Page 34 of Evermore (The Never Sky #3)

At his command, my Remnants exploded outward in a frenzy of shadows and smoke.

They whipped through the air like a thousand serpents, hissing and thrashing as they sought their target.

Alastor’s eyes widened a fraction before he threw up his own defenses, his dark power surging to meet mine in a clash of wills.

The room descended into chaos as our Remnants battled for dominance. The walls turned dark. The table shuddered. Even the lights above us flickered while the others sat in barely concealed glee at the unexpected entertainment.

Bellatora laughed. “Oh, this is delicious! The little mortal has some fight in her, after all.”

Goddess of War, I reminded myself, forcing my mind to focus on anything but the darkness closing in on me as I held the point of the blade so close to my heart, the threads of black silk on my gown began to snap.

“I do so love when they struggle. It makes the breaking that much sweeter.” Vesalia’s words cut through the haze of pain and fear, igniting a spark of defiance deep within me.

I latched on to it like a lifeline, fanning the embers of rebellion into a raging inferno.

I would not let them win. I would not be their plaything to torment and discard.

With a burst of willpower, I wrenched control of my shadows back from Alastor.

They snapped to my command, coiling around me in a protective shield.

The dagger trembled against my chest, caught between his power compelling me forward and my own fucking refusal to lie down and die.

But Alastor was far more powerful. Far more trained and reserved and ancient and all the things he needed to be, and I was nothing.

His power consumed me, smothering me in darkness.

When his Remnants pulled away, mine were nowhere to be seen. Cowards.

Alastor’s eyes narrowed to slits as he held a hand toward me. “Come Huntress. Our show is over.”

“Three, dammit,” Serene barked. “Can’t you see she’s breaking the balance? She took too much power. Ezarius was right about her. She has to die. Why else would you call us all here? Such a waste of Vesalia’s precious time.”

Alastor plucked the blade from my hand, ignoring her. “Sit down, Huntress.”

I had no choice, of course.

Alastor reached inside his coat and produced a palm sized glass ball, drawing all of the gods’ attention back to him.

“You’re here to watch and learn and make no further moves against the Huntress.

You’ve lost that battle before it began.

If there’s balance to be found, you have my word, when I have what I want, I will find it. ”

The glowing god at the end of the table stood, his chair cutting off Alastor’s words. “If Reverius learns that we?—”

“Reverius will do nothing if he believes the Huntress to be at risk. Which I’ve also ensured by giving him a false Chrysalis.

” His lips curved into a cruel smile. “What he sees are mere possibilities, shadows of what could be. Nothing more.” His eyes slid to mine, power thrumming through the binding marks. “Forget that,” he commanded.

I felt the memory start to slip, like water through cupped hands. But in the depths of my mind, where my own Remnants lurked, the conversation echoed back.

False Chrysalis. Possibilities. Shadows.

The words repeated, burning themselves into my consciousness even as Alastor tried to strip them away.

The monster inside me stirred, and I welcomed it. Let them think me tamed. Let them believe their powers and their games made them untouchable. I’d learn their rules, their weaknesses, their precious balance.

The tension in the room shifted as Alastor’s hand came to rest on the back of my chair, a casual gesture that carried the weight of ownership.

“The Huntress belongs to me now. Her free will is mine. Her power is mine.” His voice was silk over steel.

“Anyone who wishes to challenge that claim should save us both the time and speak now.”

A god I didn’t recognize, all sharp angles and autumn-fire hair, leaned forward. “You speak of ownership? You were banished. Cast out. Your words carry no weight here, and neither do your threats.”

“Yet still you came when summoned. That speaks of your desperation more than mine, Kealor.”

“You know nothing of my desperation,” he countered, rising from his seat. “Trading trinkets and secrets and suddenly you think you have command over things you know nothing about. You tempt the Fates with this bullshit, Alastor. I won’t sit by and watch.”

“Then leave,” he said, standing to roll his sleeves. “Unless you’d prefer to be removed.”

The other god’s power rose to meet Alastor’s words, tasting of decay and dying leaves.

But their clash became distant, meaningless, as my heart stopped in my chest.

There, across the room, Winter appeared as a ghost. The last time I’d seen her in physical form, I’d completely shut down, losing all sense of self. This was not the place.

Not the place.

This is the place.

Can you kill a god?

Shall we try?

Not the place.

I could feel myself rocking back and forth, though the numb fingers of madness had already sunk into my arms and legs.

Snow began to fall around Winter’s form, each flake disappearing before it touched the ground.

Her face, so different from mine, yet hauntingly familiar, was etched with an ancient sadness I’d never fully understood.

No , I thought desperately. Not here.

The madness that had nearly consumed me in that stone room lurked at the edges of my mind, waiting for a crack in my sanity to slip through.

One , I counted, trying to ground myself in the present, in my own skin, in my own life.

