She sleeps with the kind of total exhaustion that usually precedes death. Her breathing is a rhythmic hitch in the silence, a sound my shadows amplify until it echoes like a drumbeat in the small room. I remain rigid on top of the duvet, a monolith of cold in her warm, mortal nest. It is absurd. I am the God of Shadows, a being who has levelled civilisations and stared into the void until it blinked, yet here I am, guarding a slayer while she sleeps.
The bond between us is a taut wire, singing with every beat of her heart. It pulls at me, demanding proximity, demanding protection. She called it separation anxiety; I call it survival. If she dies, the anchor snaps, and we all drift into the maw of the Devourer.
My shadows coil around the bedposts, forming a silent, writhing cage. Outside, the rain lashes against the glass, masking the approach of anything less than divine. But I will know. If a blade of grass bends wrong in the garden, I will know. Nyssa Vale thinks she has surrendered, but she has no idea what it truly means to belong to us. We willburn the world to keep her breathing, even if we have to start with this fragile little village she clings to.
My head snaps to the side as a commotion in the graveyard draws my attention. I send the shadows out to investigate and learn that Voren and Dastian have picked up the mantle of Slayer of Demons. The vampire currently running away from Voren will get nowhere. If only she knew. If only she could see them doing her job so she can rest. What would she make of it? Would she be pissed? Probably. She would probably see it as a violation of her sacred duties. Part of me hopes she would accept it, because that is what we are here for. The vampire meets its end. I feel the snap of Voren’s power like a cold draft against my mind, followed by the erratic buzz of Dastian incinerating something that probably didn’t need that much firepower. Nyssa stirs, her brows furrowing as if sensing the disturbance in her sleep, but she doesn’t wake. She rolls over, her hand landing heavily on my chest. It burns through the leather, a brand of mortality I suddenly have no desire to remove.
She mumbles something unintelligible and nuzzles into my side.
“Rest, slayer,” I whisper, brushing a thumb over her temple. She leans into the touch, her breathing evening out again.
The threat is neutralised. The village sleeps on, blissfully ignorant that their safety is currently being guaranteed by the very entities their holy books warn against.
I watch the rise and fall of her chest. Tomorrow, we take her to the crypt. Tomorrow, we ask her to walk into a realm that wants to kill her, to retrieve a crown that might destroy her. The thought makes my power flare, icing the windows over completely. But I will protect what is mine with a cruelty that makes the Devourer look like a petulant child.
My power coils beneath my skin, agitated. It knows what awaits us in the Pantheon Realm. A crown that demands a price I’m terrified she can’t pay. If she burns... I push the thought away into the blackest recess of my mind. It is not an option. If the fire of the Firsts’ attempts to consume her, I will simply have to become the void that swallows the flames.
Her hand tightens on my shirt, her nails digging in even in sleep. She is fighting something in her dreams.
“Don’t you dare die,” I mutter, brushing her hair away from her forehead.
She relaxes again, her hand going slack as she flips back over, leaving me cold and alone. Like I’ve always been. Like I’ve always wanted to be. Now, I need her warmth.
Restless, I get up, deciding to make myself useful. I move silently around the room, tidying everything into an order she will appreciate. I collect the discarded clothes from the bathroom, pick up her blade, and place it carefully on the bedside table. The runes that flared when I picked it up, flicker and die out when I move away. I smile at it. Divine steel. She doesn’t know. They wouldn’t have told her. That information will have been conveniently left out of the teachings. I move on, taking the clothes to the small utility room at the back of the kitchen. I stare at the white machine, gleaning the information I need from it to work correctly, and shove the clothes inside. Nyssa will appreciate the mortal way rather than me using magic to correct them.
The machine comes to life, pouring water into it as I add detergent. I watch the drum spin, mesmerised by its banality. Mortal magic involves soap powder and electricity; ours involves blood and sacrifice. I’m not sure which is more efficient, but this one certainly smells better.
