She rises on her toes to kiss me, her lips warm and soft and tasting of salt tears and unshakeable faith. "I love you too, my golden bull. Now go. Lead us home. Trust in the strength of what we've built together."
I take a deep, shuddering breath, filling my lungs with her scent one last time before turning toward the archway. The phosphorescent moss parts like a curtain as I approach, revealing a shimmering barrier of seawater that wavers between liquid and light. Beyond it, I can just make out the familiar stones of Milthar's harbor, golden in the dawn that waits to welcome us home.
I give Eurydice's hand one last, firm squeeze, feeling the red ribbon pulse between our wrists like a heartbeat made of silk and hope. Then I let go—the hardest thing I've ever done, harder than facing the drowned choir or navigating the Archive Trench or singing my way through the Hush itself. My fingers part from hers with the finality of a sword stroke, severing the physical connection we've maintained through every trial.
I turn my back on her and step through the archway.
The water closes over me like a living thing, swirling and disorienting, carrying me through a tunnel that exists between heartbeats, between breaths, between one moment and the next. The silence is immediate and total—no sound of her breathing behind me, no whisper of her voice, no comforting presence at my back. Only the terrible, absolute quiet of faith being tested in the crucible of love.
I fix my eyes on the growing light ahead and begin to walk, each step an act of trust, each breath a prayer that the woman I love follows somewhere behind me in the space between life and death, trusting as completely in me as I must trust in the cosmic laws that govern such impossible journeys.
Do not look back.
32
EURYDICE
The moment Theron disappears through the shimmering curtain of seawater, the world around me changes with the suddenness of a snuffed candle. The phosphorescent moss that provided gentle illumination dies to nothing, plunging me into darkness so complete it has weight and texture. But worse than the absence of light is the silence—the terrible, crushing quiet where his heartbeat should be, where his breathing should whisper against my consciousness like a prayer.
The pressure of the necropolis bears down on me immediately, no longer held at bay by his voice or his presence. It's as if the entire drowned city has been waiting for this moment, gathering its malevolent strength for one final assault on my spirit. The darkness presses against my skin like cold hands, seeking entry through every pore, every breath, every moment of doubt or fear.
And then the whispers begin.
They slither from the walls like serpents made of sound, the voices of every shade we encountered twisted into instruments of torment. The drowned children with their pearl-black eyes, the maiden-shade who combed my hair, the priest who tried tocrown me with sorrows—all of them speak now with bitter envy, their words designed to poison the faith that Theron needs me to maintain.
"Pretty lady, why do you wait in the dark?"comes the voice of the little girl who gave me her shell. But now it carries spite instead of innocence, malice instead of hope."The golden bull has already forgotten you. His hero's quest is complete, and you were just the prize he came to claim."
"He walks in sunlight now,"hisses the priest-shade, his words echoing from every direction at once."He breathes free air and feels warm wind on his fur. Do you think he spares a thought for the woman he left behind in darkness? Do you think your love means anything now that he has proven his courage?"
I force myself to take the first step forward, my foot finding a purchase on stone that feels solid but somehow wrong—too smooth, too cold, as if the path itself wants to make me stumble. The whispers grow more insidious as I begin to walk, following some instinct that tells me the way leads forward, always forward, never back.
"She was always too good for you,"comes a voice I recognize with a shock of pain—my mother's voice, warm and familiar but twisted with disappointed love."My daughter, consorting with beasts, throwing away her future for a sailor's rough hands and tavern songs."
The words hit me like physical blows because they carry the grain of truth that makes the most effective lies. My parents never understood my choice to live simply in Milthar, to reject the merchant princes who courted me with gold and status. They wanted more for their daughter than a retired captain's humble cottage, more than the honest love of a man who earned his bread with his voice and his strength.
"You could have had silks and jewels,"my father's voice adds, materializing from the darkness with the authority that once shaped my childhood."You could have been somebody's wife, somebody who mattered. Instead, you chose to be a footnote in a sailor's tale."
But I keep walking, my steps deliberate and measured despite the pain their words cause. I focus on the memory of Theron's touch—the way his massive hands can be so gentle when they cup my face, the rumble of contentment in his chest when I rest my head against his heart. These voices are lies, shadows of truth bent into weapons meant to make me doubt not just him, but myself.
The darkness around me begins to shift and writhe, showing mevisionsin the corner of my eye—images designed to break my faith with surgical precision. I see Milthar's harbor in golden sunlight, the town celebrating Theron's return. The vision is so real I can smell the festival foods, hear the songs of homecoming, feel the warmth of the sun on cobblestones worn smooth by generations of honest trade.
And there, placing a wreath of victory on Theron's horns, is a minotaur woman of breathtaking beauty. Her fur is silver-white like moonlight on water, her horns adorned with jewels that catch the light like captured stars. She moves with the confidence of nobility, the assurance of someone who belongs in a hero's story. When she smiles up at Theron, her expression holds the promise of everything I could never give him—social standing, wealth, a partner who matches his strength and stature.
"See how he looks at her?"the whispers continue, gleeful with malice."See how his eyes light up? That is the woman he deserves, not some human girl who thinks love can conquer everything."
The vision is so detailed, so perfectly crafted to wound, that for a moment I feel my step falter. The woman in the image moves like she belongs at Theron's side, like she was born to wear the crown of a hero's consort. Her beauty is the kind that inspires songs, that makes lesser beings feel small and plain by comparison.
But I clench my fists and force myself to remember the truth that no vision can counterfeit—the scent of his skin after we make love, the way he murmurs my name in his sleep, the look in his amber eyes when he tells me I'm beautiful. This isn't about deserving or status or matching anyone's expectations. This is about love freely given and freely received, about two souls who chose each other against all logic and reason.
The whispers grow more desperate as they sense my resolve holding firm. They cycle through every voice that ever mattered to me—childhood friends expressing disappointment, teachers who expected more, lovers who never understood why I chose simplicity over sophistication. Each taunt is perfectly crafted, each barb designed to hit exactly where it will cause the most damage.
But the final assault comes in a voice that nearly breaks me.
Theron's voice, full of despair and exhaustion, echoing from the darkness ahead:"I can't do it, Eurydice. I'm not strong enough. The weight of not knowing, of walking in faith alone—it's too much. I'm sorry, my love. I'm so sorry, but I have to look back. I have to see if you're there."
For a terrifying second, I falter. My head starts to turn, every instinct screaming at me to call out, to reassure him, to break the law that governs this passage in order to spare him doubt. The voice is perfect—not just the sound of his words, but the cadence of his speech, the way his voice breaks when he's overwhelmed with emotion.
But then training takes over—not the kind learned in schools or temples, but the deep knowledge that comes from truly knowing another soul. I know his voice better than my own heartbeat, know the rhythm of his breathing, the particular rumble of his laughter. And this voice, perfect as it seems, carries one false note—a thread of malice so fine it's almost undetectable, but present nonetheless.
