There are certain expectations that even the most open-minded researchers develop when studying other realms. Adom was no exception. He'd spent decades poring over ancient texts, expedition journals, and the occasional rambling testimony from the few who'd visited the Fae Realm and returned with their sanity relatively intact.

The historical facts were established enough: during the Primordial Age, when reality was more flexible and magic flowed freely between all living things, the Fae had walked the same earth as humans. They'd witnessed the great wars between dragons, phoenixes, umbra, and demons—civilizations so powerful they reshaped continents with their conflicts. As these ancient powers tore the world apart, the Fae made a collective decision that changed the fabric of existence itself.

They left.

Not in the conventional sense of migration, but by literally removing themselves from the common reality. Through rituals that combined the magic of thousands of Fae practitioners, they created their own dimension—a realm entirely separate yet still tethered to the original world by thin threads of reality.

The spell was so massive that its aftershocks reverberated through existence, creating ripples in the dimensional fabric. These ripples became tears, and these tears became dungeons—self-contained ecosystems existing between realities, following their own rules of physics and magic.

Any seasoned adventurer could tell you no two dungeons were quite the same, and now Adom understood why. They were fragments of a spell weaved by beings who'd decided reality itself wasn't quite to their liking.

So yes, Adom had certain expectations upon entering the Fae Realm. He'd anticipated the impossible architecture, the colors beyond the human spectrum, the strange flora and fauna. He'd mentally prepared for the way time might flow differently here, for the potential dangers of eating or drinking anything not approved by Bob.

He'd even been ready for Zuni suddenly developing the ability to speak. After all, when you've studied magic for eight decades, you develop a certain tolerance for the unexpected.

Adom had seen beastkin like Valiant, who resembled animals more than humans yet spoke perfectly well. He'd once conversed with elementals composed entirely of water or fire. A talking quillick wasn't particularly shocking in the grand scheme of things.

What Adom was not prepared for—what caught him completely off guard—was Zuni's voice.

When you look at a creature like a quillick, with its round amber eyes, tiny whiskers, and little spikes, you naturally expect a certain type of voice. Something high-pitched and chirpy, perhaps. Maybe even cutesy. Something that matched the adorable exterior.

What you don't expect is the crisp, cultured accent of an academy professor who's mildly disappointed with your latest research paper.

"I TALK!" Zuni had exclaimed, and then, examining his own paws with newfound interest, cleared his throat and continued in a tone better suited to discussing fine wines than celebrating newfound vocal abilities. "How fascinating. The transition between realms must have accelerated certain latent capabilities in my species' vocal apparatus. I always knew I could understand complex language, but the physical production of human speech seemed biologically impossible given the limitations of my laryngeal structure."

Everyone stared.

"What?" Zuni asked, head tilting slightly in that familiar gesture that now seemed incongruously scholarly. "Have I said something inappropriate? I realize this development may be somewhat jarring, but surely it's not the most extraordinary thing one might encounter in the Fae Realm."

Adom opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "You sound like..."

"Like what?" Zuni prompted.

"Like my Ancient Languages professor," Adom finally managed. "The one who once failed a student for using a semicolon incorrectly."

"Well, semicolons are frequently misused," Zuni said with complete seriousness. "The improper application of punctuation reflects a fundamental misunderstanding of syntax."

Bob chuckled. "Told you quillicks were more than they seemed."

"But why does he sound so..." Adom gestured vaguely, unable to find the right word.

"Articulate?" Zuni suggested.

"Pompous," Thorgen muttered.

"Distinguished," Zara offered diplomatically.

"Like he's about to demand to speak to someone's manager," Artun drawled, earning a glare from the quillick.

"Did you expect me to squeak 'oh golly' and 'gee whiz' while bouncing around excitedly?" Zuni asked. "Just because I'm small and covered in quills doesn't mean I have to conform to your preconceived notions of what constitutes appropriate speech patterns for creatures you deem 'cute'."

He made air quotes with his tiny paws. He never did that before.

"Well, no, but—" Adom started.

"Just because I've been limited to non-verbal communication in our realm doesn't mean my thoughts were similarly constrained," Zuni continued, warming to his subject. "I've spent years listening to academic lectures in the druidic classes of Xerkes, magical theory discussions, and, more recently, that awful poetry Sam insists on reading aloud when he thinks no one is awake."

"It is pretty terrible," Adom agreed.

"Abysmal," Zuni confirmed. "The young man has no grasp of meter whatsoever."