Chapter Text
My back hurts, my legs hurt, my hands hurt, but my stomach is burning.
I stumble on the uneven cobblestone, my boot catching on a lip of stone. I barely manage to throw my weight forward, arresting my fall against the carved basin of a street fountain. A spray of decorative water hits my skin. It’s supposed to be refreshing on a suffocatingly hot day like this, but right now, the moisture just mixes with the cold sweat plastering my hair to my forehead. I drag my palms across my eyes, wiping away the wetness, and force my feet to keep moving.
I turn a sharp corner into another thoroughfare—and then the world spins.
A hand clamps around my bicep like an iron vise. Before I can draw a breath, I am slammed backward into the brick wall of a narrow alleyway. The impact rattles my teeth, but it’s the heavy, calloused palm pressing ruthlessly into my windpipe that stops my heart. White-hot agony erupts from my abdomen, a blinding scream of pain that completely obliterates every other ache in my body. I feel so dizzy, so utterly lightheaded, that the figure looming over me looks like a warped silhouette. The words vibrating from his throat sound like a distant, distorted echo.
At first, I blame my own brain. I’m so fucking disoriented that I didn't even notice a tail. But as I force my focus to narrow, I realize the problem isn't my hearing. He is speaking absolute gibberish. Of course. Another universe, another dialect. I should have anticipated the language barrier.
Summoning the absolute last of my mental clarity, I mentally rephrase the comprehension spell, forcing my unpinned hand to trace a tight, hidden somatic gesture against my thigh. Instantly, the structural static in my ears snaps into clear, cutting focus right in the middle of his threat:
“…you better answer me.”
From this angle, pinned beneath his frame, it’s impossible to get a clean look at him. The overhang of the surrounding buildings blocks the noon sun, trapping the alley in deep gloom. But it isn't just natural darkness obscuring his features—there is an active, heavy magic rolling off his shoulders. Inky, vaporous tendrils of shadow swirl and churn around him like a localized storm cloud. The dark mist drifts across his face so thickly that I can only catch the harsh outline of his nose through the murk.
I tilt my chin up, staring directly into the vortex of his face. “How about you let me see who I am talking to before you start the interrogation, Mr. Shadows?”
He doesn’t flinch, but a sharp ripple of darkness flares violently near his jawline. “I don’t think you are in any position to tell me what to do.”
“That was rude.”
Before he can shift his weight to choke me out, I drop my center of gravity and duck right under his elbow. My free arm drives hard into his unguarded ribs, creating just enough space for me to twist out from under his shadow, narrowly evading a brutal counter-strike from his forearm. My stomach absolutely rebels at the sudden, violent movement, the internal bleeding flaring with a heat that makes my breath hitch. But survival instinct trumps pain. I cannot let myself get cornered. I need an exit, and I need it five seconds ago.
Running is out. Flying is entirely off the table. As he repositions and stalks toward me, I'm forced to stumble backward. I could bolt out into the main street and scream bloody murder, but drawing a crowd is the last thing I need right now. God, I have to break away before the sweat cutting through my dirt-streaked face betrays my weakness—before they realize just how deeply I’ve messed up.
I take two quick, blind steps back, trying to anchor my weight and map out a sprinting trajectory, but my spine collides with a solid, immovable wall.
Except the wall breathes.
Damn it. A second later, a massive pair of hands locks around my wrists, pinning my arms behind my back in a textbook restraint.
I crane my neck around, looking up—and up—until I meet a face. Strong, brutal jawline etched with a few rugged, faded scars. Ridiculously perfect deep brown hair that falls to his shoulders, partially swept up in a practical topknot. His hazel eyes lock onto mine, a flashing, mischievous grin spreading across his lips, thoroughly amused that he’s caught me.
If we were standing at a crowded bar in Metropolis, I’d probably buy him a drink just to appreciate the view. But right now, my tactical brain recognizes the reality: running is officially dead. The guy is a professional. The precise, calculated way he locks my joints to completely paralyze my upper body without breaking a sweat is all the evidence I need.
“Hello there,” he says, his voice vibrating with a cheerful, easy authority.
An instant, absurd flash of Star Wars déjà vu hits me. The delivery is pure Obi-Wan Kenobi, even if the pitch is significantly deeper, radiating a smug confidence that makes me want to scream.