Three to die.

Winter’s hollow eyes, twin to my own, found mine, and I felt the weight of her centuries pressing against my temples. She wasn’t me, had never been me, but her pain echoed through my soul like it belonged there.

Two.

The temperature plunged, though the gods around me noticed nothing, too absorbed in their argument. My breath should have fogged in the air, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t break Alastor’s command.

Three.

Winter’s lips moved, forming the words that haunted my dreams: He cannot save you.

The madness scratched at the back of my skull, whispering of past lives and future deaths, of endless cycles and inevitable ends. I clung to my count, to the present, to my own name. I am Paesha. Just Paesha. This life. This moment.

Four.

The sword materialized from the empty air, its blade gleaming like starlight before it plunged into her stomach. I felt the phantom pain, sharp and cold, even though I knew it wasn’t real.

Winter faded like morning frost, taking the snow and the sword with her. But the madness lingered, humming beneath my skin, waiting for another chance to pull me under.

The clash of powers continued around me, but I remained perfectly still in my chair, fighting the urge to scream. Not from the phantom wound, but from the certainty that one day, I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between Winter’s visits and my own fracturing mind.

Five.

Who was counting? Was it me?

Why were the walls bleeding? Where had the light gone?

Six.

Six.

Time lost all meaning in that void. Seconds stretched into eternities, and centuries passed in the space between heartbeats.

I drifted, untethered, my sense of self eroding with each passing moment until I couldn’t remember my own name, my own face, my own life.

There was only the darkness and the voices, taunting, mocking, promising oblivion.

And then, like a miracle, a sliver of light pierced the black.

It was faint at first, a glow that I thought might be a trick of my fractured mind.

But it grew steadily brighter, warmer, until it resolved into a beam of pure, golden sunlight.

It washed over my face, gentle as a lover’s touch, and with it came a rush of sensation that jolted me back to myself.

I blinked, disoriented, as the world slowly came into focus around me.

I was sitting on the floor, my back pressed against the cool stone wall, beside a large, arched window.

My bedroom at Alastor’s. But I hadn’t felt the sun on my face.

The warmth had come from the golden book clutched in my fingers.

I opened the clasp, no longer feeling like I was betraying myself by reading his words. Everything mattered in these moments. Every bit of knowledge. Every piece of information I could use to escape. But his words were not an escape. They were only a different prison with shinier bars.

Dear Paesha,

I’ve written this letter a thousand times in my mind, trying to find the words that might make you understand. But I am what I am, a god who has lived too long, loved too deeply, and lied too often. My truths come wrapped in thorns, much like my name. So let me bleed for you now.

You’re right to hate me. I’ve earned every ounce of your fury, every curse you’ve hurled at my name. But know this, every lie I told, every truth I buried, every bargain I struck was to keep you breathing. To keep your heart beating. To keep you in this world, even if it meant losing you in it.

The bands that bind you to Alastor should be mine.

My sin to bear. But they are not unbreakable.

Nothing in all the realms is truly eternal, not even the chains of gods.

You once asked me why I chase you through lifetimes.

The truth is, I don’t chase you at all. I follow.

I follow you into death, into rebirth, into every new life because that’s what the soul does when it recognizes its other half.

This is not a plea for forgiveness. This is a promise written in a god’s blood.

I will break every oath, defy every power, and unravel reality to free you from this bargain.

And when you’re free, if you choose to walk away, I will let you go, beautiful.

I will be the one to sacrifice. I will be the one to break.

The world may paint me as the villain in your story. Perhaps they’re right. But I am your villain, and I will tear apart anyone who dares to cage what was meant to fly free.

Ever yours,

Thorne Noctus

I slid the small pencil free of the little golden book and sat there, lead to paper, wondering what I could say to him.

Thorne,

You speak of freedom while I wear the chains you could have warned me about. You write of protection while I drown in the madness you created. Every choice you made “for me” was really for yourself, to keep your precious Huntress breathing, no matter the cost to her soul.

Do you hear them, Thorne? The whispers in my mind?

They’re fragments of every life you wouldn’t let rest, every death that wasn’t final enough.

My Remnants aren’t merely shadows. They’re the pieces of me you kept hunting and breaking.

The madness feels like an old friend. A manifestation of the love we’ve likely circled for a thousand lifetimes, finally showing its nature.

You want to slay your enemy to free me? Start with yourself. You’re the architect of this prison, the author of every bargain that binds me. Your love isn’t devotion, it’s possession dressed in pretty words and blood-soaked promises.

Winter was right. You can’t save me. You can’t even save yourself from what you’ve become.

Don’t write to me again. The next time we meet, it won’t be as lover and beloved, god and mortal, protector and protected. It will be as what we truly are, a man who played god with a woman’s soul, and the monster he created.

-P