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There is a reason why the curse was not immediate, why it would only happen in a hundred years.

It never really mattered if anyone believed in it or not.

The curse was done out of anger, yes. But foremost, it was done out of love.

Out of my love for the eight kingdoms. I did not have enough power to make it last longer; a hundred years would have to do.

The curse was created to keep something imprisoned.

Tabitha Wysteria

Ash was bound, an invisible force locking him in place, his body unyielding to his own will. He could feel the weight of it, pressing into his bones, suffocating him without touch, without chains. He was a prisoner of magic, his breath caught between fury and despair.

Then—shattering.

Nyx descended like a specter of wrath, her talons tearing through stone and spell alike.

Hagan’s hold snapped like brittle glass.

The sudden release sent Ash lurching forward, agony lancing through his side, yet he did not falter.

He had no time to. His sword lay discarded where the witches had cast it aside, gleaming dully beneath the ruin of the Grand Hall.

He lunged for it, his fingers curling around the hilt like it was the only thing tethering him to life. It burnt to be held again.

With a single breath, the blade ignited.

Red-hot fire roared along its length, from tip to hilt, as though the weapon itself had awakened from slumber, eager for vengeance.

The Grand Hall was a graveyard now—bodies draped across the marble, remnants of life spilt across the stone in rivers of red. The echoes of battle had faded, leaving behind only Mal. Mal and the witches.

Ash glanced towards his father. King Egan lay broken, crumpled like an abandoned relic. The wall that had held him aloft was shattered, his body reduced to nothing more than a ruin. And his head—gone. Taken by the chaos, swallowed by the night.

Ash had never truly known his father, had never sought his warmth, but he had respected him. Had loved him in that distant, complicated way a son loves a king. And now, with the last of his bloodline snuffed from the world, he was the only Acheron left.

The weight of it threatened to crush him.

Mal lifted her hands. Darkness surged at her command.

It moved like ink bleeding into water, spilling across the room, crawling up the walls and into the rafters.

A ripple of unease spread through the witches.

Even the boldest among them hesitated, their spells faltering, their faces shifting with something akin to fear.

The air shifted. Grew cold.

Ash staggered back as the dead began to rise.

A gasp caught in his throat as one by one, the fallen stirred. Limbs twisted, hands flexed, bodies lifted. Eyes that should have remained closed in eternal slumber snapped open, hollow, unseeing, yet brimming with a dark purpose .

They took up the weapons they had died holding, the steel glinting beneath the glow of the torches.

A storm of bodies—undying, relentless—descended.

Through it all, Mal did not flinch. She moved as if none of it touched her, as if the chaos behind her was nothing more than the shifting of leaves in the wind. Her focus was elsewhere.

Ash followed her gaze—to the only body that had not stirred.

Haven.

Mal knelt beside her, her movements slow, reverent. She did not weep. Did not tremble. Instead, she reached down, plucking the black ring from her sister’s lifeless hand.

The moment it slipped onto her own finger, her mask cracked.

She had lied to him.

She had married him with the intent to kill him. To break a curse he wasn’t even sure was real. He should hate her. Should despise her for the betrayal. But he didn’t.

Not when he looked at her now. Not when she stood over her sister’s body, twisting the ring absently, her face lost, hollow, breaking.

She was the only light left in his world.

The only thing tethering him to hope.

He could not lose that, too.

‘Take my hand,’ he whispered.

Beyond them, Hagan screamed.

Ash did not turn to look. He did not need to. He could hear it—the realisation sinking in, the fury, the panic. No matter how many corpses Hagan blasted apart, more came. An endless tide.

The warlock was drowning in retribution.

‘It won’t hurt.’ Mal turned towards Ash, her voice soft as the dying embers of a fire. ‘Touching me won’t hurt.’

And for the first time, he saw her.

Truly saw her.

Her form still shimmered at the edges, her body woven from the very night itself, an entity that did not belong entirely to this world. Shadow-wrought.

He should have feared it.

But he didn’t.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I trust you.’

Something in her flinched, as though the words had burnt her. But she said nothing. Instead, she sheathed her sword. Her fingers hesitated before closing over his.

The undead did not touch them. Did not block their path. They parted. They bowed.

They shielded their princess from harm.

Ash and Mal climbed onto Nyx’s back, her great shadowed wings flexing as she prepared to take flight.

Then—they ascended. Up, through the gaping wound in the castle’s ceiling, through the smoke and ruin, into the night sky.

And behind them, the witches fought.

…

Ash’s boots crunched against the rocky edge of the volcano, the air heavy with the metallic tang of sulfur.

Beside him, Mal descended, her body shifting and flickering like a living shadow, made entirely of smoke and darkness.

She didn’t speak as the change started. The swirling shadows around her began to condense, solidifying into something tangible.

Smoke gave way to skin, bones forming beneath it, her dark hair taking shape as the last traces of her shadowy form disappeared.

