Chapter 8 The Seventh Invitation
The Seventh Invitation
~GWENIEVERE~
My eyes snap open.
The transition from dreamscape to reality happens with violent immediacy—one moment I'm falling through impossible twilight, Gabriel's laughter echoing in my ears, and the next I'm here, wherever here is, staring at something that makes my heart stutter in my chest.
Void eyes.
Inches from my face.
Two pools of absolute nothing that somehow convey more expression than features ever could, set in a skull-face that tilts with canine curiosity as a familiar voice creaks through the silence.
"Greeeeee?"
Grim.
The little reaper hovers at eye level, his diminutive form casting no shadow despite the soft luminescence that fills whatever space I've woken into.
His robes—too large for his tiny frame, trailing into wisps of darkness that never quite touch the ground—shift with movements that have nothing to do with air currents.
The void that comprises his eyes pulses with something that might be concern, might be excitement, might be emotions that don't translate to languages the living understand.
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
Three times, trying to reconcile the small harbinger of death studying my face with the chaotic rush of memories still swirling through my consciousness. The dreamscape. Gabriel. The revelation about Deathshire Academy. The fall—
"Greeeeee!"
Grim's celebration cuts through my disorientation with the force of a thunderclap.
His miniature scythe pops into existence beside him, manifesting from shadows that coalesce into gleaming metal faster than my eyes can track.
The blade catches light that shouldn't exist, reflecting it in patterns that hurt to look at directly, and he begins to sway side to side with the particular enthusiasm of someone who has just witnessed a miracle.
He's... happy I'm awake.
The realization makes something warm bloom in my chest despite everything—despite the lingering grief of Gabriel's farewell, despite the anxiety about what awaits in Year Four, despite the thousand questions crowding my mind demanding answers I don't possess.
I can't help but smirk.
The expression feels foreign on features I'm only now becoming aware of—cheeks that ache slightly, lips that are dry, skin that carries the particular sensitivity of someone who has been unconscious for longer than intended.
My heart continues its rapid percussion against my ribs, residual adrenaline from the dream refusing to dissipate despite the apparent safety of my surroundings.
Breathe.
I force air into lungs that feel like they've forgotten how to expand properly.
Just breathe.
The rhythm comes slowly, each inhale a conscious choice rather than automatic function. One breath. Two. Three. The chaos in my chest begins to settle, heart rate gradually decreasing from frantic to merely elevated, muscles releasing tension I didn't realize I was holding.
Remember.
The thought surfaces with urgency that cuts through the physical recovery.
You need to remember what happened. What Gabriel said. The riddles and revelations and—
A tiny finger pokes my cheek.
The sensation is so unexpected that my train of thought derails entirely, attention snapping back to Grim who has apparently decided that my moment of contemplation has lasted long enough.
His skull-face radiates satisfaction at having successfully interrupted my spiral, and as I watch, a notepad materializes beside him in a poof of shadow-smoke.
The notepad hovers in the air with the particular defiance of objects that have decided physics no longer applies to them.
Grim gestures toward it with his scythe, the motion somehow conveying look at this despite his lack of conventional facial expressions.
I frown, attention shifting to the pages he's presenting.
Scribbles.
The word is generous.
What covers the notepad's surface looks less like writing and more like what might happen if someone gave a pen to a very enthusiastic spider and asked it to document a lecture.
Lines cross and recross in patterns that suggest meaning without actually delivering it, occasional symbols that might be letters or might be artistic interpretation scattered throughout like islands in a sea of chaos.
It takes me a moment—several moments, actually—to parse what I'm seeing.
"You made notes for me?" My voice emerges as a croak, vocal cords protesting the sudden demand for sound after however long they've been dormant.
Grim beams.
The expression shouldn't be possible on a skull, shouldn't translate through void-eyes and bone-structure, but somehow it does. His entire form radiates pride as he nods rapidly, the motion making his oversized hood bob in ways that would be adorable if he weren't technically a harbinger of death.
He was taking notes while I was unconscious.
Notes about... what? The conversations that happened? The revelations about Prince Yoshiro and the chalice and everything else?
