The mask shouldn't matter this much.
It's just fabric and lace and tiny glass gems I had to convince myself weren't tacky, even though Shelby insisted they made me look ethereal as hell. The shape is sharp, elven, whimsical—something a girl might wear if she wanted to pretend she belonged in a fairytale.
But tonight, as the gems catch the lamplight and the threads glimmer like spun frost, it feels like more than a costume.
It feels like armor.
Like I'm stitching together a version of myself I'm not sure I'm ready to meet.
I let the needle glide in and out, the rhythm familiar: pull, tighten, breathe. As long as I keep my eyes on the thread, the world stays simple.
It's the only thing simple right now.
Because my mind keeps drifting—again, obnoxiously—to Will.
Where is he?
Why hasn't he reached out?
Why do I care?
I pinch the bridge of my nose. I know why. I just hate admitting it.
He's a storm wrapped in man-shape. Infuriating and gentle. Impossible and grounded. Someone who talks like he's been waiting centuries for me, but apologizes like he doesn't deserve to ask for anything.
Someone who tells me I'm part of a story older than memory—and doesn't laugh when I run from him.
And the worst part?
My body believes him even when my brain refuses.
That kiss—gods. I wish I could forget how it felt. The way his hands framed my face like he was terrified I'd disappear. The way his voice cracked when he said don't leave.
I hate how much it mattered.
I stab the needle harder than necessary.
"Stop romanticizing the insane," I mutter to the mask.
The mask doesn't argue. It just waits.
Eventually, I set it aside and stretch. My spine cracks like it's been holding secrets too tightly.
I should talk to him.
No, I should never talk to him again.
He deserves an apology.
No, I deserve peace.
He's dangerous.
He saved me.
He's delusional.
He knew my name like it was carved into him.
Useless. All of it.
I need a shower.
A long, hot shower where nothing can follow me. Nothing can whisper ancient truths or kiss me like I'm a promise it intends to keep.
The hallway is dim and quiet in that lived-in way that feels safe. The air smells faintly of vanilla from the plug-in she swears lowers stress. The dishwasher hums like a lullaby.
Normal.
Human.
Mine.
I cling to it.
The bathroom light is too bright. My reflection looks tired, frizzy, emotionally hungover.
"Cute," I tell her. "Very raccoon who's seen the void."
The shower roars to life. Steam blooms instantly. I step in, heat pouring over me like a blessing I didn't earn.
For a few precious minutes, I disappear.
The steam thickens. My muscles loosen. My mind quiets just enough for breath to return. I reach for the faucet to turn the heat down—and reality slips sideways.
Not violently.
Not like the hollow.
More like a skipped heartbeat.
Something inside me misaligns, like my soul rotates a few degrees off-center and never quite locks back in. Like the world forgot itself—and when it remembered, it chose somewhere else.
The tiles flicker.
Once.
Twice.
Then they're gone.
Black granite walls rise around me, cold and polished like ancient stone carved without mercy. The air thickens, metallic and smoky. The light pulses overhead in a rhythm that feels disturbingly like a heartbeat.
My heartbeat.
Or something else's.
I blink hard.
For a breath, my bathroom flickers back—pink razor, cheap tiles, safety hanging by a thread.
Then it dissolves.
The granite commits.
"I am absolutely done with this—" I manage, but my voice trembles.
A soft click echoes behind me.
A heavy door opening.
Then closing.
With purpose.
My blood turns to ice.
The steam shifts.
Not suddenly—deliberately.
The air thickens, as if the space itself is making room for something that was always meant to be there.
Eyes appear first. Two red points, dull and waiting, like embers buried too long in ash—already fixed on me.
"Did you really think you could hide, my sweet niece?"
My heart stutters into stillness.
The voice isn't one voice. It's dozens layered together, slightly out of sync, like a choir trying—and failing—to imitate a human throat.
A figure emerges from the steam. Too tall. Shadows cling to her like a gown. When she moves, darkness smears across the stone as if trying to crawl away from her.
Ker.
Of course.
Of course my shower turns into a death omen on a random Tuesday.
I know the difference.
Visions have a weight to them–a pressure behind my eyes, a hollowing sensation liek my body has stepped aside. Reality is louder. Messier. It resists.
This doesn't.
The voice rises in my head, perfectly timed with my own thoughts–and just off enough that I know it isn't mine.
"I'm not afraid of you," I say before my brain can stop me.
She tilts her head. The motion clicks. Something in my spine recoils.
"Oh?" she croons. "You sound afraid."
The temperature plummets. Frost creeps across the stone at her feet. My breath turns white.
"Tell me," she murmurs, drifting closer, "where is Enyalios?"
Will's name in her mouth is a violation.
"I'm not telling you anything," I snap. "This is my space. You can't just—"
"This is a sanctuary," she says lightly. "I cannot enter without permission."
Hope flares—stupid and bright.
"Great. Then leave."
"I cannot enter without permission," she says softly. "And yours was never required."
Her smile widens.
Wrong.
Too wide.
"Ask your mother."
The world stutters.
For a split second, I don't think of magic or gods — I think of her brushing my hair at bedtime.
"My… what?"
"She has given me all the permission I require," the Ker purrs. "She wants you on Erda."
Erda.
The name hits like a memory I don't have but my bones do. Falling. Pressure behind my ribs.
"No," I whisper. "She wouldn't—"
"Oh, she already has," she says gently. "She knows exactly what you are becoming."
"Stay away from me."
She appears beside me without moving.
One moment distant.
The next—her hand clamps around my arm.
A reflex flares in me–heat, brightness, the ghost of movement just under my skin–then dies, smothered before it can take shape.
Pain detonates.
Not physical. Not entirely. It's like she reaches through me and grabs something beneath skin and bone—something bright and ancient—and squeezes.
I gasp. Air burns going in, freezes going out. My knees buckle.
"You're going somewhere new," she whispers. "And I am the one taking you."
"I won't—" My voice shreds. "I'm not—"
"Willing?" she guesses softly. "My dear, you don't have to be. You're already bound."
Her gaze drops.
My ring finger ignites.
Blue-white agony rips through me as the sigil flares awake—hot, cold, then searing again. A promise I never chose lighting up like a beacon.
The mark isn't protecting me. It's telling her where I am.
She hums, pleased.
"Yes," she says. "That will do."
The world buckles.
Steam collapses inward. Frost surges. Light drains to nothing.
And just before the darkness swallows me whole, I feel it—
A thread snapping taut.
A bond screaming awake.
A boy with winter eyes whispering my name like prayer or panic or both.
He knows.
He knows I'm gone.