"Nikolai?" Atticus prompts, concern coloring his tone. "What's wrong?"
When he finally speaks, his voice carries certainty that makes everyone pause.
"These waters don't belong in this realm."
The words hang in the air like a prophecy nobody wants to acknowledge. Waters that don't belong—what does that mean?How can water be foreign to a realm that contains every other impossibility?
Before anyone can ask for clarification, the world provides its own answer.
The ground lurches.
Not a tremor or shake but a full-body convulsion of the realm itself. The shore cracks beneath our feet, fissures spreadingin patterns that look almost like text—messages written in breaking stone that we're not meant to read.
I stumble, only Cassius's grip keeping me upright. His shadows explode outward, creating a platform of darkness that remains stable even as everything else shifts. The others struggle for balance, Mortimer's partial transformation giving him claws to dig into the moving earth while Atticus uses vampire speed to ride the quake rather than fight it.
"Better initiate the game plan and analyze later!" Zeke shouts over the sound of grinding stone.
The pragmatism cuts through confusion, spurring everyone into motion with the particular efficiency of those who've learned to act first and understand later.
"Nikolai, we need materials!" Mortimer calls out, already pulling heat from the air in preparation.
Despite the chaos, despite his obvious distraction, Nikolai responds immediately. His hands glow with that sickly light that speaks of Fae magic fighting against environmental hostility. The strain shows in every line of his body—muscles trembling, sweat beading on his forehead, teeth gritted with effort.
But logs materialize.
Not the smooth, perfect timber that Fae magic would normally produce, but gnarled things that look torn from trees rather than crafted. They drop onto the quaking shore with thuds that speak of desperate density, each one a small victory against a realm that wants to deny their existence.
Cassius's shadows spring into action before the logs finish falling. Dark tendrils weave between the timber with the precision of supernatural spiders, binding wood to wood in patterns that create structure from chaos. The shadows don't just tie—theyfuse, becoming part of the construction itself.
"Mortimer!" Atticus calls out, already moving at vampire speed to arrange the logs according to some design only he can see. "We need adhesive!"
The dragon shifter nods, his partial transformation allowing him to breathe flames that burn hotter than any natural fire. But he doesn't aim at the wood. Instead, he focuses on patches of the blackened shore, heating the coal-infused stone until it liquefies into tar.
The smell is overwhelming—burning pitch mixed with something older, wronger.Like cremation grounds and chemical spills and the particular scent of endings made permanent. My child-nose wrinkles, but I don't complain. Can't complain when everyone is working with such desperate efficiency.
Atticus becomes a blur of motion, vampire speed allowing him to be everywhere at once. He scoops molten tar with his bare hands—the burns healing instantly—and applies it to every joint, every connection, every point where wood meets wood or shadow meets substance. His precision is architectural, each placement strengthening the overall structure.
Within minutes that feel like hours, we have a boat.
'Boat' is perhaps too generous a term. It's more raft than vessel—a platform of logs bound by shadow and sealed with tar that still steams in places. But it's large enough for all of us, stable enough to float, and right now that makes it beautiful.
"Everyone on!" Cassius commands, his shadows creating a ramp from shore to deck.
We board quickly but carefully, weight distributing across the surface with conscious precision. I end up in the center—the safest spot—surrounded by bodies that form a protective circle whether they mean to or not.
The quaking intensifies, cracks in the shore spreading toward the water's edge. Whatever window we have is closing fast.
"Zeke, Nikolai—we need propulsion!" Mortimer shouts over the grinding stone.
They position themselves at what has become the boat's stern, hands already glowing with gathered power. Wind magic requires harmony to be effective—too much force from one direction and we'll spin rather than move forward.
But when they work together, the result is perfection.
Zeke's magic carries the cold precision of winter storms, while Nikolai's holds the wild energy of spring gales. The two forces should conflict, but instead they braid together like rope—each strand supporting the other, creating something stronger than either alone.
Our makeshift vessel lurches forward, then smooths into steady motion. The dark water parts before us with reluctance, as if it would prefer to swallow us whole but can't quite manage it. Not yet.
As the shore recedes behind us, the quaking finally stops. The sudden stillness feels more ominous than the chaos—like the realm is holding its breath, waiting to see what happens next.
