Chapter 6 Fragments Of Truth #3
It's only a bonus that I get to love her in my way—fierce and territorial and burning with devotion that would level kingdoms if she asked it of me.
"I get our curiosity about all of this," Cassius says, his voice carrying the particular resonance of shadow magic woven through vocal cords.
His tendrils continue their protective dance around the room, some extending toward Gwenievere's chamber with obvious protective intent, others tracking Prince Yoshiro's position with equally obvious hostility.
"And we're going to have this conversation one way or another before we can tackle this final rollercoaster. "
He pauses, silver eyes finding each of ours in turn.
"But I don't like having this conversation without her," he continues, "especially if she's the key to all of this."
She's always been the key.
The center around which we all orbit.
The gravity that holds this impossible constellation together.
Zeke nods agreement, frost receding slightly from his fingertips as he accepts Cassius's reasoning. Mortimer's dragon fire dims to ember-glow, scholarly patience reasserting itself over draconic impulse.
I don't see the need to argue.
Cassius is right—whatever decisions we make, whatever truths we uncover, they should involve Gwenievere. This is her life, her fate, her bond mates. Speaking for her in her absence feels wrong in ways that transcend simple courtesy.
Damien crosses his arms, crimson cloak shifting around scarred shoulders, but his voice carries legitimate concern rather than argumentative challenge.
"Can we at least know why Nikolai is so exhausted?" He gestures toward where the fae lies curled on a bench, still unconscious, still bearing the particular pallor of magical depletion. "And where's that boy version of Gwenievere?"
"Gabriel and Nikki," Cassius corrects, tone carrying the faint edge of someone tired of their companions' imprecise language.
Professor Eternalis nods, accepting the question as valid despite her earlier stated preference for waiting.
"The spell that pulled your souls not only did that," she explains, "but created bodies for the alter halves."
The words take a moment to process.
Created bodies.
Gabriel and Nikki—the counterparts who have shared existence with Gwenievere and Nikolai respectively—now have their own physical forms.
"Meaning," she continues, "Gwenievere as of now is her full state as she would have been if they weren't merged together by Elena's trickery.
The same uniqueness applied to Nikolai and Nikki.
The spellwork used on them—which may have been in the hands of their father, the King—was undone temporarily. "
Temporarily.
The word stands out like blood against snow.
Not permanently. Not definitively. Just... temporarily.
Which means this separation might not last.
We might be racing against a clock we can't see toward a deadline we don't understand.
"As to where they are," Professor Eternalis adds, "I'm uncertain, though I see no worry in their absence."
Mortimer's scholarly instincts surface through his concern. "She's not worried because Gwenievere and Nikolai are alive?"
It's a logical leap—if the professor shows no concern for Gabriel and Nikki's location, perhaps it's because she can sense their counterparts' vitality, can feel through some ancient magic that the separated halves haven't ceased to exist.
"Yes," Professor Eternalis confirms, "in a way. But with the chalice's magic, I don't know to what degree their souls are reliant on one another now that they're separated."
To what degree their souls are reliant.
Meaning Gwenievere's survival might depend on Gabriel's.
While Nikolai's existence might be tied to Nikki's in ways we can't measure or monitor.
We have new variables in an equation that was already impossibly complex.
"The reason why Nikolai and even Gwenievere are exhausted," she continues, "is that their magic supplies have adapted to having the surplus of additional energy reserves from their soul counterparts."
I look at Nikolai's unconscious form with new understanding.
The fae has been operating with half a soul for gods know how long—his magic reserves bolstered by Nikki's presence, his power supplemented by his counterpart's energy. Now, suddenly separated, he's essentially running on empty while his body tries to remember how to function independently.
No wonder he looks like death warmed over.
He's been cut in half while still alive.
Zeke nods slowly, processing the information with the particular thoroughness of someone accustomed to analyzing threats.
"So now they both have to get used to not having those anymore," he says, frost crackling along his words as his temperature continues to drop. "But why are their magic signatures stronger than before?"
It's a good question.
Despite the obvious depletion, despite the visible exhaustion, both Gwenievere and Nikolai are radiating power at levels we've never sensed from them previously.
The incantations crawling across Gwenievere's skin burn brighter than they ever have.
Nikolai's fae magic—usually a subtle thing, more sensed than seen—pulses visibly even in his unconscious state.
"Because the counterparts were like a shield," Professor Eternalis explains, "preventing most from seeing their full potential. Good hiding technique, but now they both will have to adapt to their new array of power."
A shield.
Gabriel and Nikki weren't just sharing existence—they were actively dampening their hosts' magical signatures.
Hiding them.
Protecting them from detection by enemies who might target such obvious power.
"Also," she adds, her tone taking on warning undertones, "any energies that have been hiding will start to bleed out. So in Nikolai's case, his fae traits will start to show a lot more now once he's rested."
I think of the fae prince I've come to know—beautiful and mercurial, yes, but largely human-passing in his appearance and mannerisms. The idea of those traits intensifying, of his fae nature becoming more prominent and visible, carries implications I'm not sure any of us are prepared for.
Fae are dangerous.
