Sad to stop existing.
Depressed that I couldn't reach my full potential.
The emotions spiral through my consciousness with the particular chaos of someone facing their end without having accomplished what they hoped to achieve.
Who knows what's going to happen next now?
Will I be trapped here for all eternity—hellhound without master, destruction without direction, monster without purpose beyond the violence this form demands?
Or will I disappear the moment Gwenievere reaches the finish line—curse dissolving when its intended target escapes the realm where it can touch her?
Neither option offers comfort.
Both alternatives lead to endings that don't include the future I wanted—the possibility of actually being with her, of loving her openly instead of secretly, of building something real from the foundation that three years of silent protection created.
I lower my head in defeat.
The gesture is instinctive—submission to circumstances that can't be changed, acceptance of fate that has been sealed by forces beyond my control. Steam escapes my nostrils with the particular sound of pressure releasing, heat dissipating into air that's already too warm.
Waiting for my end.
Whatever form that end takes.
At least she'll survive.
At least the others will continue.
At least my sacrifice—even if she never understands it—will have meant something.
Then I hear it.
A soft voice in the depths of my mind.
"Do you trust me?"
The words are faint—barely audible through the chaos of hellhound instinct and volcanic destruction and the particular noise that despair generates. I almost miss them entirely, almost dismiss them as wishful thinking or hallucination or the kind of cruel hope that curses apparently like to generate before crushing completely.
But the voice ishers.
Gwenievere.
Reaching through channels I didn't know existed.
Speaking directly to whatever remains of the man beneath the beast.
For a moment, my hellhound closes its eyes.
All six of them—all three heads deciding simultaneously that external perception matters less than whatever is happening inside my consciousness. The world around me fades as darkness descends, external reality giving way to internal space that apparently exists even within cursed forms.
There.
A single burning light appears in the darkness.
The illumination carries colors that I recognize—green and purple dancing together in patterns that speak to her particular brand of hybrid power. The hues blend and separate with the rhythm of energy that has its own pulse, its own heartbeat, its own life that exists independent of physical form.
Then hints of red join the dance.
Vampire.
