I shove him hard enough to crack the wall he impacts, then I'm in his face, finger pointed like a weapon. "Don't lust for what's MINE!"
He rolls his eyes—myeyes in his face, making the gesture surreal. "You're being selfish. You can keep the old man and the centuries-old cat. The vampire is too loyal to you anyway, and the Duskwalker is getting on my nerves."
"I demand to return." The words come out steadier than I feel. "Now."
He lifts his hands in mock surrender. "You may go back. But I'd warn you to hurry." His expression shifts, amusement replaced by something darker. "The crazed Guardian side of you is killing them right now."
Everything stops.
"What?" I shake my head, ice replacing fire in my veins. "I don't understand. Guardian? I don't—this doesn't make sense! I need to understand!"
His hands clamp onto my face with shocking strength. Claws I didn't see extend pierce my cheeks, drawing parallel lines of agony that make me scream. But he doesn't let go, doesn't even flinch as my blood coats his fingers.
"I am the heir of the Wicked, dear sister." His voice drops to a whisper that carries more force than any shout. "And you? You are the guardian of its pearly gates. You are the biggest threat to us all."
He presses his forehead against mine, the contact burning like a brand. "And YOU will be the one our dear sister needs to acquire the chalice she believes is her birthright and not OURS."
Sister. Chalice. Birthright.
The words tumble through my mind without finding purchase, puzzle pieces from different boxes forced together.
"Now be a good hybrid," he seethes, breath hot against my skin, "and snap out of it before you kill my little Fae pet."
Pain shoots through me—not physical but existential. Like being turned inside out, every nerve firing at once. My eyes snap open to?—
"NO!"
Multiple voices scream the word as my body freezes mid-strike. My hands—no, these aren't hands. These are weapons. Claws longer than swords, edges sharp enough to slice reality itself. They hover inches from?—
Nikki.
She's dying. I can see it in the gray pallor of her skin, the shallow flutter of her chest, the way her body seems to dissolve at the edges. Blood—so much blood—paints patterns across her tattered uniform. She's cradled in something that might once have been shadows but now looks like molten obsidian, form holding her even as it burns her.
I did this.
The realization hits as I finally process what I've become. My body is massive—four times my normal size at least. I wear darkness itself as a dress, the fabric woven from night sky complete with stars that pulse like dying hearts. But the beauty is corrupted by flames that dance across every surface. My hair?—
My hair is fire. Literal flames in impossible colors: orange bleeding to red bleeding to purple, with white-hot strands that crack like lightning through the conflagration.
I'm not standing. I hover above an apocalypse of my own making.
The landscape below defies description. What was once solid ground is now an ocean of molten stone and twisted reality. Obsidian spires jut at impossible angles, their surfaces reflecting not light but screams. Lava fountains paint the air with liquid destruction. And everywhere—everywhere—is evidence of violence that could only come from me.
How long was I trapped in that box of memories? How long have I been this thing?
My gaze finds my companions—what's left of them.
Zeke kneels on a platform of ice that melts and reforms with each labored breath. His usual grace is gone, replaced by exhaustion so complete it's a wonder he remains conscious. Frost patterns spread from his hands, but they're wrong—fractured, desperate. Fighting a losing battle against my flames.
Mortimer—
Oh god, Mortimer.
His dragon form is incomplete, caught between human and beast in ways that speak of desperation rather than choice. Half his clothing has been incinerated, revealing flesh marked by burns that would kill anyone not blessed with dragon resilience. His wings—those magnificent appendages I've seen carry us to safety—are tattered. Holes burned through membrane, scales cracked and weeping golden blood.
And Cassius?—
The gash across his face makes me want to scream. It runs from temple to jaw, deep enough to expose bone that gleams white through the red. His shadows writhe around him, but they're weakened, corrupted by exposure to whatever I've become. His clothes hang in tatters, revealing a canvas of wounds that map out a battle I don't remember fighting.
