A week later…
The world still smelled of ash.
The farmhouse that had been their shelter for some three days now, was gone. Ezagone sat on a broken fencepost, kicking at the dirt with his boot and scowling at the smoke rising into the night. Zethra leaned against what was left of a charred wall, arms crossed, his wings sealed back inside him until only faint scorch-mark patterns remained along his shoulders.
But they were still alive.
The past week had been hell, the money they had gotten from Martha was almost exhausted, and they were slowly starving already. They had been besieged by countless bloodthirsty zealots and hunters, and things were slowly turning for worse
"...Well," Ezagone muttered after a long silence, "at least Martha's pie won't be haunting us anymore."
Zethra shot him a flat look. "You're making jokes right now?"
"Of course I am," Ezagone said, lifting his chin. "If I don't, I'll remember the part where hunters with holy arrows nearly turned you into roasted chicken." He sniffed the air theatrically. "Actually... now that I think about it, you do smell a little crispy—"
Zethra kicked a stone at him. Ezagone yelped and ducked, laughing.
For a moment, the night felt normal. Two brothers bickering like idiots. But deep inside Zethra's chest, where shadows curled and breathed like a second set of lungs, someone else was listening.
"He hides his fear with jokes," came the silky voice that only he could hear. "How adorable. You should keep him that way, Zethra. The world is sharper than his tongue."
Zethra's brow twitched. "Not now," he muttered under his breath.
Ezagone looked up. "Huh?"
"...Nothing."
But it wasn't nothing. It never was.
The voice slipped through him again, warm and intoxicating, like velvet against bare skin. "Don't ignore me, my sweet devil. You let me out, and I'm not going back into silence so easily."
Zethra clenched his fist, forcing his heartbeat steady. He knew her now—the shape of her whispers, the rhythm of her laughter. The thing inside him was no longer just a vague presence. She had taken form during his Awakening, stepping out of the fire of his soul like a woman sculpted from midnight flame.
And she had told him her name.
Amethyst.
---
They left the ruins behind before dawn. The road wound through half-barren fields toward a thin ribbon of forest. Ezagone whistled tunelessly as they walked, his school satchel bouncing against his side even though books and pens meant nothing anymore.
Zethra followed quietly, but inside, the conversation hadn't stopped.
"You're thinking about telling him, aren't you?" Amethyst purred. "About me. About what you've learned."
"I don't keep secrets from him," Zethra answered in his head.
"Liar," she teased. "You haven't told him a single truth about what you are. You haven't told him that you're the one who felt my wings unfurl in the fire, that I'm the reason you knew how to fight those hunters. You haven't told him about Aetherion."
Zethra's jaw tightened. "Because I don't understand it myself."
"Mmm, and yet you wielded it. You burned it into your veins, drew it into your strikes. Do you want me to explain it, darling? Or would you prefer to fumble in the dark like a blind lamb?"
"I don't need—"
"Shall I whisper in your ear what separates angels from devils?" Her voice dropped lower, sultry, conspiratorial. "Shall I tell you why your brother glows like a star while your blood tastes of ash?"
Zethra's silence was answer enough.
"Very well, listen closely. The energy you felt burning through your bones when you Awakened... it has a name. Aetherion. It is the breath of Heaven and the marrow of Hell. Every angel and every devil drinks from the same well, but it changes flavor depending on the soul. Angels shape it into light. Devils shape it into darkness. And hybrids... oh, hybrids are chaos itself."
Zethra frowned. Hybrids...
"Your brother," Amethyst said, her tone softer now, almost affectionate, "is not like you. He is both melody and discord, fire and wind. His Aetherion will not obey easily. It will shatter, flare, devour him if he loses focus. You saw it tonight, didn't you? That pulse of raw light when he panicked? That was no accident. That was his first spark."
Zethra's stomach sank. He remembered the moment—the air around Ezagone bending, glowing, like a star trying to be born. If the hunters hadn't been so busy with Zethra, they might have noticed too.
"...He's not ready," Zethra muttered.
"No," Amethyst agreed sweetly. "But you can make him ready. I can show you how."
---
By midmorning, they stopped under the shade of a dying oak. Ezagone plopped down and sighed dramatically.
"My legs are suing me for abuse," he declared. "And my stomach wants a divorce. What about you, Zethra? Still in a committed relationship with brooding silence?"
Zethra sat beside him without answering.
Ezagone squinted at him. "You've been muttering to yourself a lot lately. If you're secretly rehearsing poetry, I'll never forgive you."
Zethra smirked faintly despite himself. "Trust me. I don't write poetry."
"Good," Ezagone said. "Because if you ever rhymed 'darkness' with 'heartless,' I'd have to stab you."
Zethra shook his head. The humor was a shield, but it worked. Ezagone's grin made the exhaustion of the night feel less heavy.
Still, Zethra couldn't let the silence stretch forever. He cleared his throat. "...The energy last night. What you felt—it has a name."
Ezagone blinked. "Wait, really? Don't tell me it's 'glowy spark juice.'"
"Aetherion."
Ezagone's eyes widened. He leaned back, whistling. "Sounds fancy. Like something you'd bottle up and sell to nobles. 'Try new Aetherion™—now with extra divine kick!'"
Zethra didn't smile. "It's what angels and devils use to fight. To live. To survive. I think... what you felt was your own starting to wake."
Ezagone tilted his head. "And you know this because...?"
Zethra hesitated. The truth sat on his tongue—because a seductive devil inside me whispers it in my ear—but he couldn't say it. Not yet.
"...Instinct," he lied.
Ezagone studied him, lips pursed like he knew his brother was hiding something. But instead of pushing, he just shrugged. "Fine. Instinct. Works for me. As long as mine doesn't blow up in my face like some defective candle."
Zethra looked away, unease churning in his gut.
Inside, Amethyst laughed softly. "Good boy. Secrets taste delicious, don't they?"
---
The rest of the day blurred into footsteps and empty fields. They passed through a hamlet where no one looked twice at them, though Zethra could feel the hunters' shadows not far behind. By dusk, they'd found a small creek and set up a meager camp.
Ezagone roasted what passed for a rabbit on a stick. "So, Aetherion," he mused. "If angels and devils both use it... what's the difference between them? Besides the obvious wing fashion."
Zethra froze for half a second, then forced his voice steady. "...Angels shape it into light. Devils into shadow. Hybrids—like you—don't have rules."
Ezagone grinned. "So I'm special."
"You're unstable."
"Same thing," Ezagone said, taking a bite of the burnt meat and wincing. "Ow. Hot. See? Unstable."
Zethra rolled his eyes, but his chest felt tight. Because Amethyst was whispering again, her words wrapping around his thoughts like smoke.
"Tell him, Zethra. Tell him his spark could destroy him if left unchecked. Tell him only you can seal it. Or wait until he burns the world around him—then see if your bond survives the ashes."
Zethra gripped his knee hard enough that his knuckles turned white. He didn't want to believe her. He didn't want to need her. But he remembered the flare of Ezagone's energy, the raw, blinding power, and he knew Amethyst wasn't lying.
He would have to learn how to seal his brother's power.
And Amethyst would be the one to teach him.