She mutters something under her breath, tracing a diagram on the page with her finger. “A realm that feeds on memory... what the hell does that even mean?”
“It means we’re leaving,” I say, stepping out of the shadows.
She jumps, the book sliding from her lap as her handflies to the blade tucked into her waistband. Her eyes are wide, amber fire meeting my silver ice.
“Now,” I continue, my voice leaving no room for argument. “The timeline has changed.”
For a second, I see the argument forming on her lips, the stubborn refusal to be ordered around. But something in my expression must convey the gravity of the situation, because she clamps her jaw shut. With a frustrated growl, she shoves the journal into a small backpack by the sofa, along with a few other items I don’t recognise. Her movements are efficient, economical, the ingrained discipline of a warrior overriding her anger.
“Are you going to tell me what spooked you?” she asks, shrugging the pack onto her shoulders and pulling her boots on with sharp, angry tugs.
I don’t answer. Explaining Tabitha now is a liability. It invites questions, fear, hesitation—luxuries we can no longer afford. Instead, I hold out my hand. “We’re not walking.”
She glares at my hand, then at me. “I hate it when you do that.”
“I know.”
With a final, put-upon sigh, she takes my hand. Her skin is warm against mine. I wrap my shadows around us, pulling the world into a cold, silent void as I draw her closer, feeling her body press against mine, and I breathe in the scent of her hair. She smells like shampoo and rain.
The world solidifies around us in a rush of cold air and the smell of damp earth. We stand in front of the crypt, the stone slick and black with rain. I release her hand, but the anchor between us hums, a low thrum of power that is a constant comfort. Nyssa remains steady on her feet.
“I’m getting used to that. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”
“Good,” I state, my gaze fixed on the heavy stone door I sealed hours ago and release the shadows. “It’s open. The fissure is all yours.”
She doesn’t argue, just pulls the blade from her back. The runes flare to life, casting an eerie blue light across her face. The steel vibrates, hungry. It knows what is required.
I watch her, every muscle in my body tense. She is walking into our world, a place of gods and monsters where her mortality is both her greatest weakness and her only key to success. She lifts the blade, her thumb tracing the razor-sharp edge. There is no hesitation. She knows the price of admission. She always pays it. She swipes the blade across her palm without a wince, the blood welling dark and potent.
She yanks open the crypt door as Dastian and Voren reappear.
“All clear. For now,” Voren mutters.
I nod once as Nyssa holds her bleeding hand above the fissure inside the crypt. It groans, a deep, resonant sound that vibrates through the soles of my boots. The seal she placed fractures, spiderwebbing across the stone before crumbling into dust, revealing the pulsing, golden tear in the earth.
It’s wider than before, more agitated. Light spills out, carrying with it the scent of ancient magic.
“Ready?” I ask, though I will never be ready to watch her walk into this. But we have no choice.
“No,” she says honestly, “but fuck it.”
I step through first, pulling her with me, Voren and Dastian following quickly. The transition is violent, a wrenching sensation like being turned inside out andreassembled. The air here is thick, heavier than the mortal realm. Nyssa will struggle until she adapts. Until the Firsts’ power allows her to adapt. Mortals, true mortals, cannot survive here. The resplendent realm of the gods is no place for their fragile minds and bodies.
We land on smooth cream marble that gleams like liquid pearl under our feet, stretching endlessly in all directions. Above us, the sky fractures into ribbons of light with colours that shift between molten gold and bruise-purple, then splinter into hues that would make mortal eyes bleed, colours that exist in the spaces between heartbeats, shades that whisper of both creation and oblivion.
“Welcome to the Pantheon,” I murmur into her hair. “Try not to die.”
Chapter 37
Nyssa
“Great pep talk,” I mutter, my voice sounding thin and small in the vastness. “Really feeling the confidence boost.”
My lungs struggle to draw a full breath. The air here is thick, like breathing in honey and static. The light from the impossible sky isn’t just light; it has weight, pressing down on my skin with a warmth that feels nothing like the sun. I can feel the Firsts’ power stirring in my blood, a low vibration that resonates with the magic of this place. It’s the only thing keeping my mortal brain from short-circuiting.
The gods beside me seem to expand in the ambient energy. Dreven’s shadows are deeper, drinking the alien light. Voren’s chill is a visible frost that hovers just above the marble at his feet, and Dastian crackles with a low hum, a faint shimmer of red-gold outlining his form. They belong here. I am an intruder, a trespasser with borrowed power and a stolen book.
“So, where is this thing?” I ask.
