Chapter 16 Little Solstice #2
The expression transforms his grief-ravaged features into something approaching his usual mischievous charm, eyes sparkling with knowledge he clearly finds amusing to possess while I remain ignorant.
"You don't know how you look like right now, do you?"
The question makes me frown, self-consciousness surfacing with unexpected intensity.
How I look?
What's wrong with how I look?
"Probably hideous," I grumble, one hand rising to touch hair that feels... different. Softer, somehow. Finer in texture. "With messy hair from sleeping. But how does that contribute to me sounding like a girlie girl?"
The complaint carries genuine bewilderment.
Physical appearance and vocal pitch shouldn't be connected—at least not in ways that would explain the musical quality that just emerged from my throat.
Unless something more fundamental has changed, something that affects systems I don't fully understand. ..
"You are a female, remember," Nikolai points out, his tone carrying patient amusement that borders on patronizing.
"Sure," I huff, the acknowledgment reluctant but accurate. "But like... this is different."
Different doesn't quite capture the sensation, but words feel insufficient to express the particular wrongness—or maybe rightness—of whatever transformation I've apparently undergone without realizing it.
He snaps his fingers.
Magic responds immediately, moisture gathering from the air to form the same swirling water mirror he'd created earlier for Grim's self-examination. The liquid surface smooths into perfect reflection, hovering before my face with the particular steadiness of elements under Fae command.
"Why don't you see for yourself," he suggests, voice dropping to registers that feel almost tender despite the teasing edge, "little Solstice."
Little Solstice.
That's new.
That's... a nickname?
From him?
I don't have time to process the implications before the mirror commands my attention.
Oh.
Gods.
What...
The face staring back at me is mine but not mine—familiar features transformed into something that carries my essence while simultaneously appearing entirely foreign.
The reflection shows a woman I recognize and don't recognize in equal measure, beauty that makes my breath catch for reasons I can't immediately articulate.
My hair.
The silver strands I've grown accustomed to seeing—inherited from heritage I thought I understood, carrying the particular metallic sheen of vampire bloodlines—have transformed entirely.
Gold cascades around my face in waves that catch the cocoon's bioluminescence and scatter it into a thousand fractured rays.
Not blonde, not yellow, but gold—the actual metal brought to life as hair, each strand seeming to glow with its own internal light source.
My eyes.
The crimson that usually dominates my gaze—vampire hunger made visible, the particular red that speaks to bloodlines that need specific sustenance—has vanished entirely. In its place...
Pink.
Vivid, impossible pink that seems to pulse with energy I can feel rather than simply see.
With golden rings circling my pupils like tiny halos, like the coronas around eclipsed suns, like physical manifestations of power that refuses to stay contained.
I blink, watching the reflection blink back, and the movement makes those golden rings shimmer with light that feels almost alive.
My skin.
The pallor I've carried since birth—the particular paleness that speaks to vampire nature, the canvas that shows every flush and surge of blood with embarrassing clarity—has darkened into something approaching tan.
Warmth radiates from flesh that used to reject sunlight, color suggesting health and vitality that my half-dead heritage never quite achieved before.
And the glow.
My skin doesn't just look healthy—it shimmers.
Subtle luminescence that becomes apparent when I shift, when light catches angles differently, when movement creates opportunities for the phenomenon to manifest. The shimmer carries the particular quality of magic made visible, power bleeding through flesh that can no longer fully contain it.
My ears.
I turn my head slightly, examining the profile that the water mirror faithfully reflects.
They're pointier.
Not dramatically so—not the exaggerated points that some artistic renderings of Fae suggest—but definitely more angular than the rounded curves I'm accustomed to seeing.
The tips carry subtle elevation that speaks to heritage finally asserting itself in physical form, bloodlines that have apparently decided to stop hiding and start manifesting.
My lips.
