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Tabitha Wysteria tilted her head back, her gaze lifting towards the storm-choked heavens as she wandered the whispering depths of the Forest of Silent Cries.

The weight of the curse had lifted—she could feel it unraveling within her bones, loosening its grip on her very essence. And yet, she remained bound.

Something—or someone —still held her tethered to this realm, still kept her from stepping through the veil to reunite with Hadrian Blackburn in the afterlife before returning, reborn.

Lightning split the sky in a jagged arc, and when it struck the earth mere feet away, the scent of scorched stone filled the air. From the smoldering ground, a figure stepped forth.

A wyverian.

But not like any wyverian Tabitha had ever known.

His horns—twisted, blackened things—curled like shadows made flesh, their edges as sharp as a blade’s kiss.

His form, though lean, carried the power of something ancient, something beyond mortality.

Beneath the almost translucent pallor of his skin, black veins pulsed like rivers of darkness.

But it was his eyes that froze her—eyes she knew too well.

Eyes that had haunted her since the day she had dared to defy him.

‘Tabitha, Tabitha, Tabitha,’ the wyverian purred, his voice as deep and resounding as the void between stars. It rolled through the forest like a whisper of impending death, unreal and inescapable.

‘It seems the curse has been lifted, and now you are so eager to scurry away. Is it fear, I wonder?’ His lips curled, his fanged smile wicked. ‘Are you hoping to slip free before we come to feast on what remains of you?’

Tabitha lifted her chin. Defiant. Unbowed.

‘I am not afraid of you.’

The wyverian cocked his head, amusement flickering in those endless eyes.

‘You placed a curse upon us, Tabitha. And for a hundred years, I was kept from reaching you.’ His gaze swept across the darkened forest, the shadows stretching and writhing as if alive.

He lifted his arms, gesturing towards the unseen world beyond.

‘And look at what has become of our little creatures. They are destroying each other.’

He turned back to her, his smile sharper than a dagger's edge.

‘But tell me this—why would you allow the girl to shatter the only thing protecting you? The curse was your shield, and you gave it away.’

Tabitha did not waver. Would not waver.

‘Because if Mal Blackburn had not broken the curse,’ she said, voice steady, ‘they all would have fallen into eternal slumber. And I—’ Her throat tightened, but she would not falter. ‘I would have been left to wander, alone, without Hadrian. We would not be reborn.’

A pause.

A breath.

‘And I know what you want from her.’

Something flared behind those merciless eyes.

Then, he snarled.

‘Oh? Now you grow a conscience, Tabitha?’ His voice, once velvet, hardened into something jagged, something cruel. ‘After all these years—after all the lies you fed your own daughter ?’

Tabitha’s hands curled into fists, but the truth had already been spoken.

‘You created Mal Blackburn,’ she whispered. ‘I was deceived into it.’

The wyverian stepped closer, so close she could feel the chill of death licking at her skin.

‘She is ours , Tabitha,’ he said softly—too softly. The quiet before the storm. His eyes darkened. ‘I will find a way to break the real curse. She is the key to everything.’

Tabitha’s breath caught.

Her pulse thundered.

‘If you break it,’ she whispered, for the first time in centuries feeling fear grip her soul, ‘I will never return. I will never be reborn. You will never see me again.’

The wyverian laughed.

A sound that sent the very trees shuddering.

He moved in a flash of black lightning—too fast, too immortal, and before she could even attempt to flee, his hand wrapped around her throat.

The world tilted.

Her breath choked.

‘I think you are right,’ he murmured, his voice brushing against her ear like the whisper of a death sentence. ‘It is time I forgot you.’

He squeezed.

Hard .

A sickening crack echoed through the forest.

Tabitha Wysteria's body collapsed, folding in on itself like a puppet whose strings had been ruthlessly cut, lifeless and abandoned to the silent earth.

The wyverian did not spare her another glance as he stepped over her corpse, his hand idly brushing through his midnight-dark hair.

‘Now,’ he mused, his voice as smooth and deadly as the night itself, ‘where is our daughter?’

And with that, the God of the Dead turned his gaze towards the wyverian castle, a wicked smile curling upon his lips as he took his first step forward.

THE END