Page 65

I turn to the next flame—the silver sister—her hands joined in prayer, her lips moving, crying, pleading for some divine intervention.

Mia Crux.

It takes a thought, a tug, and her eyes open, wide and unblinking, hands falling limply at her sides. No longer praying. No longer pleading to the Gods that have abandoned her.

And now that Mia is no longer praying, channelling power, the Oracles’ shield flickers—the golden light faltering, dimming, struggling. Blinking in and out of existence.

The Oracles around me chant lounder, except Mia; she stands frozen. Helpless under my control.

" I told you, didn’t I?" I murmur, my voice low, chilling. "You'll die in the dirt, too."

I tug on the golden sister, and Maya moves, a shadow slipping through the darkness, appearing beside her sister. The sword glints in the faint light as she raises it, her face twisted with grief and fury—a final, desperate defiance against my control.

But it's not enough.

The blade sings as it slices through the air, the edge finding the delicate skin of Mia’s throat.

Blood splatters.

A crimson arc against the night sky, droplets suspended in the air before they rain down upon the sand.

Mia falls. Her knees hit the ground, at my feet.

Her hand scrabbles weakly against my leg, struggling to hold onto the world slipping away from her.

"That’s right," I drawl, my voice dripping with disdain, "bow to your God."

Maya collapses beside her sister, cradling Mia into her chest, hands frantically pressing against the wound, blood seeping through her fingers. Tears carve desperate paths down her cheeks. "I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry."

Mia’s eyes flutter, her strength fading, her breaths shallow, her body slackening into her sister’s arms.

The other Oracles rush forward, encircling them, their power gathering as they try to heal their friend. But it's useless.

Maya lifts her gaze, meeting mine. The tears are still there, but they shimmer with something fiercer, something sharper.

Rage.

It blazes through her, raw and untamed, rising like a storm. Thunder cracks overhead, a jagged snarl that splits the sky, and the rain beats down in sheets, cold and relentless.

"Is this what you want?!" she roars, her voice cutting through the storm.

And then, with quick, deliberate precision, she lifts her hand. A single nail—sharp, steady—presses against her wrist. I watch as she drags it across her skin. Blood blossoms in its wake, a dark and vivid line.

Her breath trembles, but her voice doesn't.

"When I'm done… you'll wish Death was painless," she spits, her words cold and seething; a promise wrapped in fury.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

A deep, terrifying pulse ripples through the air, resonating through the very bones of the arena.

Hecate’s chosen steps forward, hands clasped in fervent prayer. A black, transparent dome unfurls, shadowy and impenetrable, swallowing them whole.

And suddenly—

They're gone.

But they no longer matter.

They were never the goal.

It’s him.

The being that emerges from the blackened sand, born from the darkness where Maya’s blood had fallen.

The rain ceases, the droplets hanging motionless in the air before freezing, suspended in a breathless silence.

A bone-chilling cold sweeps across the arena, creeping over the ancient stone walls, slithering into the hearts of all who watch, rooting them in place as reality warps like fabric pulled too tight.

The ground trembles beneath me—not violently, not like an earthquake, but a slow, inevitable movement, as if something buried deep is finally waking.

A shadow rises from the earth.

It's not like mist. Not like smoke. This isn't air, nor substance, nor something meant to exist in the mortal plane. It is the absence of all things—of light, of warmth, of life itself.

And then, it emerges.

Long, jagged fingers, blackened bone wrapped in shifting darkness, claw their way out first, pressing into the earth with a crack like splintering stone. A second hand follows, pulling something terrible into the world.

The Reaper rises.

Its form is neither human nor beast—nothing familiar, nothing that can be named. A towering wraith of tangled shadows and bone, its presence alone leeching the warmth from the air, from my skin, from my breath.

Its eyes open—golden.

But not warm. Not divine.

Chilling. Empty and endless, the kind of gold found in forgotten ruins, in old, bloodstained coins buried beneath the weight of time. It does not see the world like we do. It does not see flesh, or soul, or purpose.

It only sees what must be taken—like mine.

The scythe comes last.

It materializes from the void itself, an extension of the entity’s will, a weapon as ancient as the first breath of Death.

