The third toll never came.
Instead, the air shifted.
You didn't need magic to feel it—though it sang low under the skin if you were listening.
We were being watched.
I didn't mean the Council guards posted at every archway, or the villagers filtering slowly into the square like they were walking into the throat of a beast. No.
This was different.
Older.
Hungrier.
"Do you feel that?" I asked softly.
Grin's jaw flexed. "Yes."
Dolly's eyes swept the treetops beyond the wall. "Something's wrong in the rootlines. It's like…" She trailed off.
"Like something's piggybacking on the story," Antic said, his voice tight now. "Slipping through the cracks."
I nodded.
And it felt familiar.
Too familiar.
It wasn't the first time I'd felt that slither of shadow in the breath between moments. Not in the forest. Not in the reflections. Not in the dreams I hadn't dared describe to anyone.
This was Nightshade's doing.
And still, no one in the story had spoken the name.
Because they didn't see it.
Not like I did.
Not yet.
The Council Hall was open now. Lit like a lantern itself—runes flaring along the archways, torches blooming with memory-flame, the stone glowing faintly underfoot with spells older than any of us.
Orion stood at the center of it all.
His tunic was darker now—bloodroot black, etched with lines that flickered when the torchlight hit them wrong. His posture was still noble. Still proud. But his eyes—
His eyes looked…
Fogged.
Like the boy beneath them was staring out from behind glass.
Elara stood at the dais.
Not seated. Not serene.
Guarded.
Her hands were clasped, but the knuckles were white. Her voice was calm when she spoke, but only just.
"Let this be the final reckoning."
The council murmured in assent.
The room, once so vast, felt too small.
I took a slow step forward. The pulse beneath my ribs throbbed in a strange, doubled rhythm.
Something was echoing me.
Shadow, maybe.
Memory.
Orion didn't turn toward me.
But I felt his attention shift.
Like gravity.
"The seer comes," he said. His voice carried like stone dropped into still water. "At last."
No one questioned his words.
Because they weren't for them.
They were for me.
I moved to stand just inside the circle. The way it had been when he first arrived. I could still smell the jasmine from the garden. Could still feel the press of Antic's presence behind me like a wall I hadn't asked for but needed.
I didn't speak.
Not yet.
Let the story writhe a little longer.
Orion tilted his head. Just slightly.
"You were meant to see," he said. "Why didn't you warn them?"
"I wasn't sent to warn," I replied. "I was sent to remember."
He flinched at that.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
Because I was watching now.
Not through eyes. Through something deeper.
"You don't remember yourself," I added. "Not all the way."
"I remember enough."
"Do you?"
I took another step. Dolly muttered something behind me, but didn't stop me.
Grin didn't move.
Antic held his breath.
I could feel him.
And I needed him to stay back.
Not for my safety.
For his.
The magic in Orion's body wasn't entirely his. The marks on his arms weren't just ceremonial. I could feel them pulsing now—like vines winding around his ribs, squeezing memory into obedience.
I knew that feeling.
Nightshade.
The word didn't pass my lips. But the taste of it flooded my mouth.
I reached toward him.
Not with my hand—with my voice.
"With what name did the trees call you?"
He blinked.
"What name did the wind give you when you first sang to it?" I asked. "What were you before the story wanted to make you into a god?"
He opened his mouth.
But nothing came out.
Because he didn't know.
Because the Nightshade had taken it.
And that's when I saw it—
For just a breath, the shimmer behind his eyes flickered.
And something else looked out.
A twist of smoke. A grin made of bone. A voice I'd heard once before in a place with no name, in a memory I hadn't made.
Nightshade spoke through him.
"She's too late."
Antic surged forward.
Grin caught his shoulder, but he ripped free.
"Don't," I said. Not a shout. A thread of breath. A warning.
But it was too late.
Orion's body moved like it wasn't made of bones anymore.
He lashed out—fast, elegant, inhuman. Not magic. Not swordplay. Something older. Like a predator remembering its first hunt.
