He holds it like it's fragile. Like it's rare. Like it's something he's afraid to break.
Then his mouth brushes my ring finger.
Soft. Careful. Almost reverent.
Heat flashes under my skin. My knees wobble. No one has ever made me react like this with something so small, so intimate, and the realization alone makes my stomach flip.
I don't know him. I met him hours ago. I do not let people in this quickly. And whatever is happening right now feels like someone kicked down a door I didn't realize I'd barricaded.
So why does it feel like I've been waiting for this touch without knowing it?
The world tilts.
Not metaphorically. Physically.
The spot where his lips touched me flickers—just a shimmer, like something surfacing from deep water. I blink, sure I imagined it.
The light sharpens.
A symbol burns into my skin, fine and precise, glowing soft blue. Heat races up my arm—not pain, but purpose, like light being poured into veins that know what to do with it.
Will's grip tightens.
His own ring finger ignites, the mark flaring a deeper, harsher green. It's so vivid it almost hurts to look at.
I want to rip my hand back. Demand answers. Scream.
All I manage is to stare, heartbeat hammering, pretending I'm not seconds from a panic spiral.
Because if I admit I see it, I have to admit it means something.
And I am not ready for that.
"It's an old symbol," Will says quietly. His thumb moves in slow, grounding strokes over my hand. "For eternity. Mortals use rings for the same promise. Ours is… permanent."
He lifts his eyes to mine.
"Once it ignites, we can't truly harm each other," he says. "We can't sever it. We can't walk away."
The words wedge under my ribs.
I force myself to look.
The sigil on my finger is a narrow diamond, points facing each other like arrows locked in standoff. A smaller triangle cuts through it at an opposing angle—wrong and perfect at the same time. The blue light pulses warmly, like it's always been there, waiting.
His mark mirrors mine, but without the arrow points. Just that sharp green blaze. Older. Rougher.
Connected.
My knees nearly buckle—not from pain.
From recognition.
Like my body has been waiting years for something it didn't know it was missing.
Will steps back too fast, air rushing cold between us. His face looks wrecked.
Terrified.
Something inside my chest shifts. A quiet click. Like one bolt on a long-locked door just slid free.
For the first time, I wonder if he knew this would happen tonight.
What infuriates me is how deeply I know he isn't lying.
That certainty sits heavy in my stomach.
And beneath it—something else. Unsaid. Pressing.
I felt the tug when we first shook hands. Sharp. Strange. Easy to ignore.
But this?
This kiss. This mark.
This isn't coincidence.
It's a claim.
I yank my fingers free and shake my head, anger flaring hot and fast.
"Whatever this is," I snap, "it's not me."
The mark burns hotter, like it disagrees.
"I don't do this," I continue, voice sharp. "I don't fall into people like gravity owes them something. I don't let some guy show up and rewrite my entire life with glowing tattoos and mythological backstory."
Heat stings my eyes. "Who are you, Will? Really?"
He drags a hand over his face and laughs once—short, incredulous, like the universe just dared him.
"Seriously Aetheria? Really? You've been on Erda too long, you're acting like their typical women here instead like the goddess you are." He snickers. "I could tell you the sky is blue and you'd still argue I'm wrong."
He throws his hands in the air.
"I need real answers," I say. "Not riddles. Not stories."
"All right," he says, voice dry. "Next time I'll lead with: Hi, do you remember the man you married several lifetimes ago? Very approachable."
I glare at him. "You think this is funny?"
"No," he says. And the humor drains instantly. "I think you're terrified."
That lands harder than a joke ever could.
He pushes back against the tree, arms folding, posture casual in a way that doesn't fool me.
"I'm Enyalios," he says flatly. "Son of Ares. God of War."
I snort. "Sure. And I'm the Queen of England."
His mouth quirks. "Your friend Evan? Distant cousin. Aphrodite's influence. She likes… editing perception."
I press my fingers to my temple. "Sirens. Mirrors. Roses," I mutter. "I've officially lost my mind."
"I wish," he says softly. "I wish you could see this the way I do."
The way he says my name—Aetheria—pulls something deep and aching in my chest.
I hug myself tighter. "Let's say I believe half of this. Who does that make me?"
He studies me for a long beat.
"You're becoming what you were always meant to be," he says.
The grief in his voice terrifies me more than the words.
"I don't understand," I whisper.
But understanding curls anyway—warm and awful.
Gold flares beneath my skin. Will goes pale.
"That shouldn't be happening yet."
He exhales slowly.
"You are meant to be the greatest goddess ever born," he says. "Daughter of Clotho."
The name rings through me like struck metal.
"The Fates," I whisper. "Daughters of Chaos. No one commands them."
A laugh bursts out of me—too loud, too sharp. "That's great. Truly. Because I can't even lift a candle without a match."
"Don't laugh," he says quietly.
I stop.
"There's no humor in this," he continues. "You never laughed at who you were."
