Chapter 5 The Joker’s Game #3
Not one or two marks that might be explained away. Dozens. Covering him like a map of suffering that none of us knew existed.
The room goes heavy.
Silent.
Everyone staring at what we're seeing, trying to reconcile this evidence of prolonged trauma with everything we thought we knew about the arrogant pureblood prince.
Because this isn't a transition of four years that might explain accumulated damage.
It's only been a few months.
Only months since Year One started.
Where did these scars come from? When did this happen? How did none of us know?
"Damien," I whisper his name, the sound escaping before I can stop it.
His expression shifts—discomfort replacing the vulnerability that had briefly shown. Without hesitation, he snaps his fingers, and cloaks of crimson manifest from thin air, wrapping around his scarred form with the particular urgency of someone desperate to hide what's been revealed.
A second cloak flies toward Atticus, who sputters as the fabric settles over his head, hands flailing as he tries to figure out which end is up.
"Can we stop asking stupid questions?" Damien demands, his voice carrying forced composure over whatever emotions he's suppressing, "and get to the elephant in the room?"
He pauses, gaze sweeping across the assembled group.
"As in: what the fuck happened, who's this Prince Douche, and is Gwenievere okay or what?"
Prince Douche.
The nickname is better than Joker, I'll give him that.
For one asking for no more “questions” he just spluttered three, which are pretty vital in needing to be answered.
All eyes turn to Professor Eternalis.
She accepts the attention with the particular grace of someone accustomed to being the center of any room she enters. Moving to a position where everyone can see her easily, she draws the gravity of the space around her like a cloak, commanding attention without demanding it.
Mortimer walks to join Zeke and me on the benches, settling beside the feline with scholarly composure that suggests he's planning to observe rather than participate for the moment.
Atticus finally discovers the hood of his borrowed cloak, yanking it into proper position before shuffling across the room to sit beside still-sleeping Nikolai. One look at the exhausted Fae and sympathy softens his aristocratic features—recognition of someone pushed past reasonable limits.
Then his gaze finds Grim.
The little reaper has been watching everything with the particular attention of beings who exist to witness rather than interfere. His tiny form hovers at my shoulder, scythe held at the ready, skull-face somehow conveying curiosity despite lacking the features necessary for expression.
"Grim," Atticus says, "make notes for Nikolai."
"GREEEE!"
The acceptance is enthusiastic—Grim apparently delighted by this new responsibility.
A shadow-blob poofs into existence beside him, materializing into a notepad and pen that float obediently, ready to record whatever information the sleeping Fae will need when he finally wakes.
Cute and diabolical at the same time.
We all look at Professor Eternalis.
Even as Joker—Prince Yoshiro—Prince Douche—decides this is the appropriate moment to skip across the room and position himself beside her, as if he belongs at her level, as if they're peers rather than whatever hierarchy actually exists between them.
Skip.
He literally skipped.
Like a child excited for candy.
I'm still trying to stop my eye from twitching at the pure bullshit I just witnessed.
There's something about this shifter—this prince, this king, or whomever he believes he is—that grinds my gears in ways I can't articulate. It's not just that he's a threat. I've dealt with threats before. It's not just that he's powerful. I've faced power before.
It's that I can't understand him.
Can't read, predict, or even identify what he is at the most fundamental level.
My shadows have never failed me like this before. They've always been able to taste essence, to identify nature, to provide information that helps me navigate encounters with unknown beings.
But him...
Nothing.
Just an absence where understanding should be.
It's unsettling in ways that go beyond simple wariness into something closer to existential unease.
Professor Eternalis surveys the assembled group—her gaze touching each of us in turn, cataloging our conditions, assessing our readiness for whatever information she's about to share. Her expression carries weight that suggests she's about to change everything we think we understand.
"Well," she begins, voice carrying harmonics that command attention despite their soft volume.
She pauses, letting the moment stretch, building anticipation with the particular skill of someone who has delivered countless significant announcements across an impossibly long lifetime.
"Why don't I be the first to say congratulations."
Congratulations?
The word lands in the silence with weight that doesn't immediately make sense.
Congratulations for what? For surviving the chaos of the past however-long? For not murdering each other despite ample provocation? For somehow assembling in this chartered space without anyone dying permanently?
Her smile carries knowing that makes my stomach tighten with anticipation.
"You've survived Year Three."