Marinette's gaze lingered on Adrien's back before he and the servant he was talking to were lost among the mingling crowd. No matter how hard she tried, she could not tame the giddy smile tugging at her lips, nor the fluttering in her chest.

Was she foolish to nourish this spark of joy inside of her?

After all, he still didn't recognize her. All her prodding and hinting for naught.

But…

They'd been children the last time they'd seen each other. And while, yes, she had recognized him instantly, she'd also known what to look for. Adrien had no reason to search a noblewoman's face for traces of a servant girl he once knew. Would she have recognized him on the street, if he'd been dressed in rags?

The idealist inside of her, the one who sighed over romantic ballads and spun vivid daydreams featuring a certain prince on a white steed, insisted that, yes, she would have. No matter the circumstances, her heart would have known him anywhere, rich and poor, young and old, in sickness and in health.

Of course, her idealist side was also rather out of touch with reality. It kept up her spirits when she dealt with the drudgery of a servant's life and so she had enjoyed the indulgence, but perhaps she shouldn't be looking to it for guidance.

And if she was being honest with herself…

It was that drudgery which had spurred her to cherish Adrien's memory so deeply. She'd straightened her spine and squared her shoulders, drawing strength from the kind words he'd gifted her when life came close to beating her down.

When she'd been on her knees, scrubbing for hours. When her eyes had hurt from mending the lace trim of Lady Chloe's dresses until deep into the night so they might be ready come morn'. When needles had pricked her fingers and her once soft hands had grew hard with calluses.

…When the gazes of visiting nobles swept over her like she was invisible. Like she was nothing and no one. No more than a little automaton trained to carry out tasks.

She curtsied and smiled and obeyed every whim, as was her duty, all the while taking pleasure in the thought that one day they'd all bow before a king who'd called her miraculous.

I matter. How she longed to defiantly scream it at a world intent on making her think that she did not. I am more than you think I am.

Marinette sighed.

Perhaps it was unfair of her to be upset that she didn't hold the same place in Adrien's heart that he held in hers. He'd been her solace when the world grew so heavy that even her parent's endless wellspring of love and support could not lift her spirits. Yet a prince had no need to cling so tightly to memories of a fleeting childhood friendship.

Maybe she was the one who'd done him a disservice, to build him up as high as she had. To set the real man up for failure when he inevitably fell short of her silly fantasies.

I was lured by the prospect of your company.

Even without recognizing her, Adrien was drawn to her. He'd sought her out with no prompting at all, and as soon as she'd allowed herself to play along, their banter had flowed effortlessly. His eyes had been shining with delight and affection, and for just a few precious moments she'd felt…

Seen.

That was something, wasn't it?

Yet there was that awful moment back at the Bourgeois manor to contend with. Although he had been laid low by a severe head injury at the time, so maybe…

WAKE UP

Barely suppressing a cry, Marinette clutched her ears in a futile attempt to stave off the burning pain. The words echoed in her head, just like – no, no, it's dead, drove the iron through its neck – and she gritted her teeth, steeling herself against the incoming assault.

Yet the whisper faded to nothingness, no cruel will fighting to dominate hers. All that was left was an unpleasant tingling in her ears. Slowly, she lowered her hands, growing dimly aware of the stares her sudden movement had drawn.

Retreating to the edges of the courtyard away from prying eyes, Marinette tried to focus on regaining her breath. But her wildly beating heart refused to calm, every fiber of her being screaming danger.

Was it another Changeling? Nobody else seemed to have heard the call, so was it stalking her? But this one felt different, like a plea rather than a command, and though one of her ears still faintly ached, she couldn't help but think that this one wasn't–

Wait. No, it wasn't her ear. It was her earlobe. Her fingertips darted to trace the shape of the sapphire stud that housed Lady Alya's butterfly.

Even through her gloves, it was hot to the touch.

Marinette whirled around, scanning the edges of feast. She'd seen Lady Alya leave with Lord Lahiffe, but which way…?

