"If anyone destabilizes reality before briefing completion, I will personally file your death paperwork myself!"
Nobody listened.
I had to stifle my laughter.
A witch near the front was brewing something that smelled like sulfur and regret in a portable cauldron. Two werewolves were arm-wrestling, their growls shaking the windows. A group of barrier mages had started a betting pool on how many agents would survive the mission.
I rubbed my temples, the Oracle's mark pulsed in sympathy with my growing headache. The blue markings on my arms responded to the magical chaos around us, brightening and dimming erratically as they tried to process the crazy of all of the supernatural energies.
Milo appeared at my elbow, practically vibrating with excitement. His skeleton crew had been outfitted with tiny pieces of armor that Jeffrey had insisted on personally approving. One skeleton wielded a sword no bigger than a toothpick. Another wore a helmet that kept slipping down over its eye sockets, making it walk into walls.
"This is amazing!" Milo's eyes sparkled as he watched the organized mayhem, his hair even more of a mess than usual. "I've never seen so many different magical disciplines in one place!"
"It's like a supernatural circus," I muttered, watching as a rune-sniper accidentally triggered a flash of light that temporarily blinded half the room.
Across the room, Fenric stood at a podium, his usually perfect hair disheveled, running on what appeared to be pure caffeine and bureaucratic rage. His tablet was clutched in a white-knuckled grip as he attempted to restore order to the supernatural hurricane he'd unleashed.
"ATTENTION!" His magically amplified voice cut through the noise like a blade. "We have seventeen minutes until departure! I need confirmation of equipment checks, ward activation, and portal coordinates!"
The response was a chorus of shouted confirmations in languages that hurt my brain to hear. Someone near the back started playing what sounded like a bagpipe made of bones. The werewolves had switched from arm-wrestling to a complicated dance that involved a lot of chest-thumping. Thank the gods that Rook didn't do that. Mostly.
I felt a familiar presence beside me and turned to find said man, his amber eyes scanning the crowd with predatory intensity. But when his gaze landed on me, something shifted in his expression. His nostrils flared slightly, and he took a half-step closer.
"Your scent," his voice was rough, confused. "It's changed again."
I blinked at him. "Changed how?"
"Before, you smelled like honey and old books. Then after the Oracle, it was prophecy and starlight." His eyes had gone slightly unfocused, the wolf rising closer to the surface. "Now you smell like storms. Like time itself. Like cosmic energy barely contained in skin."
The way he said it, with that mix of awe and barely contained hunger, made something flutter low in my belly. His protective instincts were clearly in overdrive, every line of his body screaming the need to shield me from the chaos around us.
"Is that bad?" I asked, though part of me already knew the answer from the way his pupils had dilated.
"Not bad," Rook's voice dropped to a growl. "Dangerous. Powerful. Like standing next to a lightning storm and wanting to be struck."
Before I could process that particular revelation, Zane materialized on my other side. Unlike the rest of us, he looked perfectly composed, but I caught the tension in his shoulders, the way his mismatched eyes kept tracking potential threats in the crowd.
"Getting nervous?" His question was casual, but I heard the real concern underneath.
"Terrified," I admitted. "But not about the mission."
Zane's eyebrow arched in silent question.
"About afterward," I touched the Oracle's mark on my forehead. "About the choice I'll have to make. About whether I'll still be me when this is over."
His expression softened, and he reached out to squeeze my hand. "You'll always be you, Shortstack. Power doesn't change who you are at the core. Trust me, I've been dealing with fae magic for centuries."
A commotion near the front of the room drew our attention. Horrace had been quietly perched on a chair beside me, but now he was standing, his tentacles writhing with agitation. His twelve eyes were fixed on something none of us could see, and his colors shifted rapidly through warning shades of red and orange.
"What is it, buddy?" I reached out to stroke his feathered hide.
Horrace looked up at me, then at the four men surrounding me. Something passed through his expression. Determination, maybe, or resignation. He made a sound I'd never heard from him before, a deep, resonant trill that seemed to vibrate through my bones.
"He wants to come with us," Milo interpreted, his bond with necromantic creatures giving him insight into Horrace's communication. "He's refusing to stay behind."
"Absolutely not," Fenric appeared beside us, tablet in hand and stress radiating from every pore. "The Threshold Realm is no place for an interdimensional entity of unknown capabilities. The risk assessment alone would require…"
Horrace's trill turned into what could only be described as a raspberry. Then he looked directly at me, his expressionsomehow managing to convey both determination and affection despite his alien features.
