"No." The word tears from his throat—not the commanding voice of the Shadow Lord but the broken plea of a father watching his child slip away. "No, please, not again?—"
The shadows multiply, each one showing a new horror. Our son dying because Kaan chose me. Our son dying because the magic that should have saved us both failed. Our son dying because his father was too far away, too slow, too late, too weak, too selfish, too everything and nothing all at once.
"Kaan." My voice cracks on his name, but he doesn't hear me. Can't hear me over the sound of our baby's heart stopping in infinite variations.
He drops to his knees in the Veil's poisoned ground, and his shadows—those terrible, beautiful extensions of his soul—turn on him like rabid dogs. They show him holding our son's corpse while I bleed out behind him. They show him the moment of choice, played out in excruciating slow motion: the healer's face as she says "You can only save one," the split second where his eyes find mine across the blood-soaked stones, the moment his soul tears in half as he whispers my name instead of trying to save us both.
"I tried," he chokes out to the shadow child who keeps reaching, keeps dying, keeps almost making it. "I tried to save you both. I tried?—"
But the Veil shows him the truth his shadows have always known: he didn't try hard enough. Could have pushed his power further. Could have sacrificed pieces of his own life force. Could have made a different bargain with different gods. Could have, should have, would have—the trifecta of guilt that's been eating him alive for months.
The shadow child's mouth moves, and though no sound emerges, I can read the word on those perfect lips:Baba.
Father.
"Kaan." My voice cracks on his name.
He doesn't respond. Can't respond. The Veil has its claws in him now, showing him every alternative universe where he chose differently, where our son lived and I died, where he held a child who would never know its mother because he was too broken to make the right choice.
"This is what guilt looks like," Yasar murmurs, and I realize the binding has pulled me close enough that he can speak without the others hearing. "Your husband's, anyway. Mine looks different."
Before I can demand what he means, the Veil shifts again—and suddenly Yasar staggers as if struck. His shoulders hunch forward, hands gripping the edge of the stone altar. The steady rhythm of his breathing breaks into harsh, uneven gasps.
Images flood through—not just to him, but bleeding into my vision through whatever twisted connection the Veil has opened. Erlik in the demon realms, fire and shadow twisting between his fingers as he demonstrates techniques that make my stomach turn. The way flesh warps. The way reality bends until it screams.
But beneath that, the Veil drags up something else: Yasar, younger, standing in the shadow of laughing lords while they praise Kaan's latest conquest. His fingers curl into fists as they dismiss him with barely a glance—just another pretty courtier with refined manners and no real power.
A later memory: Erlik leaning close in a darkened corridor. "You could be so much more than decoration," his uncle murmurs. "I could teach you things that would make them notice."
Then—gods—the cleansing ritual. I'm watching myself through Yasar's eyes: unconscious on dark stone, limbs arranged with careful care. Erlik's hands weave silver light that sinks into my chest like hooks. Yasar stands frozen in the doorway, his reflection caught in the ritual mirror showingthe war on his face—revulsion fighting with want, conscience drowning under justification. His lips move silently:Better than Kaan. Better than grief. Better than letting her destroy herself.
Each word is another link in the chains he helped forge.
"Stop," Yasar gasps. Blood trickles from his nose.
I've moved closer without realizing it—not pulled by the binding, but drawn by something worse. The mask has finally slipped, revealing not a monster but a man who convinced himself atrocity was mercy.
"You knew." My voice comes out steady, controlled. "When Erlik created the binding, you knew it was wrong. You watched him violate my soul, and you let him because you wanted—what? A chance? A way to prove yourself better than Kaan?"
"I thought I was saving you." The polished voice cracks, raw underneath. "From him. From grief. From being trapped in a marriage where your husband let your child die. I thought?—"
"You thought you knew better than me what I needed. You thought manufacturing my desire was somehow more ethical than letting me choose for myself."
"Yes." His jaw works, tendons standing out in his neck. "And I'm starting to understand how profoundly fucked up that is."
The binding flares. Invisible chains constrict around my ribs until breathing becomes impossible. My knees hit stone as pressure builds behind my eyes. Yasar's hand shoots out, fingers closing around my arm, and the binding erupts—sensation flooding every nerve until I can't tell where pain ends and pleasure begins.
"Don't touch me." I wrench away. Skin tears. Blood wells. The separation leaves us both gasping on our knees.
"Enough." Elçin appears between us like an avenging angel, her blade drawn and pointed at Yasar's throat. "Whatever confession you're building toward, save it for when we're not in a nightmare realm. Nesilhan, can you still feel Banu's signature?"
I force myself to focus past the pain, past the binding's incessant pull, past the memories still bleeding at the edges of my vision. There—Banu's magic pulses stronger now, closer. We're almost there.
But when I turn to move forward, I see Kaan hasn't moved. He's still frozen, shadows surging around him in tortured shapes—our son's tiny form reaching for him over and over, dying in an infinite loop of guilt and regret. His expression is shattered, tears streaming down his face, and he's whispering something I can't hear.
Apologies, maybe. Or prayers to gods who stopped listening centuries ago.
"Kaan." I move toward him without thinking, fighting against the binding's pull in the opposite direction. "Kaan, you need to come back."