Moving slowly at first to avoid drawing more notice with her erratic behavior, she slipped away into the gardens and broke into a sprint as soon as she was out of sight. Alya, she called out in her thoughts, but there was no answer. That didn't have to mean something bad had happened to her, did it? Maybe this mental exchange only went one way. A natural fortress, Alya had once called her, admiration in her voice, and maybe that was limiting her now – the instinct to huddle behind her mental walls working against her as it let nothing slip past, neither in nor out.

Gods, was she even going the right way? Starlight was her only guide, the lanterns of the courtyard far behind her now, and with every step she took, the world grew darker.

Swallowing up what little light remained, shadows encroached all around, and sudden dread seized her heart. Marinette stood frozen, the winter's chill turning her harsh breaths into fog as she stared at the expansive blackness before her. No matter how much she willed it, she could not find the resolve to take another step forward.

The very air was thick with malice, sending uncontrollable shivers down her spine. Not normal. This was not normal. Which meant dark magic, which meant fae, which meant Lady Alya truly was in danger. Alya needed her and Marinette needed to move, move now, move, you coward.

But she didn't. Couldn't. Gods, it had been so much easier to run toward danger when she hadn't yet understood what she'd be facing. When she'd had a weapon to defend herself with, rusted and brittle though it was.

But she had a weapon now, too. A fearsome, magical one.

Marinette raised a shaking hand to her earring. Alya had warned her that she needed courage to transform. Or rather, to transform successfully.

It will give form to your essence. A strong spirit yields a champion, but a heart filled with anger and fear yields a monster.

What if she failed this test? What if she made everything worse? Alya liked to praise her valor and iron will, so utterly convinced of Marinette's worthiness that Marinette had tentatively allowed herself to believe in it, too. She'd indulged the fantasy, just like she'd built elaborate daydreams of a prince in shining armor who'd one day take her away from the path her life was headed for.

But staring down the wall of darkness before her, the truth sliced through comforting delusions like a blade, ruthless and irrefutable. Her prince was not coming, didn't even recognize her, and there was no courage in her heart. She knew her mind, all its flaws and vices, and rare was the day when she did not manage to work herself into a frenzy over nothing. And now she was to lay that innermost self bare for the world to see?

The butterfly's magic would likely turn her into a pathetic little–

Why do you pretend to be a timid little mouse when you're not?

Unbidden, a memory rose, as it had so many times before in her life, of a blond boy whose gaze followed the scrape of her quill as he leaned over her shoulder. Of a drawing hastily hidden, only to have it coaxed out of her hands. Of green eyes going wide with wonder.

"Why would you try to hide it?"

"I'm not very good at this."

Adrien smoothed the crumbled paper, holding it like it was precious. "It's great," he said softly. "Can I keep it?"

"If – if you want."

His smile was so bright it filled the room. "How can you not like it? It's perfect." He paused for a fraction of a second and then, lips twitching and looking as if he'd just discovered the world's funniest jest, he whispered, "Purr-fect, even."

She should have responded with a groan and a shove for that awful pun, yet instead, stilted and awkward words spilled right out of her. "It just – it never looks like I want it to, you know? I have this perfect image in my head, but when I try to put it to paper it looks like a poor imitation." Drawn by a blind person. Be it her ideas for dresses or her attempts at sketching a piece of reality, her clumsy hands would not stick to The Plan.

Adrien nodded, a pensive expression on his face. Then he bumped her shoulder with his.

"You know, the inside your head must be truly miraculous if this looks plain by comparison."

Marinette took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

"I am more", she whispered.

And Alya needs me.

Not just Alya. Maman. Papa. Adrien. The entire realm was at stake. How could she live with herself if she gave less than everything she had to protect them?

Whether she was afraid or not, there was only one path open to her.

Into darkness.

Drawing on every ounce of will she had, Marinette surged forward. Legs pumping and heart racing, she let the shadows swallow her as she ran. Once more the burn in her earlobe flared to life, but this time she embraced it, let it seep into her and turn to warmth. Holding the thought of all the people precious to her close, she imagined herself as a shield – no, a knight, standing tall in the face of danger.

