Iowyn
The concept of chaos had always been purely theoretical to me. Winter Court moves with the precise rhythm of ancient glaciers—every action deliberate, every word measured, silence valued above pointless chatter. Six thousand years of pristine order, shattered by three weeks in a werewolf packhouse overrun by hidden folk with boundary ward obsessions and decorating ambitions that bordered on the maniacal.
"They've color-coded the refrigerator contents according to 'metaphysical nutritional profiles,'" I observed, staring at the glass of juice a brownie had thrust into my hands. The liquid inside shifted through seven distinct colors, none of which occurred in nature. "Is this... safe to consume?"
Kalel leaned against the counter, golden-silver light pulsing around him as he grinned
