The first thing that bothered me about the new world was the color.
It was wrong.
The sky was too clean—blue without scars, clouds fat and white instead of smeared red. The grass under my boots was soft, alive, each blade bending and springing back instead of withering when the miasma drifted over it. The air smelled like water that hadn't learned fear yet.
Behind us, the rift sealed with a soft, final sound.
Not a crack. Not a scream. Just a sigh, like a door closing in another room.
I stood still for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the brightness. The crosses in my eyes burned like fresh wounds against the daylight. Eclipsera rested in my right hand, its long orange blade pointed lazily at the ground, leaking thin curls of black miasma. The fumes slid through the grass, and for a heartbeat the green paled—
Then sprang back.
Persistent little thing.
"Weird," Veyra murmured at my left. She crouched and ran her fingers through the grass like she was petting an animal. "It feels… soft. My feet don't crunch anything. I don't like it."
"Give it time," Kaen said. Steam curled from his shoulders where the cool wind met his heat. "It'll crunch eventually."
Lyra inhaled, eyes half-lidded as she tasted the air. "Less sulfur," she said. "More… rain. Minerals. Dirt. You can smell the soil up here. It thinks it's pure."
"This world is young," Alinor said. Barefoot, she turned in a slow circle, skirts brushing the grass. The Fractured Eye by her ankle flickered once, reacting to the sunlight. "Or it believes it's young."
"Everything believes something," Cirel said, shading her eyes with one hand. "Even stone. Even gods. Even little blue skies."
Sareth said nothing. He simply looked around, pale eyes faintly reflecting the open world. The wind caught the edges of his cloak, revealing the Graveveil Chains coiled along his arms. The metal barely glinted—here, under this bright sun, it looked like something pulled from an old grave.
"Which way?" Kaen asked finally, lifting his face to the wind. "You pulled us through, Auren. Lead us."
"I didn't pull us," I said. "The world did."
I started walking anyway.
The hillside sloped gently downward. In the distance, a line of trees stood like a wall—an actual forest, not a demonwood, its leaves shining green instead of dark red. Beyond, farther still, I could see shapes. Buildings, maybe. A thin line of smoke from cookfires. A river cutting silver through the land.
A settlement. A city. Or a village that thought too highly of itself.
"Think they have demons here too?" Veyra asked, falling into step beside me.
"Maybe," I said. "Maybe they have something worse."
She smiled. "I hope so."
We walked.
The formless hum of the demon world was gone. This place had its own sound—a layered thing made from birds calling, insects buzzing, wind pushing through branches. Underneath all that, quieter but there, was the world's pulse. Slower than the lower realm's. Softer. But present.
It quickened when we moved.
"Feel that?" Lyra asked, voice light.
"Yes," I said.
"The ground is curious," Alinor murmured.
"Ground doesn't get curious," Kaen snorted.
She glanced at him with faint amusement. "Everything does, if you stay long enough."
He thought about that, then shrugged. "Then we shouldn't stay too long. Curiosity gets noisy."
Sareth walked a few paces behind us, chains barely brushing the grass. Where they did, it bent a little slower, as if thinking about whether it wanted to stand up again. It still did, but less confidently.
"This world won't die as fast," he said quietly.
"Shame," Kaen replied.
"Not really," Veyra said. "If it dies slowly, we get to see more of it scream."
I smiled.
The light felt too soft on my face. The sun overhead was a gentle thing, warm instead of oppressive. It painted the long strands of my hair in gold and orange. In the lower world, my presence had eaten the light around me. Here, the sun seemed determined to share.
It was almost offensive.
"Do you miss her already?" Cirel asked suddenly, voice low enough that only I heard.
"Who?" I asked, though I already knew.
"The princess," she said. "Seraphine. The little demon who tried to hit you in the face."
I remembered the feel of her fist against my cheek. The heat of her fire. The stubborn steel in her eyes. The way the world had groaned when Eclipsera touched her throat.
"She was entertaining," I admitted.
"She'll scream beautifully when her world falls," Cirel said.
I nodded. "Probably."
We walked in silence for a while after that.
The hillside leveled into a field dotted with small white flowers. Bees moved lazily from bloom to bloom. The miasma drifting from Eclipsera made them veer slightly off course, but they corrected themselves quickly, as if instincts here were stubborn.
