“You could,” human-me replies, sounding warm. “Plant roses, worry about aphids, get dirt under your nails instead of blood under your skin. You’d have seasons that matter not because monsters freak out, but because they’re beautiful.”
I close my eyes, and suddenly I can almost smell the earth. Sunlight spilling through cottage windows, warming the kitchentable where I’d sit with tea and a book and no crises screaming for my attention. The kettle whistling on its own time, because I’m deciding between Earl Grey and English Breakfast, not dodging spells.
“Human problems,” human-me says, clearly satisfied. “Solvable problems. Ones you don’t have to risk your life or your sanity to fix.”
The realm shudders again, reality cracking like glass under too much pressure. Through the splits I see the Devourer pressing in, fixated on me like I’m overdue dessert. Soon it’ll stop waiting and just take what it wants—then all of this, the choice, the dream of home, the normal life, will be gone.
“How many people die if I choose that?” I force out, my throat raw.
Human-me’s expression doesn’t waver. “Does it matter? You can’t save everyone, Nyssa. You never could. The universe is too big, full of suffering you can’t reach, tragedies you can’t stop.”
She steps closer, and I see my own reflection in her clear, unburdened eyes. “The question isn’t can you save everyone. It’s can you save the people who matter most. Love over obligation. Family over strangers. Happiness over duty.”
I look at Rynna again, memorising every detail of her face, her laugh, the way she gestures when she’s making a point. My little sister, who would hate being called little, who faces down monsters with nothing but stubborn courage and a sharp stick. Who trusts me to keep her safe and has no idea how impossible that promise has become.
“She would understand,” human-me says softly, reading the direction of my thoughts. “Eventually. If you explained that you chose her, chose the life you could have together over the universal responsibilities you never asked for. She would understand. She might even approve.”
“Would she?” I ask, because I genuinely don’t know the answer. Rynna has always been brave to the point of recklessness. She fights monsters because she believes it’s the right thing to do, not because she was chosen by fate or destiny or divine intervention.
“She loves you,” human-me says simply. “More than she loves the idea of heroism. More than she loves the fight itself. If saving everyone meant losing her sister forever, do you really think she’d choose the greater good over keeping you safe and happy?”
The thought hits me hard because I know the answer. Rynna would choose me. Every time, without hesitation. She’d sacrifice the world to save my life and consider it a bargain well made.
“But that’s not who I am,” I whisper, the realisation cutting through the temptation like a blade through silk. “That’s not who either of us is, really. We fight monsters because people deserve protection. We take risks because some things are worth risking everything for.”
Human-me’s smile falters slightly, but she recovers quickly. “You could learn to be different. You could choose to value your own happiness, your own life, your own family above abstract concepts like duty and sacrifice. There’s nothing wrong with choosing the people you love over strangers.”
“Isn’t there?” I grip my blade tighter, feeling the familiar weight of steel and purpose anchor me to what I know is true. “How many sisters like Rynna are out there in the realms the Devourer will consume if I walk away? How many families will be destroyed so that mine can remain intact?”
“They’re not your responsibility,” human-me insists, but there’s desperation creeping into her voice now. “You didn’t choose this burden. You didn’t ask to become the universe’s last hope. You were supposed to be a slayer, protecting your village, your people. Not the entire universe.”
“But I did become this,” I say, looking down at my hands, at the power that flows through them like liquid starlight. “I made the choices that led here. I killed Aethel, claimed her power, bonded with the Shadow gods. Maybe I didn’t understand the full consequences, but I made those decisions, and now I have to live with them.”
“You could unmake those decisions,” human-me pleads. “Give up the power. Break the bonds. Return the crown to whoever wants the responsibility of cosmic balance. You don’t have to carry this weight. Just say the words, and it will all be undone.”
I look at this version of me that chose differently, that valued personal happiness over universal responsibility and feel something like pity. “And who would carry it instead?”
“Anyone but you,” human-me says desperately. “Anyone whose life wouldn’t be destroyed by taking on this burden.”
“My life isn’t destroyed,” I say, saying the words aloud for the first time. “It’s different. Harder. More complicated than I ever imagined possible. But it’s still mine. More importantly, it’s meaningful in a way it never was before.”
She stares at me with growing horror, as if I’ve just confessed to some unthinkable crime. “You’re choosing them over us. Over Rynna. Over the life we could have.”
I look at my sister one last time. My funny, brave, magnificent sister who deserves to live in a world where the worst monsters are the ones that can be killed with wooden stakes. Then I look at human-me, at the life I’m being offered, at the simple, clean existence where my biggest worry would be whether the milk has gone off.
“You’re right,” I tell her, and my voice comes out steady despite the tears threatening to spill. “That is what I want. More than anything in any realm. I want to go home. I want to make tea and read books and argue with Rynna about whose turn itis to take out the bins. I want normal problems and ordinary happiness and the luxury of being selfish.”
Human-me’s face lights up with hope and relief. “Then choose it. Choose us. Choose home.”
I grip my blade tighter, feeling the familiar weight anchor me to purpose and truth and the person I’ve chosen to become. “I want it,” I repeat, letting the longing ring clear in my voice. “But wanting something doesn’t make it right, and choosing the few I love over the many who need protection isn’t love—it’s selfishness dressed up in pretty words.”
She recoils as if I’ve struck her. “How can you call love selfish?”
“Because real love—the kind that matters, the kind that changes the world—isn’t about protecting the people we care about at the expense of everyone else.” I turn my back on the offered escape, on Rynna’s laughter, on the phantom smell of vanilla and the promise of ordinary mornings. “Real love is about making the hard choices so that everyone gets the chance at happiness, not just the people who happen to share our blood.”
When I face the advancing void at the edges of the realm, my voice doesn’t shake. “I choose sacrifice. I choose to carry this weight because someone has to. Because the alternative isn’t just my unhappiness. It’s the destruction of countless possibilities for love and joy and ordinary miracles that I’ll never see but that matter anyway.”
Human-me doesn’t argue. She doesn’t plead or rage or try to tempt me further with visions of what could be. She just looks at me with something that might be respect, a sad but understanding smile on her lips.