Blue light bloomed, piercing the night and sweeping over her, stars entwining with her hair as her gloves caught the gleam. She did not break her stride, her purpose emblazoned in her mind and her heart, and as she ran, every step became lighter than the last. Her dress burned away, the embers swirling and dancing around her waist before taking on a new shape, trailing behind her.

And then Marinette was soaring.

The shadows parted at last, and she could not say whether it was because her eyesight had grown keen or whether it was retreating before her light, but either suited her fine. For a brief moment, she allowed herself a smile, for she was unbound.

As she lightly touched down on the ground once more, she glanced at the thing that had manifested in her left hand, which she instinctively knew was to be her weapon.

A fan of peacock feathers.

She plucked one, separating it from the rest, and her smile widened into a grin.

Just as Alya had predicted, Marinette's mastery over her new powers was as intuitive as breathing. And why wouldn't it be? She'd created herself, woven this body out of magic with nothing but her will. Reaching for the one tether that still held her, the source of her strength, she let the tip of the feather slash through the air. The quill left behind a glowing trail, a rune inscribed with ink made of pure light, and she gave it power and purpose.

Reveal.

The butterfly cocooned inside of her fluttered, unveiling the path to its Mistress just as the quill in Marinette's hand dissolved, its magic spent.

The beast snarled against skin. Something hot and sticky ran down Nino's face, his vision half-obscured by red splatters on his spectacles. Paralyzed, he could do nothing but stare as the enormous muzzle turned toward him, dragging the woman's body with it like a ragdoll. Hateful eyes met his, and he knew, at once, that whatever this creature was, it was no mindless beast.

And it wanted him dead.

What the fuck is happening.

The silver-haired woman stirred, drawing the beast's attention – and a swarm of white butterflies burst forth from her chest, a blindingly radiant maelstrom devouring the two of them whole. A roar rang out and scarcely a heartbeat passed before the beast broke free through a lunge, its maw filled with hundreds of torn wings.

Spitting them out, it turned its agile body to face the silver storm still centered on the woman, growling low in its throat. It crouched close to the ground and raised its haunches, already readying itself for its next strike.

The swarm pulsed and twisted, moving as if it was one living organism. As one, they dove to the ground, crowding so close together it became impossible to tell where one ended and another began. Swarming ever-faster, the protective bubble shimmered bright as it contracted – and burst, revealing a glowing blade.

Snatching it from the air, the silver-haired woman defiantly raised her chin.

But her throat was stained with red, and even from a distance, Nino could tell that the sword was shaking with the effort to hold it up.

No.

Sudden clarity shattered the confused stupor he was caught in. This woman, no matter who – or what – she was, was trying to save him. And he could not just stand idly by while she fought for her life.

The creature lunged.

And so did Nino, throwing himself into the beast's flank as it attempted to rush past him. His shoulder cried out in pain – like hitting a brick wall – and though it did not lose its balance, his split-second decision did succeed in throwing off the beast's trajectory.

The woman did not waste the opening she'd been given, bringing down her blade on its neck.

And sank it into the ground when the creature simply vanished.

She reared back with a low curse, swiveling her head for her gaze to sweep the area. But she must have turned too rapidly for she let out a low gasp. Sinking to her knees, she clutched her torn throat with one hand and her sword handle for balance with the other.

The few stray butterflies still left gathered around her, perhaps trying to comfort her.

Nino stumbled back to his feet, ignoring the ache in his shoulder, and crossed the distance between them. "Don't move," he said urgently as he started ripping the sleeve of his coat. He had no idea what was happening, but this much he understood. "You're losing too much blood."

"It's still here," she hissed, her breaths labored and her voice no more than a broken whisper. "Don't let down your guard."

He laughed shakily as he pried away her hand to bind her throat with the improvised bandage, applying pressure to stem the flow. "I don't think I'm ever going to let down my guard again. Or sleep, for that matter." If this wasn't some horrifically vivid nightmare, it would surely become a recurring one in the future.

