June 7th, 2025
Corvian, Age 3180
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I wonder sometimes if this is another punishment. Every time I am set to accompany a human, the same unease stirs beneath the surface—an echo of something I once felt, before the centuries stripped the name of it away.
The first one was a woman. Seraphine.
Europe, plague season—air choked by incense and decay. I remember the trembling of her hands as she mixed herbs in a pewter bowl, the brittle rasp of dried sage, the sickly sweetness of rot seeping through the wooden floors. Her child lay in the next room, coughing through the fever while the flies gathered in the light. She was desperate, and desperation always sounds like prayer long before it becomes one.
She called for knowledge no scripture would give her, and I answered. A devil, yes—but in those days, I still believed there could be something gentle in the exchange. She wanted to heal, not conquer. I thought that made her different.
I taught her how to bind the sickness, how to draw heat from the air, how to bend it to her will. It worked. The child's breathing steadied, color returned to his lips. For a moment, I almost admired her—the will of a mortal, the faith that gnawed through terror.
Then she turned toward me.
I can still see the light on her face: soft, trembling, human. She knelt before me as if before an altar, and her lips moved—praying for me.
For me.
Do you know what happens when a human prays for a devil?
The words turn inward. The soul folds on itself, seeking a god that does not want to be found inside corruption. She split apart before my eyes—flesh first, then spirit. Her voice cracked into light. I remember the smell of blood and salt and something like ozone, and the way her body crumbled as though the air itself had judged her. The child woke to silence.
Since that night, I have learned. Compassion destroys them faster than hatred. Love, pity, tenderness—whatever name they dress it in—it corrodes them from the inside. They are not made to touch what we are. Every time I forget that, another mortal burns.
She was a fool. Kneeling before a devil, praying for him—what sense could dwell in that mind? What possible thought crossed her lips as her body betrayed her soul? Did she believe her god would see me through her mercy? That He would take my name back into His mouth because she asked sweetly enough?
I still recall the way her eyes shone before they dimmed. Not fear. Pity. And that, above all, was unforgivable.
So now, when I stand beside another human—when I feel that same trembling thread of hope reaching toward me—I cut it clean. I remind myself that kindness is only another form of cruelty, and that I am not to be loved, nor prayed for, nor redeemed.
The memory of Seraphine remains. A ruin on the map of time.
And perhaps that is why I am here again, centuries later, bound to another human who does not yet understand what it costs to look at me with anything but terror.
He had not slept. Not for a breath, not for an hour.
Since the black edges of night began softening toward gray, he had been playing with fire as if it were a pet to be tamed—cupping it, releasing it, calling it back with the same boyish devotion one might show to a half-wild creature that hadn't yet decided whether to love or bite. Each time the flame licked across his palms, it lit the hollows of his face, the silver of his piercings, the curve of his smile—bright, manic, alive in a way only the desperate ever are.
The room was small and airless, the curtains drawn to keep out the dawn. Still, light seeped through, colorless and frail, touching the bed sheets that had long cooled, the water glass gone murky by the bedside. The faint scorch of smoke hung around him. His laughter was soft, tired, delirious. I watched him from the chair, and for a moment, I thought: this is how ruin begins—not with blood, not with sin, but with joy that refuses to sleep.
"Enough." The word came from somewhere low in my chest. He looked up immediately, breath unsteady, pupils wide, a hint of defiance under his exhaustion. "Let's see you do something else."
The deck lay by my hand, forgotten from the night before. I picked it up, thumbed through its edges once, and sent it flying toward him.
The cards burst open in midair—white slivers turning over themselves, the sound of paper slicing air. Hugo jerked forward, arms reaching, clumsy in his haste. Before his fingers could catch even one, I willed them upward. They froze midflight, suspended in a fragile halo around him, then shot outward. A storm of paper against plaster, sharp and sudden. When they fell, they fell all at once—fluttering, restless, littering the floor like shed feathers.
He stood still. Lips parted. The glow from the bedside lamp touched the edge of his jaw, glimmering in the slack disbelief of it.
Then he turned his head slowly toward me, eyes wide and shining. "Can I do that?"
I raised my hand. The cards stirred, then peeled themselves from the ground, whispering as they gathered. They returned to my palm in perfect sequence, their corners brushing like obedient wings. I met his stare. "Act quick."
The air stirred again as I threw them. He moved sharply this time—instinct before thought. Five cards hovered before him, quivering as though afraid to fall. The rest collapsed to the carpet with a dull whisper.
I summoned them back, their faces flashing in the low light. "Quick," I told him, and sent them forward once more.
