They stood in a sepulcher.
The massive stone slab had sealed them in, the grinding thud of its finality swallowing the last echoes of the hunt. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, there was silence—a silence more profound and terrifying than any roar.
It was a perfect, circular chamber carved from the living stone, its walls smooth and unadorned save for a single, impossibly intricate carving that covered the entire domed ceiling—a sprawling, celestial map where constellations were formed not of stars, but of two figures, a Dom and a Fem, locked in a thousand different embraces. In the center of the room, on a dais of polished obsidian, rested a sarcophagus of pure, unblemished crystal.
And within it, a ghost.
He was ancient, his form barely more than dust and bone, yet the lines of his beauty remained. Slender, elegant, with long, dark hair fanned out around his skull like a silken halo. Even in death, his androgynous grace was a palpable presence. He was a Fem, a masterpiece of his caste, preserved in this silent, lonely perfection.
Kestrel's hand immediately went to the Heartstone at Lyra's belt. It was pulsing, a low, rhythmic thrum that vibrated through her palm, a call and response with something in the chamber.
Then, a voice bloomed in their minds. It was not a sound, but a feeling—a chord of profound, soul-deep sorrow and a sweetness so intense it was an agony. It was ancient, powerful, and it spoke directly to the thrumming Resonance between their own two souls.
So cold… after so long…
Kestrel and Lyra froze. Kestrel's hand flew to the hilt of her blade while Lyra's fists clenched, her body dropping into a low, combat-ready stance. The voice wasn't hostile. It was… lonely.
You carry a piece of her shield… a shard of a loyal heart. She was a good girl. So fierce. She tried so hard to protect me.
Through the Resonance, they both understood. The Heartstone. It belonged to the Hollowed they had slain, a Bitch from this forgotten pride.
But it is not enough. The fire is almost out. Please… I need its warmth.
The compulsion was not a command. It was a plea, a wave of pure, unadulterated need so profound it bypassed their wills and went straight to their cores. It was the desperate, weeping request of a beloved creature, and their Bitch-instincts, honed for service and protection, screamed at them to obey. Kestrel's tactical mind fought back. It's a trick. A spell. But the feeling was overwhelming, a tidal wave of sorrow that was drowning her discipline.
Lyra's hand, trembling, reached for the Heartstone. Her eyes met the First Blade's, and in them, Kestrel saw a reflection of her own shattered resistance. This was a spell of the Plasma Realm, a whisper from a god's tomb; the only reason they could even think to disobey was because the Fem granted them that sliver of will.
With a shared, shuddering breath of surrender, Lyra unfastened the pouch from her belt. The moment the Heartstone was free, it flared with a brilliant light, pulled from her hand by an invisible force. It floated across the chamber and gently came to rest on the crystal sarcophagus, directly over the Fem's still heart.
The Heartstone dissolved, not into dust, but into a torrent of pure, liquid light. It flowed through the crystal lid like water through a sieve, pouring into the Fem's chest. A gasp, dry and rustling like dead leaves, echoed in the chamber.
The figure in the sarcophagus stirred.
He sat up, the movement a slow, graceful unfolding of ancient limbs. He was impossibly old, his skin thin as parchment over a delicate frame of bone, yet he moved with a dancer's poise. To Kestrel and Lyra, he was not a corpse reanimated, but a deity awakening, his frail form doing nothing to diminish the overwhelming, divine presence that now filled the chamber. His eyes, when they opened, were not the hollow voids of the Hollowed, but two luminous pools of deep, ancient sorrow. A boyish, almost cute charm clung to him, a ghost of the beauty he once was.
Thank you, the voice in their minds was stronger now, clearer. I am afraid it will not last long.
He looked at them, and in his gaze, they felt a profound, weary understanding. Through the mental link, a flood of images, of sensations, washed over them—a gift and a curse. They saw a vibrant, laughing Dom, the Grove Mother, with eyes the color of a summer storm. They felt her love, a power as immense and untamed as the Grove itself. They felt his own adoration, a perfect, exquisite submission. Then, the terror. The taste of a rival's poison. The feeling of his own cells beginning to unspool, the slow, agonizing onset of Dusting.
She could not accept it, he explained, his mental voice laced with a love so deep it was a physical pain. She was a god, and she would not let her pet be unmade. The ritual… it was meant to rewrite the laws of Dusting itself, to anchor my soul to this place, to her, forever. But the power required… it was too much. It broke her mind. It shattered her, and in her madness, she remade this place in the image of her own beautiful, possessive, broken heart.
He looked down at his own translucent hands. She failed. The stasis she created only delayed the inevitable. The poison is still in me. Now that the Well is drained, now that you have awakened me… it will finish its work.
His luminous eyes met theirs again, and they felt his final, sorrowful gift: he had seen into them. He had tasted their battle, their desperate flight, Lyra's sacrifice, Kestrel's unyielding loyalty. He had seen their devotion to their own broken Dom, to their own imperiled Fem. He saw them as kindred spirits.
She does not deserve this monstrous existence, he whispered in their minds. She was a queen. I will not let her be a beast. It is time for us to join the Great Scattering. To find our peace in the silent wind.
He placed a hand on the crystal lid of his tomb. The last vestiges of the Heartstone's power, combined with his own ancient, potent life force, began to glow.
Her hunt delivered you to me, all to save her own, his voice was a final, gentle farewell. A Dom's love is a fierce and terrible thing. Go. Live. And know that even in the deepest darkness, loyalty is a light that can never be extinguished.
A wave of pure, untainted mana washed over them, not a violent blast, but a gentle, cleansing tide. It was a gift, a final act of grace from a creature of profound beauty. Their own depleted reserves drank it in, a soothing balm on their ragged souls.
Then, the world outside the tomb erupted in a silent, blinding flash.
The illusion shattered. The temple, which had seemed a timeless ruin, crumbled into true dust. The sky above, once a sickly, twin-mooned lie, resolved into the honest, star-dusted canopy of the real world.
The Grove Mother let out one last, mournful roar—a sound not of rage, but of release. And then, silence.
The Fem smiled, a sad, beautiful, and utterly peaceful thing. She is free.
With a final, gentle sigh, his body dissolved, not with the violent unmaking of the Hollowed, but with a soft, graceful release, scattering into a million points of starlight. For a single, breathtaking moment, the motes of light coalesced, forming a faint, happy image—a proud Dom, her adoring Fem held close, a loyal Bitch at her side, and a splattering of other pridemates, including one towering figure reminiscent of the Grove's great beasts, all bound in a tableau of peaceful, forgotten joy. Then, the image too scattered, fading into the sudden, clean air.
Kestrel and Lyra stood in the ruins of a forgotten age, the weight of a love story that had shattered a world heavy in their hearts. They were drained, they were wounded, but the path was now clear. The Grove's beautiful, deadly lie was broken.
And in the distance, a single, familiar psychic pulse, a desperate, hopeful echo from a broken Dom, finally had a direction to travel.