A small brown animal with long ears froze when it saw us. It sniffed, nose twitching. Veyra smiled and crouched, holding out a hand.
"Don't," Lyra said absently.
Veyra pouted. "Why not?"
"Because if you become attached, you'll want to keep it," Lyra said. "And if you keep it, you'll play with it. And if you play with it, you'll break it. And if you break it, you'll be sad for a few minutes. It's tedious."
Veyra considered that. The animal blinked. Then she stood and let it dart away into the grass.
"I prefer pets that talk," she said. "They make better sounds."
"We left one behind," Kaen reminded her. "You'll get over it."
"I'm not sad," Veyra said. Then, a beat later: "…yet."
Alinor reached out and brushed her fingers through the fluttering petals of a flower. It didn't wilt. It shivered instead, as if startled.
"This place," she said softly, "thinks it's safe."
"Good," I said. "We'll teach it otherwise."
—
Far ahead, beyond the trees, bells rang.
They were clear and high, the opposite of the iron-deep tones from the demon capital. The sound carried across the fields like a call, announcing something—or warning about something that hadn't happened yet.
Third-person eyes caught that first.
—
In the village of Hallowmere, the sky had been wrong all morning.
No one knew how to say it properly. Farmers looked up while they worked and squinted at the sun like it had moved, even though it hadn't. Children cried in their sleep and woke with the taste of ash on their tongues, even though no fires burned. Dogs refused to cross thresholds, staring out toward the northern hills with hackles raised.
Priestess Lysa noticed the crows.
They came in a flock, too many at once, their wings a black smear against the sky. They circled over the village once, twice, three times. Then, as one, they turned north and fled. Lysa watched them from the temple steps, her hand tightening around the silver staff she held.
"That's not good," she muttered.
"What's not good?" a voice asked behind her.
She turned. Old Master Den, the temple keeper, stood in the doorway, wiping his hands on a cloth. His hair was more white than gray now; his horns had long stopped growing. His eyes, though, were sharp as ever.
"The birds," Lysa said. "They're leaving. They never do that together."
"Storm, maybe," Den suggested.
"There's no storm," Lysa said. "Listen."
He did. The air was still. No wind. The trees at the edge of the village were motionless. The only sound was the faint clatter of a cart in the distance and the ring of a hammer from the smithy.
"The sky's too quiet," Lysa said. "And the bells keep ringing wrong."
Den frowned. "Bells don't ring wrong, girl. They ring or they don't."
"They're off-beat," Lysa insisted. "Like a heart that skips."
Den opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. He listened again. The temple bells, which usually chimed at regular intervals when the wind pushed the cords, were ringing in a strange pattern. Two short chimes. A pause. One long. Another pause. Two short.
He didn't like it.
"Maybe the gods are bored," he said at last, trying for humor.
Lysa didn't smile. "Or maybe something is coming."
"From where?"
She looked north.
Over the distant hills, she thought she saw movement.
Not carts. Not riders. Not clouds.
Something else.
—
We reached the treeline as the bells rang again.
"Music," Veyra said. "Nice welcome."
"They're not for us," Lyra said.
"They will be," I replied.
The forest wasn't thick. Sunlight speared between the trunks, painting stripes on the ground. The trees here weren't twisted or bleeding. Their bark was rough and brown, solid. Leaves rustled overhead with every breeze. Birds hopped from branch to branch, watching us with bright, stupid eyes.
They fell silent as we passed.
The path beneath our boots was worn by many feet. It led in a gentle curve toward the sound of the bells. Somewhere ahead, a stream gurgled. The smell of smoke and cooked meat drifted faintly on the wind.
"Village," Kaen said. "Small. Wooden. Easy to burn."
"Not yet," I said.
"Later?" Veyra asked.
"Maybe."
Sareth's chains clinked softly as he stepped over a fallen log. "The world is already bending," he murmured.
"How can you tell?" Alinor asked.
He nodded toward a patch of moss on a rock. It was gray on one side, green on the other, the colors meeting in a sharp, unnatural line. The green side faced us.
"It's trying to look alive," he said.
Lyra smiled. "Adorable."
The path opened suddenly, spilling us out at the edge of a clearing.
The village lay before us—dozens of simple houses with thatched roofs, arranged in a rough ring around a central square. A stone well sat in the middle. The temple, small but well-maintained, rose at the far end, its bell tower reaching just above the roofs. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. Chickens clucked and scattered. People moved about their business.
