Eros floated again in the dark.
The void was colder this time. It pressed closer, suffocating, like a black tide swallowing him whole. No body. No blood. Just thought. And before him, the diary.
The Reader's Notes opened with the same slow inevitability, its pages glowing faintly in the abyss. His eyes locked on the words beneath Immortal Martyr. Three small embers flickered there. Only two remained.
He stared as one guttered out. The flame shrank, thinned, then winked into nothing. Just ash in the ink.
One.
Only one left.
A tremor went through him. His throat constricted, though he had no breath. Terror clawed deeper than the eagle's talons ever had. He understood now—this wasn't just resurrection. This was a clock. Every death wasn't only pain; it was a step toward erasure.
«One more… and I'm finished. I'll disappear.»
The thought nailed itself into him. His mind reeled against it, screaming, thrashing.
He touched his neck. The scar burned faintly there, not new—still the one from before. No fresh mark this time. He remembered the agony: the eagle's beak tearing through his throat, blood choking him, the desperate clutch of his own useless hands. He had died exactly the same way.
But no new scar.
The realization made his stomach churn. «So the scar doesn't change if I die the same way. One wound. One lesson. That's it.»
And yet, it had helped him. The cicatrix had warned him, shown him glimpses of death before it struck. A curse, but also a weapon.
The fear of losing his last flame froze him. He could almost see himself vanishing into the void forever. No Amanda. No answers. Nothing.
But another heat rose beneath the fear. Anger. The same anger that had kept him alive in the yard, that had let him fight back against fists, boots, cages. The rage of being cornered and told he was nothing.
Eros clenched his fists, shaking. «No. Not like this. I'm not going to just vanish.»
The diary snapped shut. The void fell away.
***
This time, the voice sounded almost mocking:
"Welcome back! You have consumed one of your flames, Reader."
"I know, I kwow!" Eros just wanted to shut up that stupid and funest voice.
Ash under his hands. The sky overhead dimmer now, bleeding purple and black. The horizon had darkened, shadows lengthening across the wasteland. His skin prickled. The first night of this world had begun.
The air grew heavier with each breath, almost wet, like breathing through cloth. The silence was different too—sharper, every sound magnified. A faint drip of molten fire from a tree trunk rang like thunder in his ears.
And above, the flap of wings.
He stiffened.
The eagle was still there. Circling. Waiting. Its cry tore through the twilight, a jagged sound that scraped his bones.
«Here we go again…»
His first instinct screamed at him to hide, to dig a hole in the ash, to pray the night would swallow him. He crouched, heart hammering, searching for shadows deep enough to crawl into.
But he stopped himself. The scar pulsed faintly, a throb of heat at his throat. It was as if the mark itself demanded he face it.
He stared at the ground, shaking, lips cracked and dry. «If I hide, it'll find me. If I run, it'll kill me anyway. No choice. Only one thing left: survive.»
He whispered the word aloud, voice hoarse: "Survive."
The eagle screamed and dived.
Its wings tore through the dusk, white eyes blazing brighter in the dark. Eros grabbed what he could—stones, shards of old chain, even a branch brittle as bone. He crouched low, body taut, every nerve ready to snap.
The scar flared. Images ripped through his head: a flash of talons, the feeling of skin tearing. He moved before he thought, rolling sideways as claws raked the ground where he'd stood. Ash exploded upward.
He stumbled to his feet, heart a drum in his skull. His breath came ragged. The scar pulsed again, showing him the beak, the pain before it came. He ducked. The beak carved past, grazing his shoulder but not piercing.
He screamed wordlessly and hurled a stone. It cracked against the eagle's wing, a dull thud. The monster shrieked and rose higher.
"Hey! Ugly monster!" His throat tore with the shout. "Come down!"
It obliged.
The creature swept low, wings stirring a hurricane of ash. Eros braced, legs buckling. He coughed as the dust choked him. He lashed out blindly with the brittle branch, smashing it across the eagle's side. The branch shattered. The monster didn't.
He dove behind a ruin, half a column fused with bone. The eagle struck it, stone cracking under the impact. Shards rained down. One cut his cheek open, hot blood dripping down his face.
The scar screamed in him. He rolled away just as the talons punched into the ground where his chest had been. He scrambled, grabbed another rock, and swung it with both hands into the creature's leg. The sound was sickening—stone against bone—but the eagle screeched and jerked back.
Eros spat ash and blood, lungs burning. «It hurts. God, it hurts. But I'm still here.»
***
The battle dragged on. Minutes stretched like hours. The eagle struck again and again, relentless. Eros dodged, stumbled, threw stones, smeared ash across his face to blind it. He hid among broken ruins, baited it, darted out when the scar flared its warnings.
Every dodge shredded his body with exhaustion. His arms shook with the weight of each throw, his legs buckled each time he dove aside. The scar gave him the seconds he needed, but not the strength.
Twice he almost fell too slow. Once the beak nicked his ribs, blood soaking his side. Another time the talons grazed his calf, leaving a burning line. He bit back screams, jaw clenched until his teeth ached.
The world had shrunk to shadows, screams, the pulse of the scar, and his own rasping breaths.
At last, the eagle faltered.
It had driven him into a cluster of broken walls, stone fused with melted iron. Eros crouched, chest heaving. His hand closed around a jagged piece of rubble: sharp and heavy.
The scar lit him like fire. He felt the next attack coming: the beak, straight for his chest.
He waited. Not too early. Not too late.
When the eagle plunged through the gap, he lunged sideways, ash exploding. He brought the shard of stone up with both hands and slammed it into the soft place beneath the bird's jaw.
The impact jarred his arms. The shard cut deep.
The eagle screamed, thrashing, wings beating walls to rubble. Dust and fire rained. Eros clung to the stone, twisting it, forcing it deeper.
Blood poured hot across his arms. The stench hit him—iron, rot, sulfur.
The monster reared back, eyes blazing. It clawed at the wound, shrieked, staggered. Its wings faltered.
Eros stumbled back, gasping, as the eagle collapsed. Its body convulsed, tearing up the ash, then stilled with one last broken cry.
Silence crashed down.
Eros stood there, shaking, every limb trembling. His chest rose and fell like a hammer against stone. His vision swam.
The corpse sprawled before him, grotesque and broken. Blood seeped into the ash, staining it black.
He felt no victory. No relief. Only emptiness. It was more a matter of luck than ability. But a victory is a victory, anyways.
He staggered, barely able to keep his balance. His hands were slick with blood, his arms weak as water. He stumbled to the ground beside the carcass, body giving up at last.
His eyes stared blankly at the dead eagle as the horizon pulsed faintly with lightning.
Thunder rolled low, distant but heavy, across the night sky.
Eros closed his eyes, heart still hammering. He had survived. Barely.