Page 26 of Death’s Gentle Hand

The words followed Damian back through the twisting tunnels, echoing in his mind as he climbed toward street level.

The wooden talisman was warm against his palm where it rested in his pocket, and even here, surrounded by the chaos of the underground market, he could feel Cael's attention like a distant star—present but unreachable, watching but refusing to come closer.

Back in his clinic, Damian settled into his evening routine with deliberate normalcy—banking the fire, organizing supplies for tomorrow's patients, checking the protective wards that kept the worst of the chaos at bay.

But the familiar tasks felt hollow tonight, performed more out of habit than necessity.

As he hung his coat on the peg by the door, Damian spoke to the empty air with deliberate provocation.

“I know you're listening. I know you care. If you're going to haunt me, at least have the courage to be honest about why.”

The silence that answered felt heavier than usual, pregnant with unspoken responses. Damian could almost hear Cael's voice in the spaces between heartbeats, could almost feel the weight of words that wanted to be spoken but were held back by fear and cosmic protocol.

“I'm not going anywhere,” Damian continued, his movements becoming more deliberate as he felt the quality of attention in the room shift.

“Whatever's happening to the city, whatever forces are moving against us, I'm not running.

But I need to know if you're with me or just watching from the sidelines.”

The temperature in the room shifted slightly, and Damian felt rather than heard the whisper of movement that suggested Cael's presence was becoming more substantial. But no words came, no admission or denial, just the familiar sense of attention so focused it felt like being held.

His quiet evening was shattered when something crashed through his clinic's protective wards with enough force to make the building shake. Glass vials fell from their shelves, creating a percussion of breaking ceramic as an inhuman scream filled the air.

A Hollowed man stumbled through the doorway, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, his voice raw from shouting about time he was promised but never received.

But this wasn't a complete Hollow—his soul hadn't been entirely stripped away, leaving him caught between states in a way that made him unpredictable and dangerous.

“Where is it?” the creature demanded, his voice jagged with cold.

Damian flinched as a blast of frigid air swept the room, prickling his skin with the bite of winter.

Every surface the creature touched seemed to freeze—he could hear the faint crackle and snap of ice spreading across the floor, felt the temperature plunge so fast his breath turned to mist. His fingers went numb where they gripped his cane.

“Where’s the time you promised? The years you said you’d give back? ”

Damian pressed himself against the far wall, his mind racing through options that ranged from futile to catastrophic.

The creature was too far gone for normal healing, too present for the kind of gentle guidance he usually offered the dying.

Cold spread up his arm where the thing's fingers had brushed his sleeve, numbing everything in its path.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Damian said carefully, keeping his voice calm despite the terror clawing at his throat. “I'm a healer. I don't trade in time.”

“Liar!” The Hollow lurched toward him, and where his hand grabbed Damian's wrist, ice began forming on skin, burning with cold that felt like fire. “They said... they promised... if I gave them my memories, they'd give me years. But all I got was cold. All I got was nothing.”

With no time to flee and no other options, Damian did something he'd sworn never to do. He reached deep into the reservoir of emotional pain he'd absorbed from patients over the years—their grief, their terror, their despair at watching loved ones suffer—and weaponized it.

The technique was forbidden for good reason.

It turned healing magic into something destructive, transformed the compassionate absorption of suffering into a force that could repel supernatural attacks.

But it worked. The Hollow staggered backward as waves of concentrated anguish hit him, his partially-remaining soul recoiling from pain too intense to process.

The backlash hit Damian like a physical blow.

Blood poured from his nose, his ears rang with a high-pitched whine that made thought impossible, and spots swam in his vision.

His teeth chattered uncontrollably as he slid down the wall to collapse on his clinic floor, magical exhaustion making his limbs feel like lead weights.

For a terrifying moment, he feared he'd never stand again. The forbidden magic had burned through his reserves like acid, leaving him hollow and shaking. His hands wouldn't stop trembling, and every breath felt like swallowing glass.

In the aftermath, as Damian struggled to remain conscious and the Hollow finally collapsed into merciful unconsciousness, Cael appeared. Not as whisper or shadow, but fully manifest and clearly agitated, his form more solid than Damian had ever felt it.

“You let me nearly die,” Damian accused through chattering teeth, exhaustion making his voice slur. “Where were you?”

Cael's response was immediate and fierce.

He dropped to his knees beside Damian and pulled him against his chest, solid arms wrapping around him with desperate strength.

Their faces were inches apart, close enough that Damian could feel the otherworldly heat radiating from Cael's increasingly human form.

“You cannot keep facing death and then begging it to leave you,” Cael said, his voice rough with emotion that had nothing to do with cosmic duty and everything to do with personal fear. “You can't keep putting yourself in danger and expecting me to watch without interfering.”

Damian sagged in Cael's arms, his head falling to rest against Cael's shoulder. The solid warmth of the embrace grounded him, made the clinic feel less like it was spinning. “Then don't watch. Don't stand on the sidelines. Don't make me want you to stay if you're just going to keep leaving.”

The space between them hummed with tension—physical, emotional, and something vaster than either of them.

Damian could feel the heat of Cael’s breath against his temple, could hear the slight hitch in Cael’s breathing and the tremor in the silence that followed.

The air around them seemed to thicken with want and fear and the desperate need for connection that pressed against every barrier they’d ever built.

For a moment, it seemed inevitable that they would close the distance. That cosmic law and personal terror would give way to the simple human need for touch, for comfort, for the affirmation that came with physical connection.

At the last possible second, Cael pulled away again, leaving Damian gasping and aching with frustrated desire. The pattern of approach and retreat had become unbearable, and both men understood they were approaching a breaking point that would force them to choose between safety and truth.

“The Hollow,” Damian said finally, nodding toward where the unconscious figure had been sprawled.

“Gone,” Cael replied quietly. “I guided his soul across the threshold while you were recovering. He's at peace now.”

“And us?”

“I don't know.”