Assuming he survived long enough to have one.

She held herself perfectly still as he wrapped the cloth around her, not making a sound even though it had to be agony. Her alert gaze was searching their surroundings, though as he leaned close, he could not help but take notice of the way her lids kept drooping, like she was struggling to keep her eyes open.

Hazel eyes.

Familiar eyes.

Familiar face, too, even if her coloring was all wrong. Oh Gods, of course.

"…Lady Alya?"

Her gaze snapped to him for but a moment before returning to her search. "I vow I shall explain everything, my Lord. Later."

"I hurt you," he whispered, horror dawning as he pieced together shards of his fractured memory. "Didn't I?"

"No. That was not you." Her eyes narrowed, then widened, fixated on something in the distance. She shot to her feet, raising her hoarse voice. "And you are not one of mine!"

A stray butterfly ahead of them quivered, white wings vibrating. Then it bulged and expanded, luminescence flowing like water into the shape of arms and legs and–

"Clever little hunter," said the beast in form of a Lady, and recognition struck Nino like lightning. "But being clever won't save you."

Lady Alya yanked at her sword – and snarled when it remained where it was, the blade not budging an inch from the frozen soil she'd driven it into.

"Poor thing. How close are you to passing out?" The woman Adrien had introduced as Lady Lila Rossi licked the corner of her lips. "So much blood spilled from you, I can almost taste it."

"Still have enough left to end you!"

Lady Alya pulled at the hilt again, to no avail. Alarmed by the way her lips were turning even paler, Nino laid his hand over hers, thumb brushing the tense knuckles clutching the sword.

"Let me," he whispered in her ear, even as some part of him – perhaps the little island of sanity that yet remained in this sea of madness - whimpered at his own words. "You need to conserve your strength."

She stared at him, swaying where she stood, and Nino did his best to appear confident. Then her death grip on the hilt loosened, leaving him to wrap his fingers around it.

The beast laughed softly, her canines elongating as she spoke. "Ah, the Lord who cannot stomach the thought of violence wishes to rescue the fair maiden."

Nino was no stranger to the arts of war, as was proper for any Lord of his station. Swords, riding, archery – years and years' worth of physical education had been poured into him in an effort to shape him into the kind of man the heir of House Lahiffe ought to be.

But Nino had neither the aptitude nor temperament for battle, as a lifetime of being beaten in just about any sparring contest could attest.

I can do this. I will. I must.

With a hoarse yell and a heave, the blade broke through the frozen ground. Unbalanced by the unexpectedly light weight of it, Nino stumbled, barely managing to catch himself in time. Derisive laughter rang out just as he surged forward. Putting all his strength behind the blow, the sword sliced through the air.

And hit nothing.

He'd never known a butterfly could flap its wings mockingly, but this one did. It retreated and reformed into a human shape a few feet away.

"Stop. Running," he said through gritted teeth.

"Why would I? Your lady love is bleeding out as we speak. All I have to do is wait." Thin lips split into a wide grin, baring fangs as she inhaled deeply. "And savor this despair."

His breath caught, his gaze darting back to Lady Alya. She'd sunk back to her knees, one palm on the ground for balance. Could she run? The guard house was not so far away, if only he could distract–

"Oh yes, please do fetch the guards," the thing said softly, and another change came over it, clothing rippling like water until he stood before a girl in a servant's uniform, her face streaked with tears. "I saw it all, sir." She choked on the words as she wept, burying her face in her hands. "When the Lady spurned his wicked advances, he fell upon her like a beast, so savage and brutal that I could do naught but hide and pray he would not see me."

Nino lunged, bringing down his sword, and the not-girl evaded in a graceful pirouette, all traces of sorrow vanishing in an instant.

"Now that stain upon your social standing would be hard to erase, wouldn't it, Lord Lahiffe? Even holding the prince's favor would not save you from the gallows."