Soft pink that matches my transformed eyes, fuller than I remember them being, carrying a natural pout that looks almost deliberate despite being entirely unconscious. The color seems to pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat, flush that responds to internal states rather than external application.
My cheeks.
Rosy with color that would usually indicate embarrassment but seems permanent in this transformed state, giving my face the particular appearance of perpetual health and vitality.
The flush extends across cheekbones that seem more defined than before, structure emerging from beneath skin that has apparently decided to stop hiding my true bone structure.
And the aura.
Even through the water mirror's reflection, I can see it—energy radiating from my transformed form in patterns that feel fundamentally different from anything I've experienced before.
The power that surrounds me carries feminine qualities I've never associated with my own magic.
Softer edges. Warmer tones. The particular grace that speaks to nurturing potential alongside destructive capability.
I'm mesmerized.
My arm lifts, and I watch the reflection mirror the movement, both of us observing the shimmer that intensifies with motion.
The light seems to dance along my skin, playing across surfaces that have become canvases for phenomena I don't understand.
Each shift in position creates new patterns, new sparkles, new evidence of the transformation that has apparently occurred while I slept.
The fabric I'm wearing—I only now notice it properly—has changed along with everything else.
The dress that Koi conjured has shifted into something more suited to my transformed state, one being similar to the one he had made before…before Cassius burned it.
The midnight blue and purple have lightened into shades of rose and gold, colors that complement rather than contrast with my new coloring. The material remains partially sheer—transparent panels creating windows to skin beneath—but the effect is different now. More ethereal. More royal.
The bodice hugs my form with structure that speaks to careful craftsmanship, golden threads tracing patterns across fabric that seems to move with the same shimmer as my skin.
The skirt flows in layers that catch every current of air, each movement sending ripples through material so fine it appears almost liquid.
Where the fabric is sheer, my glowing skin shows through with the particular aesthetic of intentional revelation rather than accidental exposure.
Silhouette speaks to status I haven't earned and don't understand—the particular cut of garments designed for beings who rule rather than serve.
The neckline frames my collarbones with precision that draws attention to skin that now carries permanent luminescence.
The sleeves, if they can be called sleeves, are mere suggestions—wisps of fabric that trail from my shoulders and drift with every movement, transparent enough that my arms are essentially bare but decorated enough that the bareness feels deliberate.
This is what royalty wears.
The thought surfaces with certainty that transcends simple observation.
The gown carries the particular craftsmanship of court attire—garments designed not merely to clothe but to declare status, to announce presence, to make visual statement that words could never achieve.
Every detail speaks to power and position, from the way golden embroidery traces paths across my ribs to the way the hem seems to float rather than simply fall.
I look like a Fae princess.
Because apparently I am one.
Or something close enough that my magic has decided to dress me accordingly.
I cringe at my own reflection.
The expression breaks whatever spell the mirror had cast, transforming mesmerized observation into the particular horror of someone who has just discovered something they didn't want to know about themselves.
I turn to Nikolai, my transformed features arranged in what I hope is appropriately appalled expression.
He snickers.
The sound escapes despite obvious effort to contain it, one hand rising to cover his mouth in a gesture that fails entirely to hide his amusement. His eyes—still carrying the aftermath of recent tears but now sparkling with humor—dance with delight at my apparent distress.
"I'm not necessarily laughing at you," he admits, the words muffled by fingers that aren't blocking anything effectively. "But your expression is fucking hilarious."
The statement makes me huff with indignation that's only partially performed.
"Change me back!"
The demand emerges with the particular authority of someone accustomed to having commands obeyed, my voice still carrying those unexpected musical qualities that make the imperative sound more like a request than the order I intended.
Nikolai arches an eyebrow, the expression carrying amusement that borders on insufferable.
"Sorry, little Solstice," he says, the nickname landing with weight that suggests he's already decided it's permanent. "But I don't think I'm the culprit of you changing."
Not him.
Then who—
My eyes cut to Grim, accusation forming before conscious thought can intervene.