Nyxia stood by her window, chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm.
She hadn't spoken since the collapse. Since Loque had peeled back her walls and forced the pain out. Since she'd sobbed in the dirt with blood in her mouth and guilt in her bones.
Now, she wasn't crying.
She was… hollowed. Dried out. Brittle.
A soft knock at the door.
She didn't answer.
The door creaked open anyway—quietly, reverently. A priestess stepped in, her robes brushing the floor like leaves over snow. Her hands held a bundle wrapped in dark blue velvet, trembling slightly.
"I'm sorry to intrude," the priestess said, her voice small. She didn't meet Nyxia's eyes. "These were… all we could recover."
She placed the bundle on the edge of the bed, lingering a breath longer than necessary. Then: a pause. A second inhale that sounded like a prayer half-forgotten.
"There are whispers," she murmured, barely above a whisper. "Some say the void left its mark. That the scar still… pulses. But I don't believe you're dangerous."
Nyxia didn't respond. The priestess bowed her head and left, the door clicking closed with the weight of superstition behind it.
Nyxia crossed the room.
Her fingers trembled as she unwrapped the velvet. It was soft—but wrong. Like handling someone else's grief.
Inside lay the ruined chest piece—leather blackened and blistered, thread charred into curls. And nestled in its hollow, on a silver chain dulled by soot, sat a cracked moonstone.
It glowed.
Not brightly. Not cleanly. But with a defiant throb.
She knelt beside it, breath thin.
Her hand didn't touch the armor. Just the pendant. She lifted it—cold chain, heavy stone, residue of fire. It was the last piece of Ves that still pulsed.
No sob came.
No tears.
Just breath.
Uneven. Shallow. But hers.
She slipped the necklace over her head. It settled against her collarbone like a promise. Or a shackle. She couldn't tell which.
Then she rose.
She dressed quickly—loose tunic, travel-worn trousers, no boots. Her ears twitched through her hair, unwanted. Her tail refused to vanish, dragging faintly behind her no matter how she whispered for it to go.
From the shadows, Loque stirred.
His voice brushed her mind like silk.
"Where are you going, cub?"
"I need to move," she whispered. "I can't stay in here. It's—too much. I need to run."
"You're not healed."
"I'm not meant to be."
She stepped into the hall without ceremony. The moonlight called her—cold and clean and far away.
She moved like shadow.
Soft steps over stone. Quiet breath. A silent shape draped in grief and half-formed resolve.
Loque followed beside her—spectral and watchful, melting into corners, flickering through pillars like a ghost who wouldn't leave.
Bootsteps echoed ahead.
Nyxia flattened against the stone. Heart caught in her throat.
A guard passed by—close enough to touch.
Loque curled into shadow beside her. Silent. Waiting.
The moment passed.
She ran.
Through halls, past courtyards, through a crumbling garden of moonflowers. She didn't know where she was going.
Only that she couldn't stay.
They slipped through a servant's gate left ajar and out into the woods. The trees closed around them like gates made of bone.
She didn't stop until her knees gave out.
Beneath a twisted oak, where moonlight dappled moss and root, she collapsed.
Hands dug into the dirt. Her tail lay limp behind her. Her shoulders shook.
"I'm a monster," she choked.
Loque approached carefully. His glow was faint. Still healing. Still solid.
She flinched away from him.
"I let it in," she gasped. "I felt it crawl into me and I didn't fight it hard enough—I wanted it to end—I wanted him to kill me."
She buried her face in her arms. Breath hitched. Ears twitching violently.
"You're still mine, cub. Even in pieces."
She remembered—
Perseus's hand shaking. Ves's scream. The scythe in her hand. The silence as she raised it to her throat.
She remembered how quiet it was inside the void.
Not powerful. Not terrifying.
Just… quiet. Like drowning in velvet.
She sobbed.
Loque lay beside her, curling around her like warmth made flesh.
And she let herself break again.
Perseus's Room
Silence. Claustrophobic. Thick.
Perseus sat on the floor, knees drawn to chest, eyes locked on the blood smearing his knuckles. Around him: ruin.
The mirror was shattered—fragments scattered like fallen stars. The chair was in splinters. One of the sacred scrolls lay ripped open, ink bleeding like an opened throat.
He couldn't breathe right.
"She looked at me with fear," he whispered. "She begged me to end it."
A part of him—something dark and wrong—hadn't moved fast enough.
And some whisper in his blood had liked seeing her that way.
Helpless. His.
He curled forward with a dry heave.
"You're no protector. Just another animal with a badge."
He gripped his scalp. Pressed his forehead to the floor.
A bowl shattered behind him.
He hadn't even realized he'd thrown it.
The healers rushed in—robes fluttering, faces pale.
"Perseus—!"
"Gods, what—?"
"Look at his hands—he's bleeding—"
He didn't respond. Couldn't.
Lys was the one who knelt beside him.
Not as High Priestess.
As someone who had known him since he was a boy.
She cupped his face. Her hands were soft, scarred with age and prayer.
"Breathe," she said, voice low and iron-steady. "I've got you, my foolish storm."
Perseus gasped like he was drowning. "I almost—"
"I know," she said. "And you didn't. That's what matters."
"I wanted to," he said, the shame thick. "Some part of me wanted to see her broken."
Lys's fingers tightened on his jaw. "Then you live with that part. And you chain it. And you do better."
Her eyes never left his. "You hear me?"
He nodded weakly.
Then—
The door slammed open.
A young acolyte stood panting, face pale, eyes huge.
"She's gone," she whispered. "Nyxia's gone."
Everything in the room stopped.
"She and the spirit beast. Slipped past the wards. No one saw where they went."
Perseus's panic rose like a wave.
"She's not ready," he rasped. "She'll get herself killed—she'll—she'll vanish—"
He lunged.
Lys caught him.
He strained, but she held. "Perseus."
"She's alone!" he shouted. "She thinks she deserves it!"
"You will not reach her if you tear yourself open!" Lys barked. "You are bleeding. You are broken. You will help no one dead."
His breathing shook. "I have to find her—please—"
An elder healer moved forward with a vial wrapped in cloth. Her voice gentle. "He's not calming."
"Do it," Lys said.
Perseus saw the cloth.
"No—NO—please—don't—I have to—!"
Golden threads of magic wrapped his limbs. The cloth touched his face. Sleep crept in like a tide.
"I was supposed to protect her…" he whispered.
Then darkness took him.
Boo's Room
The door was ajar.
Two acolytes stood outside, wary, silent.
Inside: stillness.
Boo lay beneath temple sheets—too soft, too warm. Her shoulders moved with shallow breaths.
She didn't stir.
Didn't dream.
But in the far corner of her mind—
A glimmer.
A silver scythe in the dark.
Waiting. Watching.