“The Dark Realm, as you’ve seen, is now barren.”
I feel our darkness stir—hers warm, sharp, reactive. Mine cool, steady, curling protectively around us like transparent smoke. I don’t think she notices.
“But it wasn’t always that way. Some centuries ago, it was my home.”
Her brows lift slightly on the word ‘centuries’. Not in judgement, but quiet surprise. But I keep going. I have to. If I stop now, I won’t start again.
“It was home to all creatures of the dark, but always presided over by demons. The ruler of the Dark Realm was an incredibly powerful one who reigned with one mantra: Better to be feared than loved. And feared he was.”
I glance down at my hands, resisting the urge to rub the ring on my thumb. “He was determined to have more powerful heirs, and spent most of his reign searching for partners whom he believed were… compatible.” My darkness pulses. “He scoured every realm, even the Realm of Light, obsessed with breeding power. Believing his legacy should reshape the world.”
I pause, then lift my gaze to hers—just long enough. She needs to hear this part. Clearly. But speaking the next words takes more effort than it should.
“His partners were not always willing.”
Jasmine swallows slowly. The pale column of her throat draws all my attention for a moment, but her expression doesn’t change, still resolute.
I continue. “The children, his children, were taken from their mothers. Barely grown.” Jasmine’s expression falters then. Her eyes shine, her mouth tightens. “For decades, he stole them, raised them, tested them.” I hesitate. “And when they failed, he killed them, and called it mercy.”
She inhales softly, but it sounds too sudden, like it caught her off guard.
“None of them were enough, and time was running out.”
I stare at my clasped hands, at the forsaken ring.
“No one is born immortal.” I pause. “You become it.”
I wait, unsure if she’s ready to hear this next part. But she asked for the truth.
“Only beings of the dark may become immortal, because although we all have pieces of light and dark within us, the darkness is what changes you. Some are born with more than others, demons often the most, but the darkness can grow. It feeds from pain. Tragedy. If you experience enough, over time, you become immortal.” I say nothing for a moment, pushing back the memories.
“Some never achieve it, for most, it takes centuries. But to gain such power means to lose another. Immortals cannot have children.”
Her eyes drift, just so, like the thought has rooted itself somewhere deeper than she expected. Her warmth flickers. The shadows darken.
I want to reach out. Say something to ease it. But what words exist for a grief you haven’t lived yet?
“When he felt his mortality ending, when the darkness inside him reached its peak, he tried again. Had one last child.”
I stare into her vibrant, questioning gaze, and I know she knows.
Me.
Her eyes spark with flickers of brilliant scarlet, glistening, bouncing between mine as she softly frowns.
“I was everything my father ever wanted. I inherited all his traits. I was cruel, vindictive, merciless—even from a young age. And I worshipped him.” I glance away. “I thought he was a hero. I glorified his actions, his ruthlessness. I wanted to be him.” I shake my head, the words feel so hard in my throat. “When he suggested taking over the remaining realms—to rule all three under one power, the power of darkness—I was his biggest supporter.”
She heard me, I know she did. But she looks at me like she hasn’t. Her lip doesn’t curl in distaste, her eyes don’t narrow in disgust. They still glisten.
“When he left with his army to the Realm of Light, I was too young to follow. I wouldn’t have survived the Light. So I was left behind. And that… that was when my descent began.”
It has to be said. Even if it drags me back with it. Centuries have passed, hundreds of years, yet remembering this part of my life… telling her…
“There were swathes of demons vying for my attention. Desperate to gain favour with my father, hoping to become part of his sacred inner circle, climb the chain of command—don a green cloak.”
Jasmine tenses, almost imperceptibly. She’s connecting it now. The pieces. The past and the present. My father’s legacy.
“They may be new to you,” I add, “but they’re an old enemy to most. A tale from a dark, dire past. They called themselves The Order.”