He moved faster. This time ten more rose at his command, swaying in the air beside the first. Sweat traced a line down his temple. His hands trembled, but his focus was whole. The room seemed to hold its breath for him. When it broke, the untouched cards scattered at his feet once again.
"Not bad for the first time," I said.
He exhaled a laugh, a quick and disbelieving sound, and let his hands drop. The cards followed, falling around him in slow descent. Then, with the same suddenness, his grin returned—bright, reckless, infectious. "Let's do it again."
I studied him. The light caught the pallor of his face, the exhaustion beneath it. "You haven't had a wink of sleep. Do you not tire?"
His smirk deepened, eyes alight. "I thought you said you don't get tired. But it seems like you are."
I let the words hang. "You're using my power, remember?"
He laughed softly, brushing the fallen cards aside with his foot, careless and warm where I was cold and ancient. His joy was a fever—one that did not burn out but consumed quietly, inch by inch.
And I thought, watching him there amid the scattered cards and the smell of scorched air, that humans have always mistaken exhaustion for triumph.
Seraphine had looked the same before she burned—eyes full of victory, unaware it was the last thing she'd ever feel.
He sighed and let the last of the cards fall. The sound of them landing was soft, like something small giving up.
"It's alright," he said at last, voice roughened by exhaustion. "Enough for today."
I glanced at the clock above the dresser. Eight o'clock. Morning light pressed against the curtains, thin and diluted, like milk poured through ash. "Shouldn't you have breakfast?"
He shook his head. "I feel full."
"You're very frail," I said.
He only smiled at that—an almost childlike curve of his lips that betrayed how little he cared for self-preservation. He turned away, switched on the air conditioner, and climbed into bed. The sound of the blanket dragged across the sheets seemed louder than anything else in the room. He tucked himself under it with quiet precision, as though afraid the bed might vanish if he didn't hold it down.
"This is the first time since 2018 I sleep in an actual bed," he murmured.
I stared at him, unamused. "Good for you."
The words fell flat between us. Yet something about the sight of him—small under a pile of fabric, hair scattered on the pillow, breathing already deepening—made the stillness heavier. Humans sleep as if death were an art they practice nightly. I watched the rhythm of his chest, the way his fingers curled slightly at the edge of the blanket, and wondered how a creature so weak could still command such gravity.
I sat at the edge of the bed. My hands rested in my lap. The air cooled, filled with the quiet churn of the machine and his slow breathing.
Thea's presence was never heralded by sound. It came as distortion, the feeling of the world leaning closer. When they spoke, it was as though the space around me learned the shape of their will.
"You're quieter than I expected," they said.
"I wasn't aware conversation was required," I answered. "You gave me a child to tend. There isn't much to say."
"He's not a child," they said. "He's a mirror. Look long enough, and you'll see why I chose him."
I turned my gaze toward the bed. "You chose him to humiliate me."
A low laugh followed, faint but sharp. "Perhaps. But you needed reminding. The devils of Blackreach call you collector, the one who brings the lost back to our gates. You wear that title like a crown, Corvian. I wanted you to remember who forged it."
"He's not lost," I said. "He's wasting."
"All mortals waste," they replied. "That's how they find their way to us."
"The others would call this punishment."
"The others," they echoed, "fear you. And I—well, I wanted to see what becomes of you when fear turns to attachment. You've never been patient enough to watch a soul decay."
"So I am the punishment again," I murmured.
Their voice softened, nearly tender. "No. You are the test. If he breaks, the fault will be his. If you do, it will be mine."
Then their presence loosened, leaving the room strangely hollow. The air settled, heavy and cool, and Hugo's quiet breathing filled the absence they left behind.
Collector, they had called me. Yes. Perhaps that is what I am. And yet, watching the mortal sleep beside me, I could no longer tell whether I was sent to guard what was lost—or to deliver it gently into ruin.
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June 8th, 2025
Hugo Hollands, Age 24
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The morning sat heavy over the city—gray sky stretching low, clouds gathered like old cloth over the skyline.
Corvian walked beside me, silent at first, his steps too measured, his presence too deliberate to belong to anyone human. Even when he didn't speak, he filled the air around him, like a thought that refused to leave. We turned under the archway that led to Valery Bridge, where the world always seemed colder, the light always slower to arrive.
"I don't understand the point of meeting those friends of yours," he said, voice low, controlled. "I thought you didn't need anyone anymore."
I glanced at him, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jacket. "Well, you told me not to treat you like a human, right? So I'm looking out for my human friends."
He made a sound halfway between annoyance and laughter, though neither fit him. "I don't like when you use logic with me, alright? I told you not to treat me like a human, but you still do anyway."