I have the raw strength to shatter his grip right now, but doing so would mean tearing my internal muscles completely apart. Better to keep my cards face down. I swallow the agony, forcing my expression into a soft, harmless mask, and paste a sweet, innocent smile on my lips.
“Hello,” I say, keeping my pitch perfectly even despite the hard tick in my jaw. “Will you please let go of me?”
“No,” he mimics, matching my saccharine tone with terrifying accuracy. The amusement in his eyes tells me he believes my innocent act about as much as he believes whales fly through the sky. Great. My internal monologue is degenerating into complete nonsense. “But you can be a dear and tell us what a human is doing here.”
Human. The word registers like a tactical ping. They think I'm human. More importantly, it gives me a vital layout of the local demographics: there are no humans in this territory. Which begs the immediate question...
“Then what are you?” A thread of genuine curiosity cuts through the defensive edge of my voice. I’m not shocked they aren't human; the sheer physical scale of them is wrong, and the guy in front of me is literally controlling an abyss of dark vapor. But I need to know exactly what kind of predatory baseline I’m dealing with.
“We are what you call monsters,” the shadowed one says. He steps out from the building's shadow, allowing the dense, smoky armor around his shoulders to unravel and pool around his boots.
A fresh lance of white-hot pain tears through my flank. I blink rapidly, fighting to keep the world from dissolving into gray spots. And god, for a fraction of a second, my brain actually compares him to a deity. I’ve met actual gods before, and this asshole easily passes the aesthetic threshold. He has a sharp, lethal jawline that could give Apollo a run for his money, cold, calculating hazel eyes that carry the predatory weight of Athena, and dark brown hair styled with the deliberate, messy precision of a high-tier fuckboy. And then, there are the wings. Massive, membranous, pitch-black wings—resembling a bat's but tipped with a wicked, exposed bone spur at the apex of each joint—tucked tightly against his spine. They look familiar yet entirely alien.
I am completely losing my operational focus. Pinned in an alley by an arrogant asshole, and I'm spending a full minute analyzing his bone structure. My internal voice narrows down to a single, repetitive survival command: don’t pass out, don’t pass out.
“The guy really likes to make an entrance. Bet he practices that line in front of a mirror,” I mutter aloud.
Behind me, the long-haired warrior bursts into a low snicker. “You have yet to see the ‘guy’ you actually have to explain yourself to.” I can practically feel his amusement at my internal eye roll as he chuckles against my shoulder.
“And you have yet to answer my question,” I say, ignoring the laugh and keeping my eyes locked on the shadowed commander.
He doesn’t offer a word. He just fixes me with a dead, expressionless stare, his eyes turning so chillingly vacant that for a split second, he looks exactly like Maven. A violent shudder threatens to break through my defenses at the memory, but I lock it down.
“Illyrian,” the warrior behind me volunteers, breaking the silence. “The species of Fae we are is called Illyrian.”
Fae. And they still think I’m a human. I trace the realization down to the fabric of my clothes—Archie’s scent is still heavily woven into the denim and cotton of this shirt, completely masking my own biological signature. Thank god Bryce ran it through that magical laundry before I dropped; otherwise, the baseline scent of Earth would have faded. God, I miss Archie so much it aches, and the sheer claustrophobia of this situation is pushing me toward a massive panic attack. But right now, their assumption that I’m just a fragile, misplaced human is the only tactical advantage I have.
With nowhere to run and a bleeding core, I have to play the long game. I'll stay with them until my body heals enough to give me a clean window to vanish.
“Come on,” the dark one orders smoothly. He turns on his heel and strides out of the alley, leaving me and his companion to follow.
The dark one halts at the mouth of the street, his shadows roiling around his wings like they’re actively debating his choices. He casts a sharp look back at the warrior.
“This is reckless,” he murmurs. It’s the first break in his icy exterior—not anger, just a heavy, professional resignation.
The long-haired warrior just shrugs, his entire posture radiating an easy, unbothered confidence. The dark one’s jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath his skin, and his shadows suddenly lock in place, looking like they just lost an argument. He steps out into the light anyway.
We walk for roughly ten minutes before the physical reality of my injury forces me to press my palm directly over my side, trying to manually compress the bleeding. By now, I can feel the warm stickiness of my clothes; my pants are likely soaked through. They would have smelled the iron in the air miles ago if I hadn't spun a micro-thin, unnoticeable kinetic barrier around the wound to seal the scent inside. It’s microscopic, exhausting work—flawless if maintained, but the constant magical drain feels like iron hooks dragging at my core.
