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It seeps from her chest where the Reaper’s scythe remains lodged, curling into the air in slow, fractured tendrils. Not whole. Not clean. It's broken, its form cracked and splintered, a delicate thing barely holding itself together.

It shimmers like glass catching the dying light, translucent, ethereal— wrong.

The Reaper tightens its grip on the scythe.

And pulls.

A sharp, unnatural tug, like a fisherman reeling in a dying catch, like something being forcibly ripped from where it was never meant to leave.

The soul shudders, resisting, twisting in on itself as if it knows— as if it's aware —of what awaits it beyond the veil.

Nightmare’s body doesn't move.

Her limbs remain limp, her breath barely there, yet the soul inside her fights, clinging to the frayed edges of existence.

But the Reaper is patient.

Its golden eyes glow brighter, burning with a silent, unwavering command, and another pull sends a violent shudder through the fading spectre.

Nightmare's soul tears further, the cracks widening, splintering, unravelling piece by piece.

The wind stirs, curling around the scene like an invisible hand, lifting the soul’s fragile, tattered remnants higher, stretching it toward oblivion.

Umbra awakens, growling deep and low. The sound reverberating through me, sinking into the earth itself. The very ground seems to quake beneath my feet, the weight of his presence pressing into the ruined Colosseum like a second storm.

And it draws her attention.

Nightmare turns her head toward me, those golden, dead eyes locking onto mine. But despite the ruin she’s become, despite the blood spilling from her lips, despite the way her soul is being ripped from her body, she smiles.

"I knew you'd come."

Somehow—someway—she stands.

She moves with slow, deliberate grace, reaching down to the discarded sword at her feet. The weight of it settles into her grip as she lifts it, steady, facing me with the same unshakable resolve that has haunted me since the day I met her.

Her gaze flicks downward to the sword trembling in my hands.

Because she knows.

Because we both know.

This was always how it would end.

"Why, Nightmare?" I ask, my words barely a whisper I didn't think she heard over the rain soaking through the both of us. "All this destruction, so you can die?"

She tilts her head, musing. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

"I wanted you to run." I take a step, my hands tightening around the sword as my confession settles in the air between us. "Dammit, Nightmare… Why didn't you run?!"

She doesn't look surprised by my admission. She'd known my intentions the moment the Royals came for her. I didn't want her to die, not her.

I knew on that rooftop; I wanted her to live. I made a deal with Damien, knowing she'd kill him before he ever got his hands on her. I knew none of them ever stood a chance. Not the Royals, not Ricci, not even the Gods.

But there was one… One person I hadn't considered.

Herself.

"I almost changed my mind, you know," she says, her words soft. Soothing. "My memories came back, and I learnt… I was loved."

Her voice shakes, but there is a smile on her face. Small, barely there, but genuine. I'd seen that smile before, as I carried her out of the dungeon, and for the second time, my breath catches at the sight of it.

"But with the memories… came everything else." Her smile falls, and her shoulders sag as if she is struggling to hold the weight of her past. "I'm not sure if things could have changed if I knew what you were to me… What you both were."

I tilt my head, brows furrowing at her words.

Nightmare turns her head, staring at the impossible. Staring into her soul. It thrashes against the pull of the Reaper, clinging to Nightmare like a drowning child to its mother.

It flickers like smoke, like light through fractured glass. It wraps around her shoulders, her chest, her heart, refusing to let go. And in that moment, our eyes meet; not hers, but the soul's.

They’re green. Vivid, burning, human. Eyes full of terror. Full of fight. It doesn’t want to leave. It isn’t ready to die.

"No, I wouldn't have," she murmurs, shaking her head as she answers her own question. Staring at her soul. "I was created from pain, you know. I am pain… Her pain. Because she couldn't protect herself…"

Something dawns on me as I watch her. As I watch them. How is she alive? How is she fighting the pull of Death?

Nightmare's eyes slide to mine, and she whispers, "Because she couldn't breathe."

