like golden scars. He approaches the kneeling beast with measured steps, each movement carrying the unconscious grace of absolute authority. His hand extends, touching the creature's volcanic glass skull with surprising gentleness.
"You have served well,"he tells it, voice carrying warmth absent from his recent words to us."But the old trials are obsolete. Stand aside."
The beast rises, moving with careful precision to clear our path.
As it shifts, I notice details previously hidden—inscriptions in that same ancient language covering its form, dedication written in volcanic glass to a master long absent.
"The second key,"it rumbles, extending one massive hand. Nestled in its palm sits an object of impossible beauty—a crystal that seems to contain a captured star, light shifting through spectrums that shouldn't exist.
Gabriel takes it without hesitation, the crystal's light immediately harmonizing with the first key's glow.
"Two of three," he murmurs, fingers closing around the artifact with possessive certainty. The way he holds it—palm cupped, fingers spread in perfect symmetry—differs from how Gwenivere handles objects of power.
She grasps.
He cradles.
Details. Always in the details.
The coldness from earlier has fractured slightly, replaced by something more complex. "Nikki requires immediate attention."
"I'm... fine," Nikki gasps, proving herself conscious if not remotely fine. Blood bubbles on her lips with each word, internal damage painting crimson patterns I catalog automatically. Three ribs fractured. Possible punctured lung. Internal bleeding at rate of approximately?—
"Just need... minute..."
"You need more than that," Zeke says, already moving to help Atticus. His frost magic takes on healing properties, crystalline patterns forming in air before settling against her wounds. The magic tastes different here—sharper, more desperate. "Several ribs are broken. Internal bleeding. If we don't?—"
"The third trial will kill her," Gabriel states bluntly. No emotion. Just fact. But the timing of his blinks has changed—2.3 seconds between instead of Gwenivere's usual 3.7. "Kill most of you, actually. These tests were designed for Infernal royalty, not..." He pauses, something flickering in his expression. Manufactured hesitation? "Not my friends."
The admission seems to surprise him as much as us. But I catch the micro-delay between apparent realization and expression. Performed. Calculated. Like watching an actor remember their cues half a beat late.
I study the micro-expressions that flash across his features—the slight widening of eyes — 0.2 seconds too long — the minute tensing of jaw muscles; left side only, when Gwenivere favors right. Each detail files away in the mental catalog I maintain of those who matter. And the discrepancies are multiplying.
He's conflicted. The awakened memories war with recent connections.
Or so he wants us to believe.
"Then we find another way," I state, moving closer despite the waves of power still radiating from his form. My shadows taste that power, cataloging its flavor—ancient, yes, but tingedwith something else. Like wine poured over wine. Same vessel, different vintages. "Together."
"There is no other way," he responds, but the certainty wavers. Deliberately? "The academy requires three keys. The trials?—"
"Were designed for a different time," Mortimer interrupts, scholarly mind already analyzing possibilities. Dragon intelligence misses the performance, focused on theoretical solutions rather than immediate deception. "A different political structure. If you truly are the returned heir, then perhaps the rules themselves can be... adjusted."
Gabriel's laugh is unexpected and bitter.Sharp. Wrong.The sound originates from his chest rather than throat—completely different resonance pattern. "Adjusted? Do you have any idea what—" He stops, hand rising to his temple. The gesture is too delicate, fingers splaying in a way that suggests longer nails than he possesses. Muscle memory from a different form? "No. That's... that's not..."
"Gabriel?" I reach for him, shadows extending with careful intent. They recoil slightly upon contact—not from heat or cold, but from something more fundamental. A dissonance in his magical signature. Like touching a chord played in two different keys simultaneously.
He doesn't pull away this time. Instead, he looks at me with eyes that carry too much pain for any single lifetime. But there's something else there. A flicker of... amusement? No. Darker.Mockery. The emotion sits wrong in familiar features, like seeing a sneer on a saint's statue.
It’s as if Gabriel or even Gwenivere are potentially fighting with a third entity?
