The catacombs exhaled.
A slow, damp breath rolled out from the newly opened passage beyond the far archway—cool air carrying the scent of wet iron, old wax, and something faintly sweet, like lilies left too long in a closed room. The torch flames bent toward the darkness as though drawn by invisible fingers.
Toddd stood motionless in the center of the spent circle. The incomplete D on her collarbone throbbed once, twice, then settled into a quiet, persistent rhythm. It no longer felt like an intruder. It felt like part of her pulse.
Cassian remained slumped against the sarcophagus. His laughter had died; what remained was shallow breathing and the slow drip of blood from his chin onto the stone. The three marks on his palm—T O D—had stopped shimmering. They looked dull now, almost ordinary scars. Almost.
Lysander kept his back to the open passage. His posture was rigid, every line of him braced for whatever would crawl through next.
"We can't stay here," he said. The words came out clipped, almost mechanical. "Whatever just answered her call… it's not going to knock politely."
Toddd turned her head toward the darkness.
Nothing moved.
Yet the air thickened with expectation.
She took one deliberate step forward.
The floor beneath her bare foot cracked—a hairline fracture spidering outward from her heel. Not from force. From pressure. As though something immense had just pressed back from below.
Cassian lifted his head. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide.
"She likes you best," he rasped. "You kept the body warm longest. She remembers the heartbeat. She remembers how it sounded when it was hers."
Toddd crouched in front of him. Close enough to smell the copper on his breath.
"Then tell me her name."
Cassian's gaze drifted to the new letter on her skin.
"She never had one," he whispered. "Father said naming the drowned was tempting fate. So we never spoke it. But she heard us anyway. Every time we whispered 'the third.' Every time we pretended she hadn't existed."
A soft sound drifted from the open passage—cloth dragging over stone. Slow. Patient.
Toddd rose.
The dragging stopped.
Silence returned, heavier than before.
Lysander moved to her side. His hand hovered near her elbow—never quite touching.
"If we run now, we might reach the surface before—"
Before he finished, the violet glow returned.
Not from the circle.
From Toddd herself.
It leaked from her eyes first—thin threads of light seeping from the corners like tears made of dusk. Then from beneath her skin, tracing the veins in her wrists, her throat, the hollow of her collarbone. The incomplete D flared bright for a heartbeat, then dimmed again.
Cassian stared.
"She's bleeding through you already."
Toddd lifted her hands.
The glow followed the motion, coiling around her fingers like living smoke.
She felt no pain.
Only pressure.
As though something very small and very old was trying to stretch inside a space too narrow for it.
The dragging sound resumed—closer now.
A shape appeared at the edge of torchlight.
Not tall.
Not large.
A child's silhouette.
Bare feet. Long midnight hair hanging in wet ropes. A simple white shift stained at the hem with something dark. The face remained in shadow, but the eyes caught the light—storm-gray threaded with violent violet, exactly like Toddd's.
Exactly like the reflection that had wept black in the mirror.
The child stopped just beyond the archway.
She tilted her head.
"You kept my place warm," the voice said. The same soft, layered whisper that had spoken through Toddd's throat earlier. "Thank you."
Toddd's lips parted.
No sound came out at first.
Then, quietly: "You're not welcome in it."
The child smiled.
Small. Sad. Ancient.
"I don't need to be welcome. I only need to be complete."
She lifted one small hand.
In the center of her palm: three perfect black letters.
D D D
Finished.
The glow inside Toddd surged—painful now, bright enough to bleach the catacombs white for a second.
When it faded, the child was gone.
The passage stood empty again.
But the dragging sound had not stopped.
It was coming from behind them now.
From the direction of the spiral stairs they had descended.
Cassian pushed himself upright with a groan.
"She's circling," he said. "She always circles. Like a cat playing with three mice."
Lysander drew Toddd back toward the nearest sarcophagus.
"We seal the circle again. We buy time."
Toddd shook her head.
The glow still lingered faintly in her veins.
"No more buying time."
She looked down at her collarbone.
The incomplete D had gained another stroke—sharper, darker.
Two left.
She looked at Cassian's palm.
His T O D had begun to bleed again—not blood, but thin black lines extending toward a fourth letter.
She looked at her own hands.
The violet light pulsed in time with three separate rhythms now.
Three hearts.
One in her chest.
One in Cassian's.
And one… somewhere else.
Beating faster.
Closer.
Toddd met Lysander's eyes.
"If she wants all three pieces," she said, "she'll have to take them."
Somewhere in the darkness, a child laughed—soft, delighted, and utterly without mercy.
To be continued…