My throat tightens.
I should leave. This is too much. Too big.
"Will," I say, forcing steadiness, "I've dated liars. Manipulators. I'm not letting the new guy spin mythology and call it fate."
"Yes," he says.
Just that.
"Yes, Aetheria."
His gaze burns into mine.
"We've been bound longer than you can remember," he says. "That mark is a tether. When one of us is in supernatural danger, the other can feel it. Can find them."
His eyes flick to the dark beyond the hollow.
"That's why I'm here," he says. "I had to reach you before the Keres did."
The air shifts—sharp, metallic, wrong.
And the realization settles, cold and certain:
Whatever is hunting me—
It's not coming.
It's already here.
The flashlight sputters and then turns off.
Will's head snaps up. His hand tightens on my wrist hard enough to ground, not hurt.
"Don't move," he breathes. Not command. Not panic. Assessment.
The hollow doesn't darken.
It shrinks.
The space feels suddenly wrong—too tight, too near—like the walls leaned in without physically moving. The smell changes first: damp earth overlaid with something mineral and old, like stone pulled fresh from deep water.
Then I hear it.
A sound like wet pebbles clicking together.
Something small scrapes across bark.
Then another.
Then several.
My stomach drops.
From the roots of the tree—where moss and shadow knot thickest—they emerge.
At first glance, they look like animals.
That illusion lasts less than a second.
They are squat, hunched things no taller than my knee, bodies slick and knotted like living stone polished too long by tidewater. Their skin gleams wetly in the flashight, mottled gray and rust and lichen-green. Too smooth. Too deliberate.
Eyes dot their faces in clusters—not blinking, not moving together—each one reflecting a different angle of the hollow, like they're seeing more than one moment at once.
One opens its mouth.
It's too wide.
Inside, there are no teeth.
Just light.
Soft. Blue. Identical to the glow still pulsing faintly beneath my skin.
I stumble back a step.
Will moves with me instantly, positioning himself half in front of me, half shielding—instinct older than thought.
"Carbuncles," he says under his breath.
Not fear.
Recognition.
One of the creatures tilts its head.
The motion is jerky, mechanical, like a marionette tested by unfamiliar hands. It raises a limb—too many joints, bending wrong—and presses its palm to the bark of the hollow.
The tree shudders.
Not violently.
Obediently.
A ripple moves through the grain of the wood, light sinking into the grooves like ink into parchment.
Recording.
My chest tightens.
"They're not here to attack," I whisper.
Will's jaw sets. "No."
Another Carbuncle steps forward.
Then another.
They arrange themselves in a loose semicircle—precise spacing, identical distance between bodies. Ritual geometry.
One of them lifts its head and looks directly at me.
Every eye fixes.
The pressure behind my eyes spikes—sharp, invasive—not pain, but contact. Like fingers brushing the inside of my skull, not touching memories, just counting them.
I gasp.
The mark on my finger flares bright.
So does Will's.
The Carbuncle's mouth opens again, light spilling brighter now, and something vibrates through the hollow—not sound, not language—
Designation.
Will swears, low and vicious.
"Don't answer," he snaps, even as my knees weaken. "Do not respond."
The creature doesn't wait.
It raises its hand and points at my chest.
The pendant burns hot—white-hot—through fabric and skin. I cry out before I can stop myself, clutching it as a sharp pulse detonates outward, rippling through the hollow like a struck bell.
The Carbuncles recoil half a step.
Not injured.
Confirmed.
The light in their mouths dims.
The pressure lifts.
One of them scratches a symbol into the bark with a clawed finger—fast, precise, practiced.
Not a threat.
A timestamp.
Then, as one, they turn.
They retreat back into the roots, slipping into shadows too narrow to hold bodies that solid. The last one pauses, eyes flicking once—briefly—to Will.
Assessment.
Then they're gone.
The hollow exhales.
Sound rushes back all at once—wind, leaves, distant night insects screaming like they were holding their breath too.
My legs give out.
Will catches me before I hit the ground, hauling me close, one arm tight around my back, the other gripping my wrist like he's checking I'm still anchored to this world.
"They marked the moment," he says hoarsely. "Not you. Not yet."
I shake, teeth chattering, heart punching against my ribs.
"What—what were those things?" I manage.
His forehead drops against mine, breath unsteady for the first time since I met him.
"Witnesses," he says. "Clerks. The Watcher's hands."
My stomach drops.
"They don't interfere," he continues. "They observe thresholds. Bonds. Breaches."
My gaze drops to my glowing finger.
"And we just—"
"Crossed one," he finishes.
The mark dims slowly, settling into my skin like it belongs there.
Like it always has.
Outside the hollow, far beyond the trees, something shifts—vast and patient—like a ledger closing.
Will's voice drops to a whisper.
"It knows you're awake now."
I swallow hard.
"And it knows," he adds, eyes burning into mine, "that I found you first."