My peripheral vision is beginning to fray into darkness. I am burning through my reserves at a suicidal rate, especially with an open, deep puncture wound in my abdomen. I’m not stupid enough to let two heavily armed warriors who just choked me in an alley realize I’m severely compromised. Like, really fucking injured, the kind that requires an immediate trauma surgeon.
Let them keep believing I’m just a delicate human who can't handle a brisk walk.
Within five minutes, sweat is dripping into my eyes, and my lungs are laboring for oxygen. We move down a wider street, the shadow guy setting a punishing pace ahead while the long-haired brute tracks my steps from behind. Now that we’re in the open, I note that both of them possess the exact same leathery, bat-like wings. They're the same breed, clearly, but they stand out sharply against the other citizens traversing this place. A city? A village? I haven't been on the ground long enough to run a proper assessment.
The scenery sweeps past in a blur of vibrant colors—brightly painted facades, echoing laughter, the rich, yeasty scent of fresh bread. The architecture looks like something lifted straight out of a storybook. Very much like a traditional Swiss village.
I take another step, and a fresh wave of fire detonates in my stomach. I press my fingers harder into the wound, forcing a localized ice spell to crystallize layer by layer beneath my skin, fighting the warm blood seeping through my fingers. Just keep moving. Step. Step.
The civilian Fae on the streets don’t seem alarmed by my escorts; a few even offer formal, respectful nods as we pass. It tells me everything I need to know about their standing. These two aren't just local guards—they are the authority here.
We cross a third street. Another sharp spike of agony hits me, and I bury the wince deep in my throat, though I can't stop my stride from hitching.
The shadow guy glances over his shoulder, a cold smirk playing on his lips. “You humans can’t walk more than fifteen minutes without breaking into a sweat?”
I want to dismantle him with a snarky comeback, but my brain doesn't have the bandwidth; every ounce of my cognitive function is locked onto the agonizing sensation of my own hand holding my insides together beneath my shirt. “How much farther?” I ask, my voice sounding dangerously breathy. I just need to reach whatever high-ranking official is running this sector so I can negotiate for medical aid. These two entry-level brutes are a liability, and I don’t trust them an inch. The shadow guy looks at me like he’d love nothing more than to yeet me into the rushing river we’re walking alongside and call it a day. He just lets out a sharp tsk and looks away.
“Almost there,” the one behind me says. His tone has lost its playful banter, turning flat and neutral, but at least it's a confirmation.
Three blocks later, we leave the riverbank behind and stop dead in front of a neat, multi-story townhouse. I freeze, my brow furrowing. What kind of operational protocol is this? Where the hell have they taken me?
“Don’t look so shocked, little human. We’ve done dumber things. Now go along,” the long-haired one says, nudging me forward.
“You have got to be kidding me,” is the only response my brain can formulate.
“Well, no. Now get in,” he says, his voice losing its warmth, shifting into a firm command.
But it's a residential house. Not a security hub, not a military outpost, not a guardhouse—nothing that denotes an official branch of government or law enforcement. It’s someone’s private living space. What does that imply? Are they just high-functioning thugs? Gang members? Am I about to bleed out on a kitchen floor because I miscalculated their uniforms?
I swallow down the metallic taste of panic and step across the threshold. The moment I break the perimeter, I hit the wards. The magical feedback is bizarre—the sensation is exactly like forcing my entire body through a dense, invisible wall of solid honey. A baseline human wouldn't feel a single note of that pressure, so I keep my facial muscles completely locked, stepping through the density with a stoic stride, entirely aware of the shadow man’s calculating eyes tracking my every movement.
The interior matches the exterior: a home.
A well-used kitchen, a cluttered dining table, and a massive, deep-set sofa that looks structurally broken-in yet clean—clearly designed for large, informal gatherings.
"Is this where you live?" I ask, immediately steering my body toward the living room window. It’s the highest-percentage escape route, even if I know my current physical capacity makes a successful evasion nearly impossible. I can't dare sit on that sofa. The physical compression of sitting would break my ice spell, and I would instantly dye that gray fabric a bright, unmistakable red. No, I need to remain vertical, even if my knees are starting to vibrate from the strain.
