Page 67

R.I.O.T

T he castle shudders.

At first, it's a whisper, a tremor along the stone, barely noticeable beneath the howling winds outside. But then—it grows. The walls groan, the very foundations of this sacred place trembling, shivering with an emotion I have never felt from them before.

Fear.

I push forward, my boots pounding against the marble floors as I race towards the golden door in the cupola; the one place where the Gods’ will is woven into the fabric of reality itself. The only room in the castle that can't be opened by anyone but me.

The light in the corridors flicker, the divine runes embedded in the stone pulsing erratically, trying to fight something, to hold something together.

I know what it is.

I know who it is.

I reach the golden door, and before I can touch it, the shadows within the walls scream.

A deafening, otherworldly wail—not of the living, not of the dead—but of something else entirely.

From the cracks, darkness seeps—inky tendrils stretching and clawing, desperate to escape. Blackened hands, dark and slick as oil, scrape against the stone, leaving smears of void in their wake. But something is wrong.

The shadows shrink back. Trembling. Afraid.

It shouldn't be possible. Shadows don't fear. They don't feel. Yet their terror pulses through the air, a raw and unnatural thing; an extension of the Gods themselves. A warning carved into the fabric of existence.

I slam my hands against the golden door, forcing it open, and the sight before me nearly knocks the breath from my lungs.

The very walls tremble, shivering like flesh, the divine inscriptions along their surfaces warping, breaking, as though they're being unmade.

The divine seal—the enslavement mark that I had used to bind Nightmare—splinters before my eyes.

The threads of holy magic, once radiant and unbreakable, now writhe and twist, snapping apart one by one, unravelling like frayed silk. The golden glow flickers wildly, desperate, straining to keep its form as unseen hands try to force it back together.

The Gods are fighting. Trying to hold it, trying to keep her contained, their power pressing against the fraying edges, weaving itself tighter, pulling, stitching, clawing—

But they can't stop it.

I take a slow step forward, my heart hammering against my ribs, but there's nothing to do.

I watch, my breath shallow, as the golden light, the divine power, the mark that has held her shackled—

Shatters.

A final, splintering crack resounds through the chamber, splitting the air itself.

The walls wail in unison, the divine magic embedded within them convulsing, collapsing inward, turning against itself. The castle screams, the sound reverberating through its bones, through mine, through the very foundations of our world.

She's free.

"How is this possible?" I growl, low. Staring around the chamber, at the walls shimmering, twisting, bending… but no words come.

No. This isn't possible. A Second-Generation Nightwalker doesn't have this kind of power.

I glare up at the roof, staring into the galaxy, feeling the Gods’ presence closer than ever. I say through clenched teeth, my words like venom, "What are you hiding?"

The divine runes pulse, the rage of the Gods pressing down on me. But I'm not afraid—I'm pissed.

Something else is going on here.

I grit my teeth and storm out of the chamber. The walls whisper—not words, but feelings. Frantic, afraid. I appear beneath the cupola, watching as the air tightens, folds, and bends, and before I can so much as draw my next breath, the light around the room fractures.

Figures appear in my castle, the distortion of magic flickering them into existence like ghosts stepping through a veil.

I stop in my tracks, staring at the scene.

The Oracles, Maya, and my friends appear, drenched in blood, their faces pale with exhaustion and horror.

And at the centre—

Mia.

Her throat split open, dark crimson blood pooling beneath her as the others kneel beside her, frantic hands pressing against the wound, voices speaking prayers that are already too late.

"She took their power." The words come from Rayan, his words rough, angry. Reece stands beside him, shaking, tears carving paths down her face.

She looks at me, but she doesn’t see me. She's somewhere else, in the wake of something that can't be undone.

"All of it. It's hers now."

I barely recognise my own voice when I speak. It’s quiet. Uncertain. "What power, Ray? Whose?"

Ray clenches his hands, his jaw tight. He looks shaken, which is a rare for him. And when he speaks, the words land like a hammer on my chest.

"The Gods’."

A breath catches in my throat. My pulse thrums, hard and uneven.

This was Nightmare's plan. She wasn't surprised all the Gods offered the General a fraction of their power; she expected it. But why? Nightmare never sought power… It was—

"Me." My gaze snaps to Maya as she holds her sister in her arms. "I summoned Death."