"It's hard to differentiate," I said. "Because of how you look. When the eye sees something, the mind interprets it as something familiar. You always get treated as what you look like. You might not understand that, since you're not human—which, yes, we have thoroughly established. So, just let me live. You're not going to lock me in, are you?"
His eyes slid toward me, faintly amused. "I have the power to lock you in if I want to. I'm just letting you slide with it. Like I said, you make wonderful decisions. I'm only following."
"Generous of you," I muttered.
The ground dipped into shadow as we reached the underside of the bridge. It always smelled the same down here—earth, old beer, smoke, a lingering trace of the river. The tents stood close to one another, patched and weathered, their sides breathing lightly with the wind. A small fire pit sat in the center, empty now but ringed with blackened stones.
Eddie was already there. The moment he saw me, his head jerked up, and his whole expression cracked open in relief. He got to his feet quickly. "Oh my God, I thought something happened to you."
Beside me, Corvian let out a quiet, disdainful sound—an ugh under his breath. I didn't have to look to know what it meant.
"This is my friend," I said, forcing casualness into my tone. "Corrin. We met recently."
Eddie's gaze flicked toward him. He looked Corvian up and down once, unreadable. "Nice to meet you, man. Uh… why is he here? Is it okay for him to be here?"
"Yeah," I said quickly. "He knows about everything."
Eddie frowned but nodded. "Alright. So, how did it go in the mountains?"
"Oh, it went great," I said. "We're going to see the results soon."
Corvian's voice came smooth, unhurried. "Why don't you show him what you can do with fire?"
I turned to him, unsure if he was mocking me or being serious. His face gave nothing away, only that steady, detached calm. Then he nodded once, a deliberate gesture.
I hesitated, then looked back at Eddie. "You ready?"
Eddie's grin came quick and lopsided. "Fuck yeah, show me."
I lifted my hand, feeling a small tremor in my fingertips. A breath caught somewhere in my chest. Then I snapped my fingers.
A flame bloomed on the tip of my middle finger—tiny, alive, a pulse of color that wavered in the gray morning light. It cast no warmth, only a soft shimmer against my skin.
Eddie's eyes widened. He let out a sound that was half awe, half disbelief. "Oh, this is—oh, wow. What the fuck."
The fire danced, small but certain, and for a moment I saw it reflected in his eyes—the same spark that once lived in mine before everything turned hollow. Behind me, I could feel Corvian watching, silent as a wound that had decided not to bleed.
Eddie squinted at the flame still trembling at the end of my finger. "Wait—don't move," he said, fishing a cigarette from his pocket. "Let me light it with that thing."
I held my hand steady, the fire flickering as he leaned in. The smell of tobacco drifted between us, sharp and dry, catching the edge of the river breeze.
Corvian made a quiet, disgusted sound behind me. "Is this dalliance?"
Eddie froze mid-motion, the cigarette tip hovering near the flame. "What the fuck does dalliance mean?" He looked at me, exasperated. "Why's your friend a poet, Hugo?"
I shrugged, suppressing a laugh. "I don't know."
Corvian tilted his head, eyes unreadable. "You're too incompetent for such words, I understand."
"I think," I said, trying to cut through the tension, "he meant flirting or something."
Eddie recoiled immediately, pulling the cigarette from his mouth. "Ew, that's so gross. Hugo's like a little brother to me."
Corvian's expression didn't shift. "Incest isn't unknown to people."
Eddie's jaw dropped, then tightened. "Shut your friend up before I beat him. I swear to God."
Corvian turned his gaze on him, mild curiosity crossing his face. "Are you a believer?"
"What?"
"I see you mention God a lot," Corvian said. "Are you a believer?"
I stepped forward, already feeling the pull of unease. "Let's not go there."
Eddie took a long drag, exhaling smoke through his teeth. "Yeah, I'm a believer."
Corvian's laugh came low, almost pleasant if it weren't so empty. "I find it pathetic," he said, "that someone like you—who's received nothing but misfortune—still believes in God. But I suppose everyone needs something to hold on to. It gives you hope."
Eddie's hand stilled. His brow furrowed as if trying to decide whether he'd misheard. "What do you know about me to call it misfortune? Compared to others, I'm very lucky."
"A junkie calling himself lucky," Corvian said, smiling faintly. "Remarkable."
Eddie turned sharply toward me, his tone rising. "Are you that close to him? Airing my shit out like that?"
I raised both hands, startled. "I swear to God I didn't tell him anything."
Corvian's head tilted toward me, his voice smooth as glass. "Do you have no shame? Swearing to God?" He sighed, almost theatrically. "I'm shocked."