The thought of trying to decode his enthusiastic scribbling makes my head ache in ways that have nothing to do with physical recovery.
But there's something more urgent.
The dream.
Gabriel's words.
The riddles I need to remember.
"Can you jot down my dream?"
The request escapes before I can second-guess it, instinct recognizing that whatever Gabriel shared—about Deathshire, about Elena, about the key being wickedness at the expense of free will—is too important to risk forgetting as consciousness continues to solidify around me.
Grim's reaction is immediate and enthusiastic.
"GREEEE!"
The old notepad poofs out of existence with a sound like silk tearing, shadow-smoke dispersing into nothing, and a new one materializes in its place. Fresh pages gleam with the particular blankness of potential, waiting to receive whatever information I can provide.
I take another deep breath, organizing thoughts that still feel scattered and dreamlike around the edges.
Then I begin.
The words come slowly at first—fragments of conversation, impressions of the impossible twilight, the feeling of Gabriel's hand in mine as we stood on that silver-gold hill overlooking the Academy's gates.
I describe the colors that shouldn't coexist, the stars that burned too close, the wind that carried no temperature.
I relay his words about two sides of one coin, about Deathshire Academy waiting on the other side, about Nikki being safe with him.
The key is wickedness, but at the expense of free will.
I repeat the phrase twice, emphasizing its importance, hoping Grim's documentation captures the exact wording even if his transcription style leaves something to be desired in terms of legibility.
I mention the seven—the way Gabriel smirked when I counted only six bond mates, the implication hanging unspoken but impossible to ignore. Prince Yoshiro's face surfaces in my memory, those impossible shifting features, and I add that detail too.
Finally, I describe the ending.
"This is payback for being a bitch to Nikki."
And then the bastard pushed me off a cliff.
By the time I finish, my throat aches and my voice has worn thin, but the essential information has been transferred—hopefully captured in whatever form Grim considers documentation.
He lifts the notepad in triumph.
The gesture is so dramatically victorious, so absolutely proud of the work he's accomplished, that I can't help but smile.
He looks like a student who has just solved an impossible equation, like a knight presenting proof of a slain dragon, like someone who has accomplished something genuinely meaningful and wants the world to acknowledge it.
Adorable.
Terrifying and adorable in equal measure.
The thought makes my smile widen before reality reasserts itself.
Where am I?
The question surfaces with the particular weight of someone only now registering their surroundings. I've been so focused on Grim, on documenting the dream, on processing Gabriel's farewell, that I haven't actually looked at the space containing me.
I do so now.
I'm in a pod.
The realization arrives with mild surprise—I'd expected the crystalline chamber from before, the preservation fluid and the magical monitoring equipment.
But this is different. This is something designed for comfort rather than medical intervention, soft surfaces cradling my body, warmth surrounding me in ways that feel almost nurturing.
The pod's interior glows with soft bioluminescence that emanates from veins threading through its structure, casting everything in gentle blue-white light.
The material itself seems organic—not quite metal, not quite stone, something that exists in the spaces between conventional classifications.
It responds to my weight with subtle adjustments, surfaces shifting to better support whatever position I occupy.
Comfortable.
Unexpectedly, impossibly comfortable.
Beyond the pod's edges, the room reveals itself in fragments. Dark walls that absorb light rather than reflecting it, high ceilings that disappear into shadows too deep to penetrate, the particular aesthetic of spaces designed by beings who consider darkness a feature rather than a flaw.
And to my left—
Oh.
My breath catches.
Cassius.
The Duskwalker sits in a chair positioned beside my pod, arms crossed over his chest, head bowed in what I immediately recognize as sleep.
His silver hair falls across his face in disarray that suggests he hasn't moved in hours, strands catching the bioluminescence and transforming it into something almost ethereal.
The harsh lines of his features have softened in unconsciousness, revealing glimpses of vulnerability that he would never allow anyone to witness while awake.
He's beautiful.
The thought arrives without permission, cutting through everything else to plant itself firmly in my awareness.
Devastatingly, impossibly beautiful.