That I chose her over Elena, over safety, over every other consideration that should have mattered more.
That I would do it all again—every silent sacrifice, every masked performance, every moment of watching her hate me while knowing I was protecting her—if it meant she survived.
That she was worth it.
All of it.
Every price I paid.
Every piece of myself I surrendered.
She was worth it.
The peace that her presence brings settles deeper into my consciousness—acceptance that feels less like defeat and more like completion. Whatever happens next, I've had this moment. This connection. This final chance to express through touch what my voice has never been allowed to speak.
Farewell, my Wicked Cataclysm.
CHAPTER 22
The Writer Of This Story
~GWENIEVERE~
"You are the writer of this story, Gwenievere."
Zeke's whisper reaches my ear with the particular intimacy of secrets shared between souls who understand each other in ways that transcend ordinary connection. His breath is warm against my skin, his voice carrying conviction that settles into my consciousness with the weight of truths that change everything.
He retracts.
The movement creates distance between us—just enough space for me to turn, to meet his gaze, to search for whatever prompted this declaration in the depths of eyes that have always seen more than they revealed.
We share a look.
The exchange carries communication that words would only diminish—understanding passing between us through channels that our bond has created, meaning transmitted through the particular intimacy of people who have learned to read each other without requiring verbal confirmation.
In the depths of his golden eyes, I see belief.
He believes in me.
Like he always has.
Since the very beginning, when I was just another Academy student fighting to survive trials that seemed designed to kill us.
He's been watching.
Calculating.
Waiting for this moment.
The realization settles into my understanding with the particular clarity of patterns finally revealing themselves after years of hidden preparation.
I nod.
The gesture carries decision—commitment to whatever path has been forming in my consciousness since the moment I reached for Damien through bonds that this curse couldn't sever. My mind is made. My choice is clear. What happens next will either vindicate everything I believe about the people I love or destroy us all in ways that no amount of planning can prevent.
I look back at the hellhound.
Damien's three-headed form still dominates the volcanic landscape—massive and monstrous and carrying agony in every line of his cursed body. The tears of lava that stream down his furry cheeks create tracks of destruction through fur that should be impervious to heat, his own grief damaging him even as he expresses it.