Not just in power, but in nature.
The more fae Nikolai becomes, the less predictable he might be.
"What about Gwenievere?" I ask, the question escaping before I can stop it.
My concern for her transcends pride or caution or any of the masks I usually wear. She is the center of my existence now—has been since the first moment her silver eyes met mine and something inside me recognized something inside her.
Mine.
Ours.
The woman I would burn worlds to protect.
Professor Eternalis's expression softens slightly—not with pity, but with something closer to understanding.
"We'll know once she wakes up," she says, "but her vampire traits will be pretty prominent—which could only be skin complexion and eye color. Any other traits we won't know until she's functioning again."
Vampire traits.
More prominent.
Meaning the hybrid power she's always carried might finally manifest in ways visible to the outside world.
The silence that follows feels weighted with possibility—both terrifying and exhilarating.
When it seems no one has any urgent questions, Professor Eternalis adds what feels like a final statement before departure.
"For now, it's obligatory that you all take these days to rest and think of better strategies to work together."
Her gaze sweeps across the room, touching each of us with the particular intensity of someone who sees more than surface details.
"The end is always the most challenging. Not because of the trials ahead, but because exhaustion is at its peak. Prioritize rest and listening to one another's needs."
Cassius's shadow tendrils pulse with something that might be acknowledgment.
"The Year will invite the most structure any of you will gain," she continues, "but don't think it's merciful."
The warning hangs in the air, heavy with implications we can't yet fully grasp.
Year Four.
The final year.
Whatever awaits us will be worse than everything we've already survived—and we barely survived what came before.
When no one else says anything, Professor Eternalis nods with the particular finality of someone closing a chapter.
"We will regroup when Gwenievere is awake."
She turns to leave, Prince Yoshiro trailing behind her with that infuriating skip-step that makes my blood boil. At the doorway, he glances back over his shoulder—those impossible, shifting eyes finding mine with uncanny precision.
He winks.
Actually winks.
Like this is all some grand game and we're amusing pieces on a board he's already won.
Then they're gone, the door sliding closed behind them, leaving us alone with our unconscious companions and the weight of everything we've just learned.
The chamber feels different in their absence.
Smaller, somehow, despite the high ceilings and expansive space.
The bioluminescent veins in the walls pulse with slower rhythm, as if exhausted by the magic that saturated the air during our conversation.
The crystalline chamber holding Gwenievere continues its steady glow, her monitored heartbeat a constant reminder that she's alive, that she's healing, that she'll wake eventually and we can have the conversations that matter.
I find myself drifting toward Cassius, drawn by instinct more than intention.
His shadow tendrils acknowledge my approach without hostility—a significant change from how they would have responded in Year One, when every other bond mate was competition to be eliminated rather than ally to be supported.
"What do you make of all this?" I ask quietly, keeping my voice low enough that the others can choose whether to engage.
Cassius's silver eyes remain fixed on Gwenievere's floating form.
"I make nothing of it," he admits with a grunt, and the honesty costs him—I can see it in the tension along his jaw, the way his tendrils curl tighter around themselves.
"The prince is... I've never encountered anything I can't read before.
It's like trying to taste void. There's nothing there—not hidden, not shielded, just.. . absent."
Absent.
The word carries weight coming from a Duskwalker.
Beings of shadow should be able to sense essence, to identify nature at fundamental levels.
For Cassius to find nothing where something should be...
"You think he's dangerous?" Mortimer joins us, dragon scales flickering beneath his human skin as he wrestles with his own concerns. His scholarly nature wars visibly with his protective instincts.
"I think he's something we don't understand," Cassius responds carefully. "And things we don't understand have a tendency to destroy us when we least expect it."
Zeke approaches from his corner position, frost still crystallized along his fingertips though his expression has settled into something approaching acceptance.
"We don't have to understand him to survive him," the feline suggests, his voice carrying the particular pragmatism of someone who has learned to adapt rather than control. "We just have to keep Gwenievere safe until she can handle whatever he represents."
Keep Gwenievere safe.
The eternal mission.
The purpose that has transformed enemies into allies, rivals into brothers, isolated predators into a pack that might actually function.
Damien hangs back, his scarred form wrapped in crimson fabric that hides the evidence of suffering we still don't fully understand.
But his crimson eyes track our conversation with obvious attention, and when he speaks, his voice carries something closer to genuine concern than the arrogant dismissal I would have expected from him months ago.
"She's going to wake up eventually," he says. "And when she does, she's going to want answers that none of us have. The prince, the chalice, her brother's separation, whatever Year Four actually involves—she'll want to understand everything."
And we'll have nothing to give her.
Nothing except our presence, our protection, our devotion that hasn't wavered despite everything that's happened.
I look at the men around me—Cassius with his protective shadows, Mortimer with his banked dragon fire, Zeke with his frost-touched patience, Damien with his mysterious scars and complicated redemption.
We're not friends, exactly.
Men bound together by love for the same woman, who have learned to tolerate each other's presence because the alternative means losing her.
Maybe the crucible of Year Four will forge us into something stronger than the sum of our individual parts.
Or destroy us all.