Gwenievere’s voice, high and desperate with child-pitch that makes it even more heart-wrenching. My eyes snap to the water, trying to lock onto her small form as the logged boat we'd so carefully constructed spins in the grip of a whirlpool that shouldn't exist.
Then I see it.
The wave doesn't build—iterupts. A column of water shoots upward like some massive aquatic worm, defying every law of physics I understand. It arcs with deliberate intent, not random destruction but targeted malevolence aimed directly at the small girl who stands no chance against its fury.
Her scream sends goosebumps racing across my skin, the sound cutting off abruptly as tons of crushing water swallow her whole. The boat shatters on impact, logs scattered like matchsticks across the churning surface.
I'm not thinking.
There's no moment of decision, no weighing of options or calculating odds. My body simplymoves, surging forward with instinct older than consciousness. Fae magic rushes to the surface of my flesh like blood responding to a wound, burning through channels that usually require careful coaxing in this hostile realm.
The transformation happens mid-stride.
Not the deliberate, conscious shift I usually perform—building Nikolai piece by piece like armor against a world that rejects femininity. This is instant. Primal. One step I'm heavy with masculine form, the next I'm lighter, smaller, shaped by desperation rather than design.
I'm Nikki before my foot hits the platform's edge, and I'm diving before I fully realize I've moved.
The barrier that held back Cassius's shadows, Atticus's blood, Mortimer's fire—it parts for me like silk curtains. No resistance. No pushback. Just sudden absence where solid force had been, as if the magic recognizes something in my transformed state that grants passage where others are denied.
I barely have time to process the implications before I hit the water.
The impact should hurt. Should drive breath from lungs and thoughts from mind. Instead, the waterwelcomesme, parting with liquid grace that feels less like diving and more like coming home.
The sensation is overwhelming—not the hostile rejection I've grown accustomed to in the Infernal Realm, but something approaching reverence. The water glides around me with impossible smoothness, each stroke I take amplified by currents that seem desperate to aid my passage.
These aren't Infernal waters.
The realization arrives with crystalline clarity even as I swim deeper, following the trail of disturbed liquid that marksGwenievere's descent. These waters hum with Fae magic—not the sickly, struggling energy I can barely summon in this realm, but pure, undiluted power that makes my bones sing with recognition.
My eyes strain through the murky depths, searching for—there!
A small form sinking slowly, silver hair fanning out like kelp in the current. Her tiny limbs that had been flailing with desperate instinct have gone still. Too still. The kind of stillness that speaks of consciousness fled and breath stopped.
No, no, no.
I curse in my mind—words in ancient Fae that would make my parents blush if they knew I knew them. My hands shoot outward in unison, fingers spreading wide as I call on magic that finally,finallyresponds without fighting me.
Golden light pulses from my palms, racing through the water like liquid sunshine. It strikes Gwenievere's still form with gentle precision, wrapping around her in ribbons of luminescence that quickly expand into a sphere. The golden bubble pushes outward, forcing water away from her small body, creating an pocket of air where none should exist.
But she's not moving.
Not breathing.
The bubble continues to sink, drawn by weight and water's will toward depths I can't see. I have no choice but to follow, swimming downward with strokes that eat distance despite the growing pressure in my ears, my chest, my everything.
The bubble settles on what must be the bottom—though 'bottom' seems wrong for something that feels infinite. I reach it just as my lungs begin to scream, pressing against the golden barrier that recognizes me as its creator and expands to accommodate my size.
I gasp as I breach into the air pocket, water streaming from my hair, my clothes, every surface that can hold liquid. But I don't pause to appreciate breathing. Gwenievere lies too still on the curved bottom of our golden sanctuary, her child-chest unmoving, lips tinged blue despite the warm light surrounding us.
"Gwen!" I shake her gently at first, then harder when she doesn't respond. "Gwenievere, wake up!"
Nothing. Her small body is limp, head lolling with the particular looseness of unconsciousness or?—
I don't finish the thought. Can't finish it.
My hands position themselves on her tiny chest, finding the proper placement despite the size difference. Compressions. I know the theory, have seen it performed, but doing it on someone so small?—
The first push feels wrong. Too hard for such a delicate ribcage. But too soft won't restart a stopped heart, won't force water from flooded lungs. I find a rhythm, counting in my head, trying to balance necessity with the very real possibility of causing more damage.
