His eyes open, purple and gold dancing in irises that shouldn't be able to hold both colors simultaneously.
"That final answer is in the roots of Year Four."
The words land like prophecy.
"Year Four? Not in Year Three?"
He shakes his head slowly, each motion deliberate as calligraphy.
"Year Three is of Inferno Flames and the land of dead. So what do you expect the final year to be surrounded by?"
My eyes widen as understanding crashes through me like a tide.
"The land of the living. Of perfection. The environment that will complement the one struggling in these lands that are opposite."
I look back at Nikki with new understanding.
She suffers here because this realm opposes her nature.
But in a realm that enhances rather than diminishes...
"The final year involves the Fae at their peak."
Zeke nods with satisfaction of a teacher whose student finally grasps the lesson.
"Exactly."
The world sways.
No—I sway. The drain of holding time makes itself known all at once, vision blurring at edges like watercolors running together. My form shifts uncontrollably—child to adult and back again, unable to maintain stability.
"Time's up," Zeke observes with characteristic detachment. "I suggest you make your decision."
"But—" I start, looking to him for more answers, more time, more something.
He's already a cat again, dropping to the ground with liquid grace. Without acknowledgment of our conversation, he pads back toward the others, tail high with feline satisfaction.
I frown at his retreating form.
"I don't like that cat."
But even as the words leave my mouth, I know they're not entirely true.
Zeke sees too much, knows too much, involves himself precisely as much as necessary and not an inch further.
It's irritating.
It's also exactly what we need.
He'll have a stronger connection with my sister eventually. I can feel it in the way their magic resonates even while she sleeps—darkness and mystery finding harmony in ways that will complicate everyone's dynamics.
"So annoying being in the midst of my sister's love life," I mutter, but the complaint lacks heat.
Because maybe…I can start my own.
Love?
The word feels foreign in my mind. I've observed it through my sister's experiences, felt the secondhand warmth of connections that weren't quite mine. But my own love? Independent, chosen, reciprocated?