Antic dodged the first strike, barely.
The second hit him full in the chest.
I screamed.
But the sound didn't stop the blood.
He hit the ground hard.
Hard enough I heard the breath leave him.
Elara shouted something—I couldn't hear it.
The room erupted. Guards moved. Grin lunged.
But I—
I reached for Antic.
The floor beneath him bloomed with red.
He grinned up at me, teeth bloody. "Told you," he whispered. "I flinch at most things."
And then his eyes fluttered closed.
I didn't scream again.
The first one had already carved my throat raw. What came next wasn't noise—it was something deeper.
The story shifted.
Like it had been holding its breath and finally exhaled.
And I exhaled with it.
The guards shouted. Elara had drawn her blade—silver, ceremonial, shaking slightly in her grip. Grin moved toward Antic, fast but measured, muttering low incantations under his breath as he knelt beside him.
But I didn't move toward Antic.
I moved toward Orion.
Not the boy. Not the heir.
The thing inside him.
"Get out of him," I whispered. My voice was barely there—but the story heard it. The air tightened. The roots in the floor curled.
Orion tilted his head.
Or what wore his shape did.
"You never asked my name," it said.
"I didn't need to."
Its smile was thin, dry, wrong. "Then say it now. Look at me and say it."
The voice that came from his mouth wasn't Orion's. Not anymore. It rippled and cracked, bending at the edges. Like it had forgotten how to be human.
And in that moment, I understood:
This wasn't possession.
It was seduction.
The Nightshade had wormed its way into Orion the way rot worms into wood—slow, patient, whispering until its voice became his.
And maybe he'd welcomed it.
Because that's what Nightshade did. It didn't conquer. It offered. Purpose. Clarity. Power.
And love.
Of course it had gone for him.
Of course it had looked at the boy made of lineage and expectation and whispered: she'll never love you if you don't become something greater.
And now here he stood.
Greater.
And empty.
I raised my hand—not in threat.
In invocation.
The floor of the Council Hall pulsed under my feet, roots quivering like they recognized their enemy.
"I know your name," I whispered.
The creature laughed. Orion's body twisted with it.
"Say it."
I did.
Not aloud.
Not with sound.
But through every pore, every memory, every echo of the Breath that still lived inside me.
Nightshade.
The glyphs carved into the walls flared, then shattered.
Stone cracked.
Air bent.
And the thing inside Orion hissed.
Not in pain.
In recognition.
"You," it snarled. "You're the wrong one."
"I'm the only one."
"Pecola—" came a rasp behind me.
Antic.
Grin was still crouched beside him, glowing hands pressed to his chest. "He's alive," he said through gritted teeth. "Barely."
I stepped forward again.
Close enough to see how Orion's pupils had thinned into slits.
Close enough to feel the cold leaking off him.
And still, I did not flinch.
"You want me, don't you?" I asked.
The Nightshade's grin widened.
"I want all of you," it said. "The parts you hide. The parts you give away. I want to rewrite you from the inside out."
"You can't have me."
"Then I'll take the boy again," it said sweetly. "He's almost mine already. He dreams of you. Did you know that? He calls your name in his sleep."
That made my stomach lurch.
It wasn't a lie.
I could feel it wasn't.
The real Orion, wherever he was inside that cracked vessel, was still reaching.
Still wanting.
Still trying.
Which made what I did next hurt more than anything else I'd done.
I reached out with both hands—and called to the roots.
Not with words.
With will.
The Breath heard me.
And it answered.
Vines surged from the stone floor like lightning made real, wrapping around Orion's legs, his arms, his throat. They didn't strangle. They held. Anchored.
The thing inside him screamed.
Elara gasped.
Because she saw what I saw:
Orion's mouth moved.
But the sound wasn't his.
And then—
Something cracked.
Visibly.
Audibly.
A sound like the splitting of wood and bone and soul.
And out of him—
Something fell.
