As he approached, his footsteps measured and unhurried, I whispered, “Is that who I think it is?”
“That,” she said with reverent awe and relief, “is Damien.”
Chapter 28
Rowan
It had been a long time since I had felt Death’s grasp. Not the brush of it during a fight, or the fleeting flirtation of it during a fall, but the true weight of it—the heavy, soundless presence that filled lungs and heart like cold water.
Even when faced with the inevitable, my thoughts turned to her. Memories of the fight flickered through the domain of in-between before me, then met silence. Was she okay? Did they hurt her?
Time passed slowly, or maybe not at all, as I waited in the silent domain of a vast, endless corridor. I found myself desperately missing her. Her scent, her voice, the way she filled a room with defiant warmth even when she was angry at me. Memories of her anchored me, flickering faintly like candlelight seen through glass, reflecting off the obsidian walls of my prison.
Memories of Charlie—the man I considered to be the closest thing to a father figure I’d ever had—rushed to the surface. His laugh, his cleverness, the way his hand would grip my shoulder to offer comfort or counsel. All of it threaded through me as I drifted, feeling the beat of my heart slow. . . then falter. . . then slip like sand between fingers.
I am dying, and it feels more. . . final this time.
Behind me stood a Grim. Not the caricatured skull-faced figure from stories, but something far older and more patient. Taller than any mortal, its form wrapped in smoke and shadow that billowed without wind, edges fraying into nothing before reforming. The cloak—if it could be called that—seemed woven from the absence of light itself, drinking inwhat little illumination existed in this place. Its face remained hidden within the depths of that hood, though I sensed the weight of its attention.
In its skeletal hands, it held a scythe. The blade gleamed iridescent black, catching colors that had no names, its edge impossibly thin—the kind of sharpness that could sever more than flesh. The weapon stood upright like a horizon line at my back, patient as stone. The Grim didn’t move. It didn’t speak. It simply waited, its mission inevitable.
I knew what it was: not my executioner, but my escort.
Was this really the end?
I stood, feeling light and ethereal. The space around me wasn’t a void so much as a corridor: endless, smooth, similar to Oubliette’s polished interior. My fingertips traced the slippery walls, and warmth seeped from them into my touch.
I should move. . . but to where?
Deep down, I knew. To Violet.
I walked because there was nothing else to do, my bare feet slapping softly against a floor that shouldn’t exist. No air, no wind, no scent. Simply endless time and nothing.
More memories of Violet flashed through the darkness, reflecting off obsidian in broken stories of our mingling lives. Her face—angry, then smiling—echoed within the walls like shuttered film.
I miss her.The ache of knowing I might never see her again rose beneath the hollow emptiness of my ribs, where my heart remained quiet. Even without my heightened hearing, I knew I was teetering on Death’s threshold.
Then, from a distance, I saw it. A golden silhouette, faint at first but growing more solid the closer I came. A door, impossibly out of place in the endless black.
Curiosity got the better of me. I turned to the Grim, my voice hoarse and cracked as it carried over the distance. “You will not mind if I go take a look, right?”
Silence answered. Its billowing hood remained unmoving, scythe upright and glinting with those strange, nameless colors.
I laughed softly, the sound thin and strange in this place. “No, you will not mind.”
So I walked.
Each step towards the door felt heavier than the last, like wading through unseen dark water. My footsteps echoed softly against nothing, but as I neared the golden shape, another noise began to sound faintly—a wet, dull rhythm, like flesh striking stone.
The door stood tall and narrow, carved from something that reminded me briefly of the solidified light I’d seen after using Jules’s portal in Oubliette. It looked solid, indestructible, yet simultaneously ethereal—as if I could pass my hand through it and find resistance and emptiness both. Intricate etchings covered its surface: spirals, dagger-points, cups spilling liquid, snakes coiled around blades. The largest and most elaborate carving was in the center—a chalice bearing twin daggers crossed like wings.
And engraved upon that chalice were the wordsLavernai Pocolom.
A shiver ran through me, echoing between my bones. The words were ancient and foreign, yet my tongue ached as though it had once spoken them. Familiar and daunting in equal measure. The faint gold outline of the door pulsed slowly, like breath. It was then I realized the door was alive.
As I stared, I heard something. The briefest of whispers.
“Rowan.”