They all stopped.
Every eye—human, horned, scaled, and otherwise—turned toward us at once.
I should clarify.
Compared to the demon world, the people here were… softer. Less horns, more hair. Some had small ridges along their brow where horns might one day grow. Others bore faint markings along their skin that glowed when they passed near the temple. A mixed-blood place. A border between something holy and something not.
And then there was us.
Seven tall, wrong silhouettes at the forest's edge.
"Smile," Veyra whispered.
I didn't.
We walked forward.
Murmurs rippled through the villagers.
"Travelers?" someone whispered.
"Soldiers?" another asked.
"No sigils," a third said, nervous. "No banners. No colors. Look at their eyes—"
Children peered from behind skirts and barrels. A man with a hammer in his hand stood half-out of his smithy, jaw slack. An old woman clutched a string of prayer tokens so hard they snapped.
Only one person moved toward us.
The young woman from the temple.
She descended the steps with measured calm, her silver staff tapping the stone. Her hair was braided back, dark and neat. Her robe was simple white, cinched at the waist with a cord. A small sigil—a circle split by a straight line—hung on a chain around her neck. Her eyes were steady.
She stopped several paces away, far enough to run, close enough to hear.
"Welcome to Hallowmere," she said. Her voice was clear, not trembling. "I am Lysa, priestess of the Veiled Flame. You are… strangers."
"Correct," I said.
Her gaze swept over us, taking in the hair, the height, the weapons, the way the air seemed to sag around Sareth, the way light bent near Alinor, the way Kaen's skin steamed, the way Veyra smiled too brightly, Lyra's sharp eyes, Cirel's empty ones, and finally my own—red crosses floating in black.
She paused when she reached me.
The villagers behind her shifted nervously, waiting for her to say the right words to make us harmless.
She did not.
"From which kingdom do you come?" she asked instead. "There has been no word of travelers."
"We're not from a kingdom," I said. "We fell."
Her brows drew together. "Fell?"
"From above," Alinor said softly.
Lysa glanced at the sky as if expecting something to still be falling.
"Are you… angels?" a child whispered from somewhere behind her.
Lysa flinched slightly at the word. "Hush," she murmured.
Veyra laughed, delighted. "Do we look like angels?" she asked.
"Yes," the child said stubbornly.
"No," his mother hissed, dragging him back.
Lysa cleared her throat. "Forgive the village," she said. "We see few travelers. Fewer who dress like you. You're welcome to water and bread, but if you bring trouble, I'll ask you to keep moving."
Cirel smiled. "Define trouble."
Lysa looked at her evenly. "If someone screams for more than a breath, it's trouble."
Kaen grinned. "That's a strict rule."
"It keeps people alive," Lysa said.
"For now," Sareth murmured.
Lysa heard him. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "You smell like grave soil," she said.
Sareth inclined his head. "Thank you."
"That wasn't—" She stopped, exhaled slowly. "You carry weapons," she tried again. "Will you keep them sheathed while you stay?"
Lyra glanced at Eclipsera on my shoulder. "He doesn't sheath his."
Lysa swallowed once. "Then perhaps you won't stay long."
I stepped forward, closing the distance to three paces. The miasma from Eclipsera curled around my ankles, then slid toward her, drawn by the heat of her pulse. She held the staff tighter but didn't step back.
"You're not afraid," I observed.
"I am," she said. "But fear doesn't help anyone if I let it show."
I liked that.
"Your god," I said, nodding toward the temple, "does it speak to you?"
Her jaw tightened. "Sometimes."
"What does it say?"
She hesitated. "Today," she said quietly, "it said something is coming. It told me to listen. It told me to watch. It told me to be very, very careful with what I say."
"And yet you invite us in," Cirel said.
Lysa smiled, thin and tired. "The Veiled Flame does not teach us to turn away travelers," she said. "Only to watch them closely."
Lyra's eyes gleamed. "She'd make a good pet," Veyra whispered.
"Too early," I murmured back.
Veyra pouted. "You always say it's too early. Then it's too late."
"That's the fun part."
The villagers watched, clutching tools and baskets and children. The air felt thick, heavier than it should have. The bells in the tower rang once of their own accord, no wind moving the ropes.
Lysa glanced back at them, then at us. "There is a guest house," she said. "Empty, for now. You can stay the night there. In the morning, you'll move on, yes?"
