The distinction is apparently crucial in six-year-old logic. Cassius's lips twitch with suppressed amusement.
"Of course," he agrees solemnly. "Just resting your heavy head."
His shadow tendrils come alive with unusual gentleness, moving strands of silver hair away from her face. The length surprises me—it flows past her waist even in this diminutive form, far longer proportionally than her adult version. The tendrils seem fascinated, weaving through the strands with something approaching reverence.
She doesn't respond to agree or argue. Five seconds, maybe less, and her breathing evens into sleep's rhythm.
Above us, the barrier's sizzling stops completely.
"Good call, Zeke," I acknowledge, understanding now. Her exhaustion was affecting the realm itself, her guardian nature responding to physical needs with environmental instability.
Zeke's smirk carries feline satisfaction. "It's a feline trait. We notice things."
Nikolai looks around our current location—a relatively flat area of packed shadow-earth surrounded by twisted formations that might be trees or might be crystallized nightmares. "Maybe it would be good if we paused, even for a bit." He pauses, pride warring with honesty before adding quietly, "I'm a tad tired."
The admission from the Fae prince speaks volumes. If Nikolai is acknowledging exhaustion, the rest of us must be running on fumes.
Mortimer nods with understanding, then turns his scholarly attention to Zeke. "Are you simply a feline shifter, or a hybrid?"
The question catches my attention. "Why would you assume he's more than feline?"
"His intuition is expected from a feline, particularly a black cat variant," Mortimer explains, golden eyes studying Zeke with academic interest. "But it's peculiarly matched with his strength in magical arts. Pure feline shifters rarely command such diverse magical capability."
Zeke's smirk widens as he settles gracefully onto the ground, every movement displaying that characteristic fluid economy of motion. He doesn't answer directly, which is answer enough.
Cassius carefully sits while maintaining his hold on sleeping Gwenivere. The ease with which he manages her weight speaks of strength beyond mere physical—shadows assist subtly, creating supports that make his burden lighter.
"As a Duskwalker," he says thoughtfully, "felines are spoken of in our realm at the same level as demigods. Your nine lives aren't metaphorical—they're literal repositories of experience and power."
Zeke settles into a casual sprawl that would look boneless on anyone else. On him, it merely emphasizes his inhuman flexibility. "Among other things."
"Should we make a fire?" Nikolai asks suddenly, wrapping his arms around himself. "It's getting cold."
I hadn't noticed, but he's right. The temperature has been dropping steadily, warmth leaching away into the hungry darkness of this realm. We agree quickly—fire would provide both warmth and light, perhaps even a psychological comfort in this place of shadows.
"Can you form wood?" Mortimer asks Nikolai. "I know the elements are against you here, but?—"
"I can try." Nikolai's expression sets with determination. He brings his hands together, and I can see the strain immediately. In the Fae realm, this would be effortless. Here, every spark of magic fights against environmental hostility.
His hands glow with sickly light—wrong color for healthy Fae magic. The strain shows in trembling muscles, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. When the logs finally manifest, they drop into existence with thuds that speak of dense matter forced into being rather than naturally formed.
"Fuck," Nikolai gasps, clearly breathless. "This is a pain in the ass. If my magic can barely make logs, I'm going to be fucked at the Academy."
We exchange worried glances. If basic manifestation costs this much?—
"Probably."
The voice makes us all jump. Above us, floating on what appears to be a personal cloud, sits child Gabriel. He looks curious rather than hostile, legs kicking idly as he observes our group.
Nikolai groans. "Why are you showing up now?"
The little boy shrugs with elaborate casualness. "I'm more intrigued by the feline, so I figured I'd float by."
Cassius's interest sharpens visibly. "Can't you be out at the same time as Gwenivere?"
Gabriel stares at him for a long moment, seeming to weigh how much to reveal. When he speaks, it's with the tone of someone explaining obvious facts to slow students.
"If we both show up at the same time, it'll take a toll on the barrier and put you at risk. So I can't be around until you reach the gates." He pauses, swinging his legs with childish energy that contrasts his ancient eyes. "When you're at Wicked Academy's grounds, it could be possible with some trial and error."
