Nyx's step faltered. Just for a heartbeat.
Then he kept walking, face set, carrying Seraphiel back toward whatever nightmare came next.
Seraphiel woke on a floor made of bone. Smooth and polished. Wrong in every possible way.
The curse was gone that much registered immediately. No burning, no pressure building behind her skull. But in its place, emptiness. Like someone had scooped out part of her soul and left the cavity hollow.
"Ah, you're awake." Malachrae sat cross-legged across from her, still wearing that too-wide smile. "How does it feel? Being diminished?"
"Like I'm missing something vital." Seraphiel pushed herself upright. Everything ached. "What did you take from me? Really?"
"Your death." Malachrae closed her eyes, savoring. "You let him kill you. Fascinating. You walked into that pyre willingly. Because of a prophecy."
Heat flooded Seraphiel's chest. "What prophecy? I can't remember now—you took it!"
Malachrae laughed. The sound bounced off bone walls, multiplying. "Then I'll return it to you. Consider it a bonus for such a delicious meal." She leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Your vision said: 'Only the twice-dead oracle can kill the Undying Saint.' You saw it years ago. Caelum has made himself immortal through divine ascension—layer upon layer of blessed rituals. Normal weapons can't touch him. Normal death can't claim him. But you..." Her finger pointed, almost reverent. "You who died and returned, you're the only weapon that can end him."
"That's why I let him burn me," Seraphiel whispered. "I needed to die to become the weapon."
"Precisely. And it worked—you came back. But there's a problem." Malachrae stood, began pacing. "Killing him requires more than just your unique state. It requires the Eclipse Blade. A weapon forged in the First Age specifically to slay divine beings."
Nyx spoke from the doorway. Seraphiel hadn't heard him enter. "The Eclipse Blade was destroyed centuries ago."
"Shattered." Malachrae corrected, wagging a finger. "Not destroyed. There's a difference. It was broken into three pieces during the God-Wars." She counted on her fingers. "One piece is hidden in the bloodline of the Eclipse Throne—your bloodline, Nyx. Embedded in your very ancestry, passed down through generations."
Nyx's expression didn't change, but something tightened around his eyes.
"One piece," Malachrae continued, "is hidden in the twice-dead. Seraphiel, it's inside your heart. Placed there during your resurrection by forces you don't remember. And the final piece..." Dramatic pause. She really was enjoying this. "Is held by the one who shattered it: The Forgotten King, sleeping beneath the Obsidian Peaks."
Seraphiel exchanged a look with Nyx. This was insane. Impossible.
"So to forge the blade," Nyx said slowly, "we need to—"
"Claim your birthright, meaning retake your throne and activate the bloodline shard. Seraphiel must survive having the blade-shard removed from her heart—which will likely kill her, so that's fun. And you must wake the Forgotten King, convince or coerce him into surrendering his piece, and somehow not die in the process." Malachrae clapped her hands. "Simple, really."
"You're insane."
"I'm helpful." She moved to a shelf, ran fingers over jars containing things Seraphiel didn't want to identify. "I'll tell you how to forge the blade. The ritual, the materials, the incantations. But Nyx..." She turned, expression suddenly serious. "You owe me another price."
Nyx went very still. "What?"
"When the blade is forged, one of you must die to activate it." Malachrae's voice lost all playfulness. "The Eclipse Blade demands a willing sacrifice. It's not just a weapon—it's a contract. Life for death. Mortality for the power to kill immortality. So choose now, which of you is ready to die for revenge?"
Seraphiel stared at Nyx. He stared at the floor as neither spoke.
"Exactly." Malachrae's smile returned, but gentler. Almost sympathetic. "You don't know yet. That's fine. You have time. But eventually, you'll have to choose." She pulled a leather-bound journal from the shelf. "To extract the pieces from your bloodlines, you must perform the Blood-Binding Ritual. It will link your life forces, allow the blade to recognize you as one weapon."
She handed the journal to Nyx.
"Be warned," Malachrae continued. "The ritual binds you completely. You'll share each other's pain. Memories will bleed between you. Emotions will tangle until you can't tell whose are whose. All intimacy. All suffering. No secrets." Her eyes glittered. "Can you handle that level of connection, I wonder? Knowing everything about each other? Every weakness, every shame, every desperate moment?"
Nyx tucked the journal into his coat without answering.
"Lovely chatting with you both." Malachrae walked them to the door. "Do try not to die before you kill the saint. It would be such a waste."
....
They rode in silence for hours.
Seraphiel finally broke the silence. "You didn't have to bring me here. Could've let me die."
Nyx poked the fire with a stick. "Blood pact. You die, I die, remember?"
"Is that the only reason?"
He looked at her across the flames. Really looked. "No."
"Then why?"
Long pause. The fire popped, sending sparks spiraling.
"When Caelum killed my family," Nyx said quietly, "I wanted to die too. Stood at the edge of a cliff, thought about jumping. Figured at least I'd be with them. But then I realized—dying would let Caelum win. He'd have taken everything from me, including my revenge." He tossed the stick into the flames. "Revenge is the only thing that kept me breathing. Still is. So when I saw you walking into that chapel, ready to throw yourself away for a sister who doesn't even remember you..." He shrugged. "I know what you're feeling. That emptiness. That guilt. And I couldn't let you do it alone."
Seraphiel's throat tightened. "Does it ever go away? The emptiness?"
"No." Honest. Brutal. "You just learn to live with it. Build around it. Let it fuel you instead of consume you."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is." A ghost of a smile. "But we're both still here. So it works."
Seraphiel opened her mouth to respond— Screaming. Distant but clear. Multiple voices, raw with terror.
They were on their feet in seconds, weapons drawn.
"That way." Nyx pointed east. Orange glow lighting the sky.
They ran till the village came into view—small, maybe thirty homes. All of them burning.
Royal soldiers wearing Caelum's sigil moved through the chaos methodically. Just executing. Civilians dragged to the village center, nailed to wooden crosses. Men, women, didn't matter. Children crying at their parents' feet.
A banner hung above the carnage: "HARBORING THE ECLIPSE TYRANT = DEATH"
Nyx stopped at the treeline. His face went absolutely cold.
"He's escalating," Seraphiel whispered. "Forcing your hand. Punishing anyone who might've helped you."
"Yeah." Nyx's voice flat. Empty. "I noticed."
A soldier turned, squinting toward their position. His eyes went wide. "THERE! THE TYRANT!"
Fifty soldiers emerged from burning buildings. Blessed armor, holy weapons. All converging on their position.
"Run, Seraphiel." Nyx drew his sword.
She drew her dagger. "No."
"You're still weak from the ritual—"
"I said *no*." She moved beside him. Back-to-back. "We do this together or not at all. Isn't that what you said?"
The soldiers charged. War cries echoing off burning homes.
Nyx glanced back at her. Something almost like pride flickered in those winter eyes.
"Try to keep up, Oracle."