I took a breath that didn't fit right in my chest and stepped back.
Antic ran a hand through his hair like he could scrub the moment away. But it clung to both of us, sticky and bittersweet. He looked away first. I let him.
The bell's echo still vibrated in the bones of the garden walls.
I glanced up. The vines above us didn't sway. The jasmine had stopped blooming.
Something had shifted.
Again.
"...Do you feel that?" I said.
Grin had moved without a sound. He stood now near the archway, hands behind his back, eyes sharp.
"Yes," he said.
Dolly's parasol twitched. "Pressure drop. Magic's tight."
"It's not the council," Grin murmured. "Not just them."
Antic straightened. "Then what?"
I turned toward the far end of the garden path—just as the wind arrived.
It wasn't real wind. Not the kind that carries dust or petals. This wind crept, curling along the stone path like fingers dipped in ink. It didn't blow. It crawled.
And the air—gods, the air. It smelled wrong.
Burnt sage and iron and something too sweet. Like spoiled nectar.
"Elara?" Dolly asked, suddenly on alert. "Is she—?"
"She's inside," Grin said. "She hasn't left the council chamber."
Then—
Bootsteps.
Light. Rhythmic. Not hurried.
A figure rounded the corner through the garden gate.
Orion.
But not the one who stood in the square hours ago.
This Orion moved like his body was borrowed. Like he had to remember how it worked.
His tunic was rumpled. One sleeve torn. The collar askew like someone had tried to pull him out of it and failed.
And his eyes—
His eyes were the wrong kind of calm.
I didn't move. Neither did the others.
"Blind Seer," he said.
His voice sounded normal. Almost.
But the vowels were too round. The edges too clean.
No one calls me that with softness. He did.
And now… he didn't.
He stopped a few paces from me.
The light filtered through his hair, but it didn't catch on him the way it should. Like his outline refused the sun.
"I had a vision," he said. "You were in it."
"Funny," I said, my voice dry. "I don't see."
His smile didn't reach his eyes. "But you know."
Antic stepped forward—not in front of me, not yet. But close enough to make a choice if needed.
"What do you want?" he asked.
Orion blinked slowly. Like a predator trying to remember how to be a boy.
"I want to understand her," he said, eyes flicking to me. "The Seer. The wound the forest chose. She's not what I expected."
The wind curled tighter around my ankles.
"You're not what I expected either," I said.
Something flickered.
For just a breath, his left eye twitched. Like someone yanked a puppet string.
Dolly's parasol dropped.
"Oh," she whispered. "Oh, gods below. Do you see it?"
Grin exhaled. "Not him. Not fully."
Antic's voice dropped to a growl. "Step. Back."
Orion smiled again.
Too wide.
"I'm not here to fight," he said.
But his hand twitched—barely—and the vines behind him shuddered.
Dolly flicked her wrist. A charm blinked to life between her fingers.
"Grin," she said sharply. "That's not possession. That's anchoring."
"She's inside him," Grin muttered. "Rooted deep."
She.
The Nightshade.
I didn't know her face. But I'd heard her whispers in my dreams.
She was the thing that feeds on story from the inside out.
And she wanted me seen.
Wanted me wanted.
Orion turned his face toward me. And that's when I felt it—realized it.
He wasn't looking at me.
He was offering himself to me.
Like a boy caught in a spell.
Like he thought loving me was his idea.
"No Eyes," Antic barked. "Move—"
But Orion lunged.
Not for me.
For Antic.
It happened in a blink.
Antic shoved me sideways, and Orion's palm sliced through the air where my chest had been.
Not a strike. A spell.
It hissed. The vine wall behind us exploded.
"Shit—!" Dolly grabbed me. We hit the dirt hard. Grin was already between us and the fight.
And Antic?
He was on his feet, bleeding from the shoulder, blade drawn.
"No more masks," he snapped.
Orion snarled—and that sound was not a boy's sound.
It was her.
The Nightshade.
The thing riding him like a marionette.
Antic didn't hesitate.
He charged.
Steel met air, sparks flying. The garden lit with flashes of silver and black-green magic. The smell of rot intensified. The plants screamed—I swear they did. Roots split underfoot. Water rippled out of the fountain like it was running away.
I scrambled back as Dolly threw a warding sigil into the soil.
"Antic can't win alone," she shouted.
"He's not alone," Grin growled—and vanished into shadow.
It wasn't enough.
Orion—Nightshade—turned too fast, caught Antic's arm, twisted.
A crack.
Antic screamed.
Then—
He stabbed upward.
Not at the heart. The neck.
Right beneath the jaw, where something fragile hides.
The spell broke.
Orion collapsed.
Dead?
No.
Just empty.
His eyes fluttered. Blinked once.
Then the scream came.
Not from him—from her.
Every tree in the garden shuddered.
The vines retracted.
The rot hissed.
Gone.
Just like that.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Antic fell to his knees.