"Ridiculous lies no one would believe!" As if any man could inflict a wound like that. Anyone looking at Lady Alya would know she'd been attacked by an animal. He shot another worried glance in her direction. Purple sparkles were crawling up from the tips of her hair, burning away the silver and leaving her hair the rich, deep red he was used to.

"Ah, but my Lord," the beast said with an indulgent smile, drawing back his attention.

You forget how very persuasive I can be.

The world spun and bile rose, his grip on the sword loosening. The venomous whisper was inside his head. Had been in his head, before, and driven him to–

"Can't run." A hand closed around his throat. "Can't call for help." He choked as she squeezed, nails like claws digging into his skin. When had the blade's hilt slipped through his fingers? "Can't fight. Which only leaves one fate for you, doesn't it?"

Narrow pupils abruptly dilated and she whirled around. Her free hand snapped up, catching a soaring arrow aimed at her neck mid-flight.

No, not an arrow – a peacock feather.

From above, a voice rang out.

"Burn."

The feather caught fire, enveloping the creature's arm in a blue blaze. An unearthly shriek almost ruptured his eardrums as Nino's knees hit the ground, the claw pinning him in place gone. Cycling so rapidly in size and form that it became a blur, the creature writhed on the ground as it fought to douse the flames.

A shadow passed overhead, and Nino wrenched his head up just as a woman landed between them. Kaleidoscopic wings shimmered in the darkness, folding into a skirt trailing behind her like a peacock's tail.

The Changeling growled as it rose again as a towering, four-legged animal as tall as a horse. One of its front legs was blackened and streaked with red, smoke rising from its charred fur. Its lips drew back, baring fangs as long as daggers.

"You'll pay." The words were rough and barely intelligible, squeezed through the depths of its throat with great effort, the long muzzle not meant for speech.

It should terrify her.

Marinette smiled serenely and opened her fan, plucking another quill from her arsenal.

The Changeling charged, great fangs snapping shut, and she stepped to the side, evading the attack with ease in a whirl of feathers. It was as if her body weighed nothing at all, soaring in a leap with all the effort of taking a single step.

Focusing on the magic pulsing in her veins, she raised her quill to cut through the air, inscribing a rune.

Blind.

The feather glowed as it absorbed its purpose, readying to redesign reality as Marinette saw fit. She flicked her hand, flinging it like a knife to seek its target, and struck true.

A howl rang out as the fae instinctively pawed at its milky-white eyes, hissing in pain as it collapsed, the burned front leg unable to support the massive body's weight by itself. Marinette readied her next quill, raising the tip to–

Pain shot through her heart, and she staggered, her power wavering. What…?

Alya!

Marinette spun on her heels, eyes widening as her belly filled with panicked flutters. Was it her butterfly, warning her that time was running out? Lady Alya was lying on the ground, Lord Lahiffe at her side as he frantically pressed against the red cloth tied around her neck.

She had to finish this. Now.

Yet when she turned back to the Changeling, her blood ran cold.

It wasn't there.

Stop. Think.

There were only so many forms it could hide in. The unnatural miasma all around them kept others away – had almost scared her off, as well. So what did not belong? Beyond the three of them, the only living creatures were Alya's butterflies, anxiously flocking around their Mistress.

All except one.

High above, its trajectory uneven, one of its wings askew, a butterfly was flying away.

Alya's voice echoed in her head, a lesson driven home over many evenings spent strategizing. Our highest priority is to capture one of them for interrogation. We must find out what they're planning, else we're just going to keep stumbling around in the dark.

"I'm sorry, Alya," Marinette whispered, raising the tip of the peacock feather to carve out her next attack. "There's no time."

Death.

No sound escaped when her feather sailed through the air and hit its aim. Nor when the Changeling began dissolving into dust, blown away by the winds of winter.

Marinette turned away from the sight, hurrying to her friend's side. Ignoring Lord Lahiffe's bewildered look, she knelt beside him, fingers tightening around her quill – the last one of five. Forcing her hand to be steady and cease its useless shaking, she etched wide sweeping loops, this rune softer and less angular than the others.

Heal.