Satisfied that I haven’t accidentally summoned a water demon by pressing the wrong button, I drift around the kitchen, tidying up the mess from her dinner. Scrubbing congealed pig fat from a pan is not exactly how I envisioned spending my days back in the mortal realm after centuries of beingpersona non grata, but needs must. I attack the grease with a sponge and a grim determination usually reserved for dismantling enemy wards. The washing-up liquid smells of synthetic lemon and chemical optimism. It’s entirely incongruous with the impending apocalypse, but then again, so is the woman sleeping soundly.
I dry the plate and place it in the cupboard. Order amidst the chaos. Once the kitchen is spotless, I prowl back into the hallway.
The cottage settles around me, the wood expanding and contracting in the cooling night air. I pause by a framed photograph on the mantelpiece. Nyssa and the redhead, Rynna, smiling in front of a pub, oblivious to the fact that their entire existence is a lie constructed by power-hungry ancestors. I trace Nyssa’s face in the glass. She looks younger there, less burdened. I intend to put that smile back, even if I have to rewrite reality to do it. My fingers linger on the cool glass a moment longer, tracing the curve of her smile like I could pull it into the present. But sentiment is a luxury I can’t afford right now, not with the realms teetering on the edge. I turn away, letting my shadows probe the rest of the cottage for anything out of place. The air feels heavier here, laced with that faint mortal tang of herbs and old books, but nothing screams threat. She’s safe for the night, at least from outside dangers.
I wander back to her bedroom, pausing in the doorway to watch her chest rise and fall under the duvet. She’stwisted the sheets around her legs like she’s wrestling demons in her dreams, her golden hair fanned across the pillow in a messy halo. Part of me wants to slip under there with her, to wrap her in shadows and shield her from what’s coming, but I don’t. She’s had enough of us crowding her space. Instead, I sink into the armchair by the window. It gives me a clear view of the door and the garden beyond.
The night drags on, hours bleeding into one another while I sit vigil. My mind churns through strategies, mapping the twists of the Pantheon realm in my head—the crumbling spires, the endless voids where gravity forgets its own rules. We’ve got one shot at this crown, and Nyssa’s the key. If she falters... no, she won’t. I’ve seen her fight, seen her shatter and rebuild in ways that would crush lesser beings. But doubt creeps in anyway, cold as my shadows.
A soft whimper escapes her lips around dawn, pulling me from my thoughts. She’s tossing now, her brow furrowed, fists clenched in the sheets. Nightmare, probably. I rise silently and approach the bed, debating whether to wake her. Before I can decide, her eyes snap open, wide and glowing with that new amber fire. She bolts upright, gasping, her hand instinctively groping for the blade on the bedside table.
“Easy,” I murmur, keeping my voice low and steady. “It’s just me.”
She blinks, focusing on my face, and the tension eases from her shoulders. But there’s a wariness there, a fresh edge that wasn’t in her gaze last night. “Dreven. You stayed.”
“You invited me.” I settle on the edge of the mattress, careful not to crowd her. “Bad dream?”
“Something like that.” She rubs her eyes, swinging her legs over the side. Her t-shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of thigh marked with faint bruises from our earlier activities. She doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe she doesn’t care. “It felt like I was falling through shadows, endless, with voices whispering about crowns and devouring voids. Fun stuff.”
“The bond stirring your subconscious.” I resist the urge to touch her, to smooth away the worry lines creasing her forehead. “It’ll settle.”
She snorts, standing and stretching with a wince. “Settle. Right. Because nothing about this is unsettling.” She pads to the window, peering out at the grey morning light filtering through the rain-streaked glass. “Voren and Dastian handled things last night, didn’t they? I felt it, even in my sleep.”
“Demons don’t rest just because you do.” I watch her back, the way her shoulders tense under the thin fabric. “A vampire thought it could snack on the village. They dissuaded it.”
She turns, arms crossed, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “My heroes. Guess I owe them a thank you. Or a kick in the shins for stealing my job.”
“Consider it a favour.” I stand, closing the distance between us. The air hums with that electric pull, the anchor drawing taut. “You needed the rest.”
“I did,” she admits, and I can see it costs her. “But I feel better this morning.”