"None of your business," Shadows snaps from the hallway. He leans heavily against the doorframe, crossing his massive arms and effectively turning his body into a physical barricade.
"Fine. Your names, then?" I am entirely done using 'shadow deity guy' and 'long-haired warrior dude' in my tactical assessments.
"Cassian," the long-haired one says, tapping a broad hand against his plain shirt. He drops onto the sofa opposite me, adopting a completely relaxed, nonchalant posture, though his eyes remain laser-focused on my hands. "And the dramatic entrance guy is Azriel."
Azriel glares absolute, homicidal daggers at Cassian. Despite the agonizing burn in my side, a dry smirk cuts across my lips.
Standing rigid by the glass, I secretly channel a fresh, concentrated thread of raw power down into my flank, freezing the torn tissue layer by layer. The relief is instantaneous, sharp, and freezing—but the magical backlash is brutal. Large, dark spots bloom across my retinas. My knees threaten to give out entirely. Two minutes pass in absolute, suffocating silence.
"We are waiting for someone, right?" I demand, my tone dropping its playfulness. Every single wasted minute brings me closer to hypovolemic shock. I have stretched my physical envelope to the absolute breaking point, and I don't know how much longer I can maintain this cognitive camouflage.
Cassian only smiles, silent.
"Are you going to tell us your name?" Azriel asks, his delivery entirely robotic, devoid of any human cadence.
I want to laugh right in his pristine face. Does this creature possess a single organic emotion, or was he manufactured to be this creepy?
"I do not answer to you," I say, letting my smirk return like a shield. "Especially since you haven't answered a single one of mine."
"Then let's start with the fact that you haven't answered any of mine."
I take a slow, deliberate step toward him, my smile evaporating. "Oh, you mean when you ambushed me in a dark alley, slammed me into a brick wall, and hid your fucking face behind a cloud of smoke?"
He straightens off the doorframe, his dark mist stalling out into total stillness the exact millisecond I call them out. "That was exactly what I meant. I didn't realize the dark scared you so much."
"I didn't realize you were such an asshole."
This guy is un-fucking-believable. He is fueling my adrenaline to a dangerous new high. We are standing directly in each other's space now—close enough that I could easily pluck the blade from my side and drive it straight into his. But that would be an operationally fatal error. I force my muscles to relax, refusing to start a slaughterhouse, and take a calculated step back.
He tracks my retreat, mapping it as a victory, convinced the little human is terrified of the big Fae warrior and his magic. The cold, animalistic smile he gives me isn't amusing at all; it's entirely predatory. The look of a predator watching a rabbit.
I open my mouth to hurl another cutting remark about his face—something along the lines of 'At least I know Fae have feelings now, even if you look like a grinning donkey' or 'I didn't know you could smile, you look like a monkey trying to mimic a human.' Wow, I am absolutely brilliant at making up comebacks that will get me executed.
But before the words can clear my teeth, Cassian cuts through the air. "Will you tell me your name, then?"
The tone is perfectly polite, but when my eyes dart to him, I see the sudden, rigid warning in his frame. He isn't asking out of casual curiosity; he is physically intervening to break the circuit before Azriel snaps. Azriel is lethal, and if I give him one more excuse, he will kill me right here on the floor.
"I answered your questions," Cassian coaxes, his voice low when I remain silent.
I open my mouth to respond, but the sound of the front door heavy-creaking open stops the breath in my throat. A loud, booming voice cuts through the hallway, vibrating with immense power:
"So, who is the human who had the nerve to pass under the wards of my city without me realizing it?"
The sound hits my ears like a physical shockwave. It is so intensely, distinctively familiar that I gasp, twisting violently toward the kitchen archway where the sound originated. My torn abdomen protests the sudden movement with a sickening flare of heat, but my mind is locked in a state of pure, detached shock.
I have never landed in the same universe twice. Never in my entire existence have I been pulled back to a world I already cleared.
The entire room tilts as my eyes lock onto him. His eyes widen in absolute, unadulterated shock, perfectly mirroring my own. His mouth parts slightly before his jaw tightens, his throat working as he fights to master his features. He recovers an instant before I do.
“Mai,” his voice is raspy—stripped of that smooth, velvet elegance I remember.
“Rhys,” I whisper. My throat feels just as raw.