Its blade is blacker than the abyss, long and curved, so sharp that the very space around it seems to bend inward, drawn toward its infinite edge.

The air screams around it, a soundless wail that vibrates deep in my ribs.

A smile spreads across my lips.

This… This is what I've been waiting for.

A shudder rolls through me, deep and violent. My muscles lock, my limbs trembling as a force inside me pulls, fights… screams...

Essy.

She doesn't want this. She doesn't want to be here. Doesn't want to face this particular monster.

For a brief moment, she escapes from my grasp and moves through me. Through the space she had made, clawing at the walls of my mind, trying to take over. To save us.

But I don’t let her.

The power of the Gods— my power—wraps around her like chains, tightening, holding, pressing down. She thrashes, pushes, tries to slip away into safety, into somewhere that is not here.

But there is no escape.

Not this time.

I grit my teeth and hold my ground against her. Her power, her frustration, her desperation buzzes through me. But I won't break. I won't run—not from this.

" Essy. " She continues to fight. No longer the gentle, selfless creature that’s always acted as my conscience. But as something darker, a mindless creature with only one instinct—to survive. " Let me die. "

It's not her fault. She can't control it. It was Him. Ricci Gonzalas; the mad scientist obsessed with power.

I can't be broken. Not by the Royals. Not by the Gods. Because there's nothing to break; Ricci took everything.

Everything.

My family, my innocence, my identity, my name, my blood, my body, my choices, and my will. It wasn't fair. I didn't deserve it. She didn't deserve it.

Essy screams. Not aloud. Not for anyone else to hear.

Only for me.

I feel her panic clawing at my ribs—a desperate, trembling plea. But it's too late.

The Reaper sees her now. Its golden gaze shifts—slow, deliberate, inevitable.

And for the first time, I feel Essy’s fear.

Real. Terrible. Unrelenting.

She's the one who begs.

She's the one who wants to run.

But I hold her down.

And I stay.

The Reaper lifts its scythe and swings. The blade carves through the air, so sharp, so absolute that it doesn’t seem to move; it simply exists, one moment untouched, the next buried deep in my side, slicing through flesh and bone, tearing out the other end in one smooth, merciless arc.

Essy screams.

It's raw, devastating, her voice so overwhelming, so full of terror, that it rips through me, bursting past my own lips for the whole world to hear.

A sound that doesn't belong to one soul but two; a cry of agony so deeply entwined with my own that it is impossible to tell where I end and she begins.

Then—stillness.

The Reaper’s scythe remains lodged in me, its curved blade gleaming dark with blood. It should be done. It should be over.

But the Reaper doesn't move.

It doesn't drag the blade free.

Instead, it feels.

It feels Essy.

It feels me.

It feels us.

And it roars.

A sound unlike anything mortal, unlike anything divine; a wretched, earth-shaking howl that trembles through the arena, sending cracks splintering across the stone.

The ground rumbles; a distant echo to the raging beat of my heart, pounding against my ribs, fighting to keep beating, to keep breathing, to keep existing even when I no longer want it to.

My knees hit the floor, ready to submit, to let it take. Whether it's Heaven, Hell or Darkness… It doesn't matter.

Ricci would say something, something that had always stuck with me.

‘A Nightwalker's heart is slow, so slow, it feels like it's beating its last beat, over and over, for eternity.’

I had been afraid of those words once.

Afraid of the weight of them.

Afraid because eternity is a long time to die slowly.

"Take it," I whisper, the Reaper struggling to take my soul as Essy tries to hold on, to fight. But it's useless; a Reaper will never release a soul once it captures it, and mine is no exception. "End it."

Essy sobs, whimpering, " Don't do this. "

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly, the weight of inevitability settling over me like a final embrace.

" We're the villains, Essy… " My voice is soft, almost tender. " The only good thing that comes from our existence… is that when we die… the world smiles. "

The Reaper’s shrieks drag me back.

The world flickers, my vision swimming, the taste of blood and rot thick on my tongue, the scent clinging to the air.

"Take it…" I whisper, my voice slipping, fading.

"Take it all."

With one final howl into the night. Death obliges me— finally.