"Yes," I said.
"Probably," Kaen amended.
She heard the uncertainty but chose not to push. "Good," she said. She straightened and turned slightly, gesturing toward a low stone building near the well. "This way."
We followed.
—
Later, after the sun began to dip and the villagers retreated to their homes, after Kaen burned the edge of one of the bench seats just to see how fast the wood would catch (slowly), after Veyra coaxed a child into a game of throwing pebbles and guessed too accurately what the child was about to say each time, after Lyra scraped powder from the mortar between the guest house stones to examine under a lens she pulled from nowhere, after Sareth stood at the edge of the well and watched the reflection of the sky crack and mend itself over and over, after Alinor dozed on the roof with her eyes half-open, after Cirel walked the full ring of the village and whispered doubts into the ground—
After all that, I found Lysa alone.
She was back at the temple, of course. The interior was simple—wooden pews, a stone altar, a brazier where a controlled flame burned, bright and steady. The sigil of the Veiled Flame was carved into the wall: a vertical line with three smaller lines crossing it, like branches.
She stood before the brazier, staff in hand, whispering. Her voice was too soft to make out entirely, but I caught phrases.
"…don't know what they are…"
"…eyes like crosses…"
"…world feels thinner…"
The flame didn't answer her. It only burned.
"You pray too quietly," I said, stepping into the doorway.
She whirled, staff lifting. When she saw me, she lowered it with visible effort. "You move like smoke," she said. "I didn't hear you."
"You were listening to something else," I said.
She exhaled and turned back to the brazier. "You shouldn't be here," she said. "Temples are for the faithful."
"We're very faithful," I said. "To ourselves."
"That isn't faith," she said.
I walked up the central aisle, boots echoing softly. Eclipsera tapped the stone as I moved. The flame in the brazier bent slightly toward it, as if drawn.
"You're worried," I said.
"Of course I am," she snapped. "Seven strangers with power that bends the air walk into my village on a day the sky feels wrong? I'd be a fool not to worry."
"I like that you're not pretending you're not scared," I said. "Most people do. They lie. It gets boring."
"Then maybe you're easily bored," she shot back.
"I am," I agreed.
She blinked, thrown off. "You…" She shook her head. "I won't ask what you are," she said. "I don't think I want the answer."
"You wouldn't understand it anyway," I said mildly.
She huffed. "Arrogant."
"Yes," I said.
For a moment, we stood in silence, watching the flame. It flickered, steady but… sharper. Every time the miasma from Eclipsera drifted too near, it hissed.
"Your god is afraid," I said.
Lysa's hand tightened on her staff. "The Flame doesn't fear," she said.
"Everything fears," I said. "Even fire. Even worlds."
"Worlds don't—" She stopped herself, exhaled. "Why are you here?" she asked. "Really. Not the pretty words. Not 'we fell' or 'we wander'. Why this village? Why my sky?"
I could have lied.
Instead, I said, "Because it was below us."
She stared at me. "Below?"
"We walk down," I said. "Layer by layer. World by world. This one was next."
"And when you reach the bottom?" she asked.
I smiled, small and sharp. "There is no bottom."
She swallowed. "You destroy everything you pass," she whispered.
"Not everything," I said. "Sometimes we just leave fingerprints."
Her eyes flicked to the brazier. The flame flared suddenly, then guttered. Smoke curled up, forming shapes that looked almost like hands reaching, then dispersing.
"We don't want to break your village, Lysa," I said.
"You say that like you can help it," she said.
I considered that.
"No," I said. "I don't think we can."
She laughed once, bitter. "Wonderful," she said. "Truly wonderful."
I turned my head slightly, studying her profile. "You haven't run," I said. "Everyone else avoids us. You stand in front. Why?"
"Because if something terrible is going to happen," she said, "I'd rather see it coming."
"You'd make a very good pet," Veyra had said earlier.
She wasn't wrong.
"Lysa," I said.
She looked at me, wary. "What?"
"If I asked you to leave with us," I said, "would you?"
Her eyes widened. "Leave? The village? The temple?"
"Yes."
"No," she said immediately. "Of course not."
"Why?"
She gave me a look as if I'd asked why she breathed. "Because these are my people," she said. "This is my place. They're afraid and small and foolish and kind. They need someone to stand between them and whatever's coming. I won't abandon them."