Not a shape.
Not a man.
But a shadow.
A sliver of darkness so sharp it bled light.
It hit the floor.
And vanished.
Gone.
Orion collapsed.
Unconscious.
The room stilled.
No one moved.
I was on my knees without realizing it.
Breathless. Shaking.
Grin looked at me across the space.
Dolly stepped forward.
And I whispered, "It's not over."
Because even now…
Even with the Nightshade gone…
Its scent still lingered.
And I knew—
It had left a piece of itself behind.
They didn't rush to Orion.
Not at first.
Even with the shadow gone—burned out of him like venom purged in fire—no one moved. Maybe they didn't know how to believe it. Maybe they were still seeing the monster. Maybe they were waiting for it to come back.
But Elara moved.
She stepped forward slow, like her footsteps might break what was left of the world if she got too close too fast. Her voice, when it came, cracked beneath its own control.
"Orion."
He blinked. Just once.
His face was pale, lips split, and there were shadows under his eyes like bruised moons. But his gaze—his gaze—was clear.
"Elara," he rasped.
And it was him.
Not the echo. Not the possessed shade. Him.
She dropped to her knees beside him, not caring that her formal robes pooled in blood and soot. Her hand hovered like she didn't trust the reality of his skin.
"Is it gone?" she whispered.
He nodded. Barely. "It never belonged to me."
Elara's jaw trembled. But she didn't cry. She held his face in both palms like she could anchor him back to this life by force.
I watched her, then turned.
Because he wasn't the only one who'd fallen.
"Antic," I breathed.
Grin was already crouched beside him, hands working, magic flickering along his fingers in tight, surgical threads. Dolly hovered behind them, a crimson streak down one cheek, lips pulled tight in something dangerously close to a prayer.
I dropped beside them.
Antic's shirt was soaked. Torn from collar to ribs, stained dark and spreading. His breathing was wrong—shallow, rattled.
"Too much," Grin muttered. "He took the full blow."
Dolly knelt and brushed the hair off Antic's forehead. "Idiot boy," she said gently. "You always have to be the hero."
Antic coughed. "Did I win?"
His voice was thin, but smug.
Somehow, that made it worse.
"You're bleeding," I whispered.
"I'm always bleeding," he muttered. "Just... usually less dramatically."
"Don't joke."
"I'm not." His eyes flicked to me. "You okay?"
"No," I said. "Not if you die."
He blinked slowly. And smiled.
"Then I won't."
Grin looked up. "We can't stay here."
"I know," I said. "The Council's still watching."
"They won't touch him," Dolly growled. "Not after what they just saw."
"That doesn't mean they won't turn him into a symbol."
Antic tried to sit up. Failed. "Hey. If I become a symbol, I want better fashion."
"Shut up," I muttered, slipping my hand under his shoulder. "We're getting you out."
"Lead the way, No Eyes," he murmured, "and I'll follow you blind."
I froze.
He realized what he said—what it meant—and winced.
"Sorry. That was—"
"It's fine," I said. But it wasn't.
Because I felt that.
All the way down.
—
We brought him to the bathhouse.
Of course we did.
The cracked stone still smelled like moss and ash. The vines had grown thicker, curling around old tiles like they were trying to hold the building together through sheer memory.
Grin laid Antic down in the warmest patch of floor, hands still glowing.
Dolly lit incense.
And I—
I just sat.
I held his hand.
Because it was all I could do.
"I keep almost losing you," I whispered.
Antic's eyes opened. "But you don't."
"No. Not yet."
He looked at me, the way only he could. Like I wasn't breakable. Like I was already broken, and still beautiful anyway.
"I'd bleed for you again," he said.
"Don't."
"Too late."
His fingers curled around mine.
The light through the broken ceiling warmed our faces.
Outside, the bells were ringing.
One note.
Then another.
A call.
A summons.
The final hearing was coming.
The story had one more reckoning.
And none of us were ready.