Something in my chest shifts. I see her soul slipping, see it losing the fight.

'You deserve to breathe, Dream. You deserve to fucking breathe.’

Ba-dum… Ba-dum… Ba-dum.

"W-Wait," I whisper, reaching out. I take a step—just one—I only need one. I just need to get to her. I need…

But something anchors me. Chains, invisible and tight, wrap around me, hold me down. Force me to stay. My body no longer feels like mine.

But it isn't pain. It isn't punishment I feel; it's her.

She's doing this—using her ability on me.

The enslavement mark is gone. She's free. There is nothing stopping her.

But still; she's holding me down.

That isn't possible, not unless she's a First-Generation Nightwalker. And besides me, there is only one other— only one.

"Wait." I breathe again, stronger this time. My body heavy with panic. My voice cracks, but it reaches.

She turns to me with a faint smile—small, fragile, broken. And in that moment, her soul falters. The Reaper tightens its grip. "Will you tell me now? " she murmurs, her voice barely a whisper. Soft.

Her mismatched eyes gleam with something gentle , something heartbreaking, despite everything.

" Who all that chaos is for? "

A breath shudders through me, and my grip tightens around the sword. It isn’t my doing. This isn't what I want. It's hers.

"A woman," I say, the words ripping from me, raw, unfiltered. "I knew her for twenty-five years. Loved her for twenty-five years. Worshipped her for twenty-five fucking years."

My gaze falls. My breath shakes, laboured—because I remember.

I remember that moment.

"And you know, the very first time I held her..." My voice breaks, my throat closing around the weight of it, but I force the words out. "She was already dead in my arms."

"Gone."

My chest aches, a wound that never healed, a truth I never outran.

"After everything, I didn't get to show her the stars."

She watches me, only for a moment, and suddenly, I move.

Not by choice.

I try to stop, try to fight it, but I can't. My body isn't mine. I feel her hold on me, steady and unshakeable, pulling me forward.

Then she moves.

The Reaper’s scythe tears free from her chest, leaving behind nothing but open air—but he still has her soul.

And still, she runs to me.

Time seems to slow as I watch her. As the realisation hits that she isn't a Second-Generation Nightwalker. She can’t be.

Her blade rises. Her movements are fast—too fast, a blur of shadow, of finality.

I react instantly.

And then—she jumps. Into my arms. Her sword clatters to the ground. Her arms... around me. And my weapon—

Inside her.

The hilt of my sword trembles beneath my grip, her body pressing against mine, her breath shuddering against my lips, shallow, ragged.

Blood spills hot between us.

Her arms wrap around my neck, and my arms instinctively curl around her waist. Holding her close. So damn close.

And she whispers softly, "I never needed the stars."

Ba-dum.

Ba-dum.

Ba-dum.

Her fingers weave through my hair, connecting my forehead to hers, her eyes alight with something unfamiliar— soft.

"Only my Shadow."

No.

The Reaper shrieks.

A piercing, hollow sound that splits the air, rattles through my ribs, shatters something deep inside me.

And then I see it.

The life draining from her eyes.

They dim, flickering like a candle’s final breath before snuffing out. The weight of the moment crashes into me like a tide I was never prepared to face, pulling, dragging me into the depths of something I can’t escape.

No!

I lunge forward, hands grasping, desperate, fingers curling around her face, shaking as I cradle her in my palms. Her skin is warm, but it's fading. She's fading.

Her lashes flutter, slow, heavy—her pupils unfocused, searching, trying to hold onto something that's already slipping away.

"No, no, no—"

Her body sags, her weight collapsing into me, her breath shallow, barely there.

I feel my own breath break, my throat tightening around something sharp, something raw, something I will never mend.

I pull her closer, my grip unsteady, as if holding her will keep her here, will keep her mine for just one more second—one more breath, one more anything.

But she's already leaving.

My chest tightens, the pain unbearable, drowning me, and my voice—

It cracks.

A single, broken note.

"Dream."