Within seconds, she was a wyverian again, standing beside him with steady breath and eyes that now looked undeniably alive.

Ash couldn’t help but stare, captivated by the quiet transformation.

‘Discedere, Nyx,’ Mal commanded the shadow that flew over them until vanishing from sight. Leave, Nyx.

Mal and Ash stood in silence, the weight of grief pressing down on them like the remnants of a collapsed world.

The air between them was thick with sorrow, with words unsaid and pain unspoken.

Mal's fingers twitched with the aching need to reach for him, to anchor herself in the solidity of his presence before she drifted into the abyss of her loss.

She wanted his arms around her—strong, unwavering, unbreakable.

She wanted the warmth of him against her cold skin, wanted to bury herself in his chest and sob for the sister she would never see again.

And when the memory of Haven’s face—once fierce and full of life—flashed behind her eyes, Mal collapsed beneath the weight of it.

The tears came fast, uncontrollable, carving rivers of despair down her cheeks.

She did not resist when Ash pulled her against him.

She let herself shatter.

Her sobs came in violent waves, torn from the depths of her soul, her body wracked with grief as she screamed her sister’s name to a sky that would never answer her.

Against her, Ash trembled, his grip on her unyielding as if he, too, feared that if he let go, the world would finally swallow them whole.

Together, they mourned.

Time became meaningless. The night stretched long and merciless, the only sound between them their shared sorrow. When the silence finally settled, it left them raw, scraped hollow from the inside out.

They sat on the volcanic ground, hands clasped tightly, their gazes fixed on the ruins before them—the drakonian castle, now nothing more than a graveyard.

‘How did you get back so fast?’ Ash’s voice was hoarse, rough from grief.

‘Travelling as a shadow allows you to move much faster.’

‘And the d-dead?’ His golden eyes, weary and dim, flickered towards her. ‘How d-did you bring them back?’

Mal inhaled slowly. The truth was, she didn’t know. Her magic had shifted, twisting into something older, something ancient. It felt as if she had become an extension of the gods themselves, their hands pressing against her back, watching—waiting.

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘I think the gods wanted to see me fight.’

Ash wiped at his tear-streaked face, his shoulders bowed beneath an invisible weight. ‘Can y-you…’ His voice broke. He swallowed, forcing himself to finish. ‘Bring t-them back for good?’

Mal closed her eyes, the answer heavy on her tongue.

‘No.’ The word tasted like ash. ‘What is dead is truly gone.’

A slow exhale left Ash’s lips, and then, he stood.

Mal followed, watching as he turned to face her, his expression unreadable—his soul worn down to its barest form.

He gestured to the dagger still strapped to her belt. The very weapon forged to end him.

‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘Do it. I have n-nothing left to l-live for. They are all d-dead because of me.’

Pain twisted through Mal, sharp and unforgiving.

To see him like this—to see all that fire, all that light dimmed into nothing but resignation—it was torment. She wanted to reach inside his chest, to take his pain into herself, to pull him back from the edge of ruin.

‘Do not dare say such words, Ash Acheron.’ Her voice was quiet, but it held steel beneath it. ‘We will find a way to live through this.’

His jaw tensed. His entire body trembled with restraint. ‘You cannot sa-save me, Mal. I must d-die.’

Her gaze snapped towards the lava that churned behind them, so close that one single push—one surge of power—would send him tumbling into it. She could watch him disintegrate into nothing.

But he would not be gone.

Not truly.

Mal had spent countless nights with the stolen book Wren and Kage had smuggled out of the library, its pages whispering secrets into the flickering candlelight. Phoenixians did not die the same way others did.

Ash had phoenixian blood.

And phoenixians had rituals.

If one was worthy, they could be reborn.

If she was right— if her theory was true— then she could bring him back.

But only once .

Mal stepped forward, her voice barely above a whisper.

‘I cannot live without you, Ash.’

His brow furrowed. Uncertainty stirred in those golden depths.

‘Do you trust me?’

The question made his lips part slightly in surprise, but there was no hesitation. Not even for a moment.

Of course he trusted her. He always had.

Mal extended her hand.

‘Trust me, Ash.’

For a fleeting second, something warm passed through his eyes. Love. Forgiveness.

And Mal took it. Inhaled it. Let it burn her from the inside out.

Then she ripped the dagger from her belt and drove it into his heart.

A sharp gasp left his lips, his eyes going wide—a thousand emotions flashing through them at once.

Above them, the sky screamed.

Thunder roared, lightning cracking open the heavens as if the gods themselves had woken, demanding to know what she had done.

Mal yanked the dagger free, and let him go.

His body stumbled backward.

The air between them collapsed.

And then, with a final wave of her power, she sent him into the fire.

Ash Acheron fell.

His body plunged into the molten abyss, vanishing into the heat.

Mal did not watch him burn. She simply closed her eyes.

And prayed.