My stomach drops.

The Crux family…

Their bloodline is special—sacred. It’s the reason they were chosen as one of the ruling families of their district.

They possess the ability to summon Death—but only once .

Only in moments of intense emotion, when the soul is stretched thin.

When the weight of the world collapses into a single, desperate moment.

The only one in their family without the ability—

Mia.

The air around us feels thicker now as if the Gods themselves are still trying to contain the damage, trying to pull the threads back together, but it’s too late.

The mark is gone.

Their control is gone.

And she's free.

‘You and me… We're inevitable.’

Her words to me return in a whisper—soft and delicate. I knew what those words had meant, yet I tried to escape them. Their meaning.

My villain. My hell. My Nightmare.

She mattered to me. Every time I thought I could do it, I'd stop. Instinct wouldn't allow me to. When everyone looks at her, they see evil, sin, darkness.

I see corruption. I see strength. I see loss.

Creatures were exposed during a time entire countries were being wiped off the map. A time people were fighting for basic rights under a corrupted system. And then they learnt that magic existed. That the stories were real. And people suffered—innocent people. Everywhere.

I can't hate her, because I know her pain. I know what happened in the dark when the world was whole.

I know, and I understood.

She was the first Nightwalker with dead eyes and a pretty smile. Because she was affected. She is still affected.

She tried to hide it behind a smile. She thought it was a weakness, but it isn't; it's strength.

I move toward Seth with a measured calm, my footsteps steady despite the storm raging inside me. The chaos, the grief, the weight of what must be done; all of it is silent beneath the singular focus taking root in my mind.

Seth's sword is worn, the leather grip moulded to his palm from years of battle.

I reach for it.

The moment my fingers curl around the hilt, Seth’s hand closes over mine, his grip firm, hesitant. His worried eyes bore into mine, searching, pleading. " Let me. "

His voice is low, quiet, but it carries weight—a silent offer, a plea to take this burden from me.

But it's not his to carry.

"No," I murmur, pulling out of his hold, my fingers tightening around the blade. "It has to be me."

Because in the end…

This moment was always inevitable.

I turn away before he can say more. Before the desperation in his eyes can make me falter.

I glance at the golden door, my pace steady as I close the distance to the door and enter. The divine wailing of the Gods echoes around me, vibrating through space, their anger woven into the very foundation of this castle.

But I don't stop, and I don't hesitate. Each step is final, a path I was meant to walk, a choice I never truly had.

The runes around me twist, glowing with erratic pulses, as if they're alive, as if they can feel what's coming.

"Let me out."

My voice is calm, steady.

The Gods wail louder, their divine presence clawing at the space around me, trying to hold onto what little control they have left.

"I'll end this nightmare."

Perhaps it was my tone or the conviction in my eyes. But the runes—they dim. The glow weakens, their light flickering, like a breath slowing before it stops entirely.

The chamber melts away, the world shifts, space folding inward—

And then—

I am standing in the arena.

The Colosseum, once magnificent, once alive with roaring crowds, with the weight of Gods and men alike...

It's destroyed.

A massive crack splits down the middle. A jagged, gaping wound in the ancient stone, stretching from the shattered gates to the highest stands. The once-pristine arena, once filled with roaring voices and the weight of divine judgement, now lies silent. Broken. Forsaken.

The walls are wrapped in ice, thick and creeping, unnatural.

Frost climbs over the carved stone like grasping fingers, sharp and jagged, freezing everything that it touches.

The torches that once blazed with golden fire are extinguished, their iron sconces buried beneath layers of crystalline frost, cold mist curling from their remains.

And at the centre of it all—

The Reaper.

It hovers; a void against the ruin, its form shifting like smoke trapped in the shape of something skeletal. Its golden eyes—chilling, empty—burn down at the figure kneeling before it.

Nightmare.

She's on her knees, body unmoving, her white hair spilling over her shoulders, streaked with blood. The darkness of her form is unnatural against the frost-covered ground, a shadow among the wreckage.

The scythe is still embedded in her.

A long, curved blade of endless black pierced through her back, the tip protruding from her chest. The weapon is still, unmoving, and yet the air hums around it, vibrating with a force beyond mortal comprehension.

But none of that catches my attention; it's Nightmare's soul.