Eddie's cigarette burned down to ash between his fingers. He looked ready to swing. And I stood between them, the last curl of flame dying quietly at my fingertips. The light faded, leaving only the thin trace of smoke rising between us, the smell of it clinging to the cold underbridge air.
Eddie took a step closer, the bridge's shadow cutting sharp across his face. "You've got a mouth on you, don't you?" he said, smoke curling from his lip. "You talk like you read too much, but none of it stuck."
Corvian's gaze drifted over him like a blade tracing the surface before the cut. "At least I've read something," he said softly. "You speak as though language is still learning you."
Eddie laughed once, short and humorless. "You think you're clever, huh? You talk like you're trying to sound expensive."
Corvian's eyes flickered, the kind of still light that didn't belong to anything human. "And you talk like poverty—loud, defensive, and convinced it's honesty."
"Hey," I cut in, raising a hand. "Let's not—"
But Eddie ignored me. "Poverty built the bridge you're standing under," he said. "The shoes on your feet, the air you're breathing. So maybe show a little gratitude before I knock that smirk off your face."
Corvian leaned forward just enough for the air to shift between them. "Gratitude?" His tone was mild, but there was something venomous beneath it. "I don't thank insects for the dirt they crawl through. I let them crawl. That's enough mercy."
Eddie's jaw flexed. "Say that again."
"Don't," I said, stepping between them now. The flame in my hand had long gone out, but the heat still lingered somewhere between us. "Both of you, stop."
Eddie pointed at him over my shoulder. "Who the fuck is this guy, Hugo? You said he was your friend."
Corvian's smile deepened, not kind, not cruel—just aware. "He meant companion. The word 'friend' implies equality."
"That's it," Eddie snapped, throwing down the cigarette and crushing it under his heel. "You think I won't—"
"Eddie," I said sharply. "He's not worth it."
Corvian's gaze didn't waver. "And yet you defend him," he said to me. "How noble. The fragile defending the foolish."
Eddie barked a laugh. "You're lucky I don't speak your language, or I'd tear you apart in it."
"I doubt you could speak your own properly," Corvian murmured.
"Enough!" I snapped this time, louder than I meant to. The sound bounced off the concrete walls. For a moment, even the wind stilled.
Eddie glared at him once more, breathing hard, then looked at me. "You got weird friends, Hugo."
"Yeah," I said quietly. "I'm starting to realize that."
Corvian only tilted his head, eyes still on Eddie. "Strange, isn't it," he said softly, "how mortals always mistake tolerance for kindness?"
"Corrin," I said through my teeth.
He said nothing else. Eddie muttered under his breath and turned away, lighting another cigarette with trembling hands. I stood there between them, the air tight with heat and river smoke, thinking how impossible it was to stop a fire that didn't burn the same way twice.
The space between them had curdled. The kind of silence that came after too many sharp words and not enough sense. Eddie stood near the fire pit, jaw tight, smoke rising from the half-burned cigarette between his fingers. Corvian's expression had settled into something like indifference, though I could feel the tension radiating off him—cold, invisible, constant.
"I'll call you," I said, stepping closer to Eddie. My voice came low, almost steady. "Alright? I'll call you."
He didn't look at me right away. Then he exhaled, the smoke drifting up toward the bridge's ribs. "Yeah. Call Harry," he said. "He showed up the other day asking about you."
The sound of my cousin's name hit harder than it should have. Something in me locked. The air seemed to narrow. I stopped mid-step, the word Harry still echoing in the space between concrete and river. My hand tightened unconsciously around Corvian's sleeve.
"He—what?"
Eddie's gaze softened, only slightly. "Yeah. Said he hadn't heard from you in weeks. Looked worried, man."
I swallowed hard, nodded once. The noise of passing cars above us rolled over like distant thunder, smothering what I couldn't say. "Alright," I managed finally. "I'll call him."
Eddie flicked his cigarette into the dirt and waved me off with two fingers, already looking away as if the conversation had exhausted him. "Do that. He's a good kid."
I reached for Corvian's arm, dragging him with me before he could speak. The skin under my hand felt strange—too warm for someone so cold. "Come on," I muttered.
He allowed himself to be led, his stride unhurried, his silence deliberate. As we stepped out from under the bridge, the air changed—lighter, sharper, the kind that stung the lungs after too long in shadow. I didn't look back.
The river was moving slow beside us, gray and swollen. Behind, Eddie's voice carried once more, but the words were lost to the distance. Ahead, Corvian walked without looking at me, the faintest curl of a smirk ghosting his lips, as though he had heard something in my stillness that I hadn't said aloud.
Harry. The name lingered in my chest like a reopened wound. I didn't know which would be worse—calling him back into my life, or hearing him sound relieved when I did.