Blood soaked his side.
I ran to him. Caught him just as he sagged forward.
"I'm fine," he muttered through gritted teeth.
"You're not."
"I will be."
I pressed my hand to the wound. His breath hissed.
"You always ruin moments like this," I whispered.
He smiled, pale. "You love it."
I didn't deny it.
Behind us, Orion stirred.
Groaning.
He looked up—just for a second—and the boy was back.
The real boy.
"I'm sorry," he choked. "I didn't want—she—"
Grin stepped forward. "You've been marked."
Orion shook his head. "No. Worse."
Dolly leaned in. "What's worse than being marked?"
"…Being chosen," he whispered.
And everything started to unravel.
Antic was still bleeding.
Not fast. Not fatal. But steady. Slow.
Like the kind of pain you carry long after the wound forgets it started.
His arm was wrapped in the lining of Grin's cloak now—rushed, crooked, held together by three charms and a prayer. He leaned on me more than he meant to. I didn't say anything. I just let him.
The Council Hall was quieter this time.
Not empty. But watchful.
Twelve robed figures stood behind their chairs—not seated now. No one would sit while the story hissed underfoot.
Elara waited at the center.
She didn't look like she'd slept.
She didn't look like she needed to.
Her gaze landed first on Orion—stumbling behind us, wild-eyed and half-shadowed—and then on me.
Not my face.
My hands.
Covered in Antic's blood.
"What happened?" she asked.
My voice was hoarse. "The Nightshade."
You could feel the silence ripple through the marble.
Like even the walls recognized that name.
"She found a host," Grin said flatly. "And it wasn't subtle."
Orion didn't speak. Didn't lift his eyes. He looked like someone trying to forget what it felt like to be a passenger in his own body.
"She used me," he whispered. "No—she… unmade me."
Dolly's voice was soft. "She wanted you close to the Seer."
I nodded. "She was trying to reroute the thread."
"Make you love her," Antic muttered, spitting blood onto the steps. "Gods, that's classic."
"I didn't," Orion said. "I didn't love her."
He looked at me when he said it.
Not desperate. Not pleading.
Just true.
I didn't answer.
I didn't need to.
The damage wasn't in his feelings.
It was in what she had used them for.
Elara stepped forward. Slowly. Not like a ruler. Like a sister.
She stopped in front of him, close enough that he would've flinched if he were still infected.
But he didn't.
"Why?" she asked.
Orion swallowed hard. "I was already breaking. She just… slipped into the cracks."
Elara reached for his face. Held his jaw gently.
And then—without warning—she slapped him.
The sound rang out like a spell breaking.
No one moved.
Then her voice, barely louder than breath:
"You should've told me."
"I didn't want to bring her into you too."
"Idiot," she said. "She's already here."
My heart skipped.
"What?"
Elara turned, eyes wild. "She's not just anchoring in hosts anymore. She's threading the foundation. Through the walls. Through the council."
"Through the Breath," Grin said grimly. "Of course."
That's when I felt it.
Deep beneath the floor.
A pulse.
No—a heartbeat.
Not mine.
Not human.
Something older.
Rot coiled in lullaby.
The Breath was infected.
"I need the thirteenth seat," I said.
Elara blinked. "What?"
"You said it yourself. The Breath listens through the chair. Through the Seer. If it's listening now, I need to speak directly."
She looked at the council.
They looked back.
Then, without words, they parted.
Twelve robed figures moved back like petals pulled from a dying flower.
And the thirteenth seat waited.
I stepped forward.
Not regal.
Not holy.
Just steady.
Each step felt heavier.
Not from fear.
From story.
I sat.
Closed my eyes.
And whispered, "Let me in."
Inside the Breath
It wasn't a room.
It wasn't a place.
It was roots and voice and memory.
It curled around me like a question.
And behind it—beneath it—she waited.
Not seen.
Not even sensed.
But known.
The Nightshade.
She wasn't clawing yet. But she was watching.
Feeding.
Breathing through cracks in the story she hadn't even made.
"Why me?" I asked.
The Breath didn't answer in words.
It showed me.
A thousand versions of myself.
Dying. Breaking. Choosing.
In every one—I stood.
Sometimes alone.
Sometimes with him.
With them.
But always facing her.
Always refusing.
That was the sin.
That was the reason.
She didn't want to kill me.
She wanted me to fold.
To believe I was written into her hand.
To kiss the rot and call it prophecy.
"No," I said aloud. "You won't have me."
The ground pulsed.
And I heard her laugh.
Not loud.
Just behind the ear. Inside the skin.
Like mold blooming in a forgotten fruit.
And then—Antic's voice.
Faint.
From the real world.
"No Eyes—come back."
Back in the Hall
I gasped.
The throne cut me. Literally. A thorn had pierced my palm.
The chair had grown thorns.
Elara was by my side.
Blood dripped from my fingers.
Dolly was pale. Grin's fists were clenched.