"You can't protect them from us," I said.
"I can try," she snapped.
I tilted my head. "You know trying will get you killed."
She swallowed. "Maybe."
"You'd die for them?"
"If that's what it takes."
I smiled.
There it was.
That brittle, breakable strength.
"You really would make a good pet," I said.
She recoiled, disgust flashing across her face. "I'm not an animal," she hissed. "I'm not your toy."
"No," I said. "You're much more interesting than that."
She pointed her staff at me. The sigil at its tip glowed faintly. "Get out," she said. "You're not welcome here."
I looked at the flame one last time. It shivered under my gaze.
Then I stepped back, one slow stride after another, until I reached the doorway.
"You should say goodbye to them tonight," I said.
Her shoulders stiffened. "Why?"
"Because goodbyes taste better when you know you're saying them," I said.
She flinched, but didn't answer.
I left her there, standing before a god that couldn't help her, in a world that believed it was safe.
—
I rejoined the others at the guest house. The common room was dim, lit by a single hanging lantern. Kaen lay sprawled on a bench, hands behind his head, firelight reflecting in his eyes. Veyra sat on the table, legs swinging, humming an off-key melody. Lyra had taken apart an old chair and was reassembling it without nails. Sareth stood at the window, watching the dark field beyond. Cirel lay on the floor, arms spread, staring at the ceiling. Alinor perched on the windowsill, half-asleep.
"How is our host?" Lyra asked without looking up.
"Afraid," I said. "Stubborn. Predictable."
"Pet material?" Veyra asked eagerly.
"Potentially," I said. "She won't leave on her own."
"That's the best kind," Veyra said, pleased.
Kaen cracked one eye open. "Are we staying long enough to test her?" he asked.
"No," Sareth said quietly. "We're not."
They all looked at him.
"The demon world is already cracking," he said. "When it falls, this one will feel it. The rift we used is a wound between them. The impact will spread. We shouldn't be here when it hits."
"Shouldn't," Cirel echoed, smiling. "But we will be."
Lyra finished fitting two pieces of wood together and stepped back. The chair stood without support, balanced on joints so fine they were invisible.
"It will be beautiful," she said.
"Tomorrow," Alinor murmured from the windowsill, voice distant. "Maybe the day after. The red sky will collapse. The ash will fall upward. The demon city will fold in on itself like closing hands. Their souls will spill through the cracks. Some will arrive here."
Veyra clapped softly. "Guests."
Kaen grinned. "Now that sounds fun."
I leaned Eclipsera against the wall, the blade's tip just barely touching the floor. The miasma curled out and pooled around my boots.
"Tomorrow," I said. "We watch. Then we decide."
"Decide what?" Cirel asked.
"Whether this world lives a little longer," I said, "or ends with the last one."
Silence settled over the room for a moment. The lantern flickered. Outside, a dog barked once, sharp and anxious, then went quiet.
Veyra slid off the table and padded toward me. "If we keep the priestess," she said softly, "will we get to see what her face looks like when she realizes everything she knows is gone?"
"Yes," I said.
She smiled, wide and bright. "Then I want her."
"She isn't yours," Lyra said, amused. "We all get to share."
Veyra stuck her tongue out at her but didn't argue.
Sareth turned from the window. The lines at the corners of his mouth were deeper than usual, like he'd been holding back words. "The worlds are collapsing faster," he said. "We're falling quicker without moving. If it keeps going like this, eventually there won't be anything left below us."
"Then we'll start walking up instead," Kaen said.
"No," Alinor murmured. "Up is worse."
I lay down on the bench opposite Kaen, folding my hands behind my head. "Sleep," I said. "We can worry about the end of all things after breakfast."
Veyra laughed and curled up at the foot of my bench like an overexcited cat. Lyra set the chair she'd made in the corner, satisfied. Cirel rolled onto her side and closed her eyes, a smile still on her lips. Sareth took the darkest corner, chains coiling around his ankles. Alinor slipped fully into dream, her breathing slow and even. Kaen eventually stopped tapping his fingers and let his eyes fall shut.
I lay awake a little longer, listening.
The world's pulse was louder now.
It skipped.
Somewhere very far below us, a demon city groaned.
Somewhere even farther below, a throne cracked.
I smiled into the darkness.
Tomorrow would be interesting.
And this bright, eager little world?
It was already starting to learn what kind of story it had welcomed.