Water swirls, and the witch and I are swallowed whole. Inside, we’re nothing. Spinning weightless, voices swallowed in the churning tide. Around us, images flicker like broken mirrors: places, people, memories. And then—I can feel her. Ione, a bright light shimmers, dances, and waves from a portal. Ione. Her eyes are wide, darting left and right, cloudy. She downs the potion, and a thrum of energy pulses through the whirlpool. We dive through it and emerge gasping, soaked, in the sea. I grab the witch, dragging her to shore. A castle looms above us, not the same one as before, this one is sleeker, more suited for the beach.
From a window, the mage watches us. That smug smile carved into his face.
“I wondered when you’d get here,” he calls. “Too bad she hardly remembers who you are."
The sand shifts under my feet as I stare up at the towering castle, its jagged spires clawing at the violet sky. Storm clouds churn like bruises overhead, but the wind is still, holding its breath. I growl low in my throat, fists tightening until my claws bite into my palms. Beside me, the witch—her dark hair whipping in a wind only she can feel—tilts her head and smiles.
"We are in between realms, Athanasius," she says. Her voice is bright, wicked. "So what are you waiting for?"
The realization slams into me like a tide. Here, I am not bound. Here, I can become myself—without the delicate restraint of mortal skin.
And here, if I let my true nature loose, it will not shatter her—it will save her. I whisper a single word, ancient and raw. The earth trembles at my feet, a jagged trench tearing open before me, splitting the beach like a gaping wound. From its depths, wraiths rise—black as sorrow, their hollow eyes turn upward to the castle.
Above, Ambrose straightens, his grin faltering just slightly. “Well, well," he drawls. "Was it something I said?”
He flourishes his hands, spinning lazy circles in the air, and a golden barrier blooms around the castle—a shimmering dome of protection. Fool. I step forward—and let the mask fall.
A lion’s tail lashes behind me, thick and powerful, every movement a testament of wrath hold tight. The tattoos that brand my body—runes older than the moons, older than time—flare silver, as if the stars themselves bleed into my flesh. My eyes, once black as the space between worlds, shimmered now—tiny stars burning within the abyss, watching, waiting. I am not a man. I am not a god. I am Athanasius Necrothys, The Veil between Worlds, The Withering, Harbinger of the Final Silence—and nothing will keep me from her.
The sky convulses, darkness flooding the world like spilled ink. I slip into the shadow and reform inside the castle. My wraiths swirl and shriek, looking for Ione. We will take care of the mage later. A sharp shrill call announces the dissolution of one, then two of my wraiths.
I tear through the halls, ripping doors from hinges, shredding tapestries by my passing. Nothing matters—nothing but her heartbeat calling to me like a beacon.
A softer call, moaning, as a wraith beckons me forward. It's found them. In a garden room of marble and night-blooming flowers, the ceiling opens to the bruised sky. Ione lays sprawled across the ground, her twists are a halo around her head, her eyes are moving rapidly behind the lids. Rage cracks through me, raw and primal. The ground is not worthy to touch her. She issacred.
Ambrose kneels beside her, brushing a hand along her jaw with mock tenderness. "Wake up, cutie," he says brightly. "Time to do our thing."
Her eyes flutter open—beautiful, vacant, lost.
"Rabbit," I rasp, stepping forward. "Can you hear me?"
She blinks, confusion swirling in her glassy gaze. "Who are you?"
The words cut deeper than any blade. "Rabbit, please," I whisper, my voice breaking under the weight of it. "Come here, my love."
Instead, she turns into Ambrose’s arms, clinging to him like a drowning soul clutches driftwood. "Who is he?" she murmurs.
Ambrose smiles over her shoulder, all teeth and malice. "No one, my darling," he replies, smoothing her hair like a lover. "Just some creature who thinks he knows you." He toys with the ring on her finger—the one that bindsher to me across time and death—and laughs softly. "Do me a favor, cutie," Ambrose says, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Take this off. Tell him you release him. You’re free. You’re mine now."
My breathing quickens, heart pounding like war drums against my ribs. "Woman, don't," I plead. "Remember me, Ione."
She hesitates, her fingers trembling at the ring.
"Don't listen to him, Ione," Ambrose urges, turning her face toward his, stealing another kiss from her mouth. "You are mine. Remember. Now do it."
"Ione," I rumble, stepping closer, my voice a low, aching pull. "Look at me. Just look at me."
Slowly—so slowly—she turned her head. Our eyes meet. And something flickers.
I fall to my knees before her, the words pouring out of me, soaking in every ounce of yearning I have ever carried: "Remember that night in your backyard, rabbit?" I say, voice shaking. "You were furious with me because I wouldn’t say I loved you in front of Moireth. You wouldn't let me see your tears."
Her fingers shake as she touches the ring.
I press on, the words spilling from the broken dam of my heart. "Your eyes, my love—they are the night sky made flesh. Infinite. Wild. And your lips—" I choke on it, swallowing the ache. "I miss the taste of them. Your lips are death’s embrace itself. I know the taste well, for I am death, and it has never been so sweet as it is on you."
Her hand falters at the ring.
"Ione," I whisper, voice hoarse, desperate. "Come to me.I will help you remember—every kiss, every touch. Every place my body knew yours so well, it could never be unwound, not by gods, not by monsters, not by time itself. We are sewn into the same skin, you and I. You only have to remember."