And Antic—
Antic was crouched in front of me.
His forehead pressed to mine.
"You there?" he whispered.
I nodded.
Barely.
"She's in the Breath," I said. "She is the Breath now. Part of it. Wrapped around it."
Grin's voice was hollow. "Then we burn it."
Elara stiffened. "You'd destroy the Breath?"
"No," I murmured. "We cut the rot out."
"How?"
And I answered honestly.
"I don't know. Not yet."
Antic exhaled. "Guess we'd better find out before dusk."
Dolly looked toward the high window.
The light had begun to tilt gold.
Dusk was coming.
And with it—the end of something.
The tower wasn't always a tower.
It used to be a tree.
Old. Wiser than language. It had been hollowed out centuries ago—not by axe or spell, but by time and intent. The council called it the Rootvault now. I didn't like the name. Vaults held things shut.
Roots were meant to grow.
Antic limped beside me. His shoulder pressed mine like punctuation—firm, necessary. Every so often, he'd wince, breath hitching where the Nightshade's thorn had grazed bone. He wouldn't talk about it. So neither did I.
Grin walked ahead, lantern raised, glyph-light curling over the ridges of his fingers. His silence was more pointed now. Weighted. He hadn't said a word since we left the hall. I could feel the magic gathering in him—low and ugly, like smoke that didn't rise.
Dolly brought up the rear, barefoot and wordless for once. Her parasol was gone. She wore no jewelry. Her smile had folded somewhere between here and the council steps, and I didn't know if it would return.
It was just us.
No guards.
No Elara.
The council hadn't followed.
Because this was the part they were afraid of.
This was the part where we walked into the heart of the Breath and asked it to choose.
The stairwell narrowed.
Moss thickened. Bark closed in like ribs.
We reached the inner door—bonewhite, veined with old growth. Grin pressed his palm to it, and it opened with a sigh.
The room inside was dark.
Not black, not blind.
Dark like memory.
Dark like waiting.
Roots lined the walls in spirals, some still twitching faintly, others pulsing with sap like veins. A single stone sat at the center, carved with a shallow basin. It smelled like copper and stormwater.
Antic muttered, "Well. This is cozy."
No one laughed.
I moved first.
To the basin.
It wasn't deep. Maybe elbow-high. Wide enough to cradle a body if you curled tight. Someone had laid cloth inside—old, ceremonial, moss-stained. I touched the edge and felt echoes.
Stories.
So many.
Too many.
Antic came to my side. He glanced down, then at me.
"You're not thinking about lying in that thing, are you?"
"I might not have a choice."
He stared at me.
Then—gently—he reached up and undid the last of his shirt buttons. His collar opened.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"If anyone's going in weird blood tubs, it's me."
"You're still injured."
"I'm always injured."
I stepped in front of him. "You're not taking this from me."
"I'm not taking anything," he said. "I just—"
He stopped.
Then, quieter: "I don't want to watch you bleed for them. Again."
"I'm not bleeding for them," I said. "I'm bleeding for the forest."
Grin finally spoke.
"She's right. The Breath will only listen to her."
Antic looked like he wanted to argue.
But he didn't.
Instead, he held out his hand.
And I took it.
He helped me into the basin.
The cloth was cold. Damp. My skin prickled.
Grin stepped forward and held out a blade.
Not steel.
Not bone.
Thorn.
Still green at the stem.
I took it without flinching.
And I pressed it to my palm.
It bit.
Blood welled instantly—thick, dark, real.
It hit the cloth in fat, heavy drops.
The roots shivered.
All of them.
Dolly stepped closer. Her voice barely audible.
"Say it, No Eyes."
I nodded.
Then, into the dark, I whispered:
"I call the Breath. I call the roots. I call the memory."
Grin added a line. "We name the rot."
Dolly: "We sever the false thread."
Antic's voice, close: "And we choose truth. Even if it breaks us."
The basin trembled.
Light spilled upward from the roots—not gold, not green. Something in-between. A light that tasted like salt and copper.
And then—
The voice came.
Not the Nightshade.
Not yet.
This was the Breath itself.
And it asked:
"Will you trade?"
I didn't understand.
Not at first.
"Will you give what is yours, for what might be saved?"
It wanted sacrifice.
Of course it did.
And then I saw it.
The choice.
It wanted my name.
Not my blood. Not my life.
My name.
The thing tethering me to the gang. To Pecola. To No Eyes. To him.
Antic stepped forward.
He could feel it too.
"I'll give mine," he said.
"No."
"I will," he said. "Take mine instead."
I looked up at him.
His nose was bleeding again.
Small. Red. Honest.
The Blood Truth.
"No," I whispered again. "You'd vanish."
"I'd remember," he said. "I'd still find you. Even without a name."
Tears slid hot down my cheeks.
"I'm not letting you be forgotten."
Then, to the Breath:
"I accept."
And everything broke.