He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Hesmiles.“We’re kindred souls, then.”
He tells me about his own blood trail. His parents. His sisters. Down to one—devoured by Athanasius. That’s the only word he uses.Devoured.
Ambrose speaks of vengeance like it’s holy. Like it’s the only religion that’s never failed him. He tells me of how he learned magic not meant for him, twisted it, made ithis, until he could challenge primordials. In the 15th century, he says. He bound the avatars. One by one.Sealedthem.
“I wanted humanity to live free,” he says. “Outside their rules. But I was naïve.” He sighs heavily, his arms crossed over his chest. "I almost had everything I wanted, honestly, I was very close to figuring out how to seal them for all time, until this realm fell into its black hole and is born again." He narrows his eyes. "Then you," He shakes his head. "You really love him?"
I do."Yes."
"I can see why he favors you." He doesn't say love. "Yeah, you…” His voice is soft. “You’re something else. A hypnotic beauty.” He reaches his hand out.
I draw back. “Don’t get cute. I might be weak right now, but I’ll cut your damn hand off if you touch me.”
He laughs. “Sure. Not now.” He winks. “Stockholm syndrome settles in quick, though.”
Disgust curls in my gut. "Fuck you."
"When you're feeling better." He chuckles. “It's fine." He taps his chin. "I watched how he covered you, protected you in my fortress. He's searching for you now, I know it. You’re his prize,” he says with a shrug. “And now I have you. A bargaining chip. Or…” His eyes glint with something I can’t name. “Maybe more. I’ll let you figure that part out.”
"I don't do well with riddles." I spit, feeling sleepy.
"A pity. I love them." He smiles. "Tired yet?"
Oh shit. Like one too many benedryl, I can feel myself floating, feeling heavy at the same time. "You drugged me?"
"Just to make you sleep, and I promise," he lifts the blanket over me. "I won't do anything dishonorable, you'll come to me in time."
"Fu…" Consciousness is draining fast. The last thing I have energy for is to think of Athanasius…hard…can he feel that?
Chapter thirty-two
It Is Not Home Without Her
Athanasius
Thepressureofthedeep is constant—a comfort, really. The crushing weight above my palace reminds me that even primordials have places to brood. The darkness is home, the water surrounds me, black as ink, black as a singularity. I can see through the piercing veil, the fish, the sharks, the little life that calls this place home. I had meant to bring her here.Myrabbit. A sanctuary of bone and silence. She would have hated it.
And loved it.
But instead I sleep… and I dream ofnothing. Until she calls.
It starts as a whisper—no, not even that. A ripple in the dark. A tremor of somethingfamiliar. She’s reaching. Reaching through whatever prison holds her, through the folds of realm and reason,to me.
I sit up.
My vision burns gold. My breath catches like it hasn’t in centuries. She was crying out—no, not with fear.Want. Desperation. Forme.
I send something back. A feeling, raw and urgent. A pulse of presence. I don’t know where she is. I don’tcare.She needs to feelme.
“Rabbit,” I murmur, voice rough with sleep and fury. “Do it again. Tell me where you are.”
But then… silence. The thread snaps. The echo dies. I taste ash.
My temple groans around me, as if feeling the mood shift. With a sweep of my hand, a pillar—centuries old and made of carved leviathan rib—shatters against the floor. The rest of the structure buckles, collapses. Dust and whale bone rain down like snow.
She was meant to behere. Instead, she’s somewhere out there, surrounded by insects. Pretenders. Traitors.Ambrose. He will answer for this.
I rise, step barefoot over ruins, my body humming with cold rage. I feel the pulse of it—faint, far above me. Devotion. Sacrifice. Myname. They still gather. I never cared much for them, the cults. Filthy little dramatists, obsessed with mythology and drenched in incense. But now? Now, they are useful. I stretch a hand toward the surface, and the deep parts like breath. A whisper, a call, a tug—and one answers. He arrives slick with seawater, wheezing, blinking behind gold-rimmed glasses. An older man. Rich. Stupid. He smells of imported leather and spiritual delusion.
