Every step was loud.
Bones cracked and crunched beneath their boots, the brittle remains of creatures long forgotten littering the barren ground.
The air was cold enough to burn, the kind of cold that seeped into marrow and refused to leave. Wisps of pale mist slithered across the landscape, twisting in ghostlike spirals, blurring their vision until even the nearest shadows seemed stretched and warped.
Somewhere in that silence, whispers stirred. They weren't the whispers of the living—no, these were thin, echoing voices that slipped in and out of the mind like threads of smoke. The abandoned and banished celestial beings of this realm, perhaps, wandering without form or face. They moved carefully, those whispers, circling the intruders with unseen curiosity.
Gerald walked ahead, calm as though the crunch of dead bones and the watchful presence of ancient, unseen eyes were nothing more than a casual stroll. His expression was maddeningly relaxed, every movement deliberate. He didn't so much as flinch when a shadow darted in the mist beside him.
Siren followed closely, his own face set into determination, though his hand remained near the hilt of the blade strapped to his hip. His younger brother's life—Blue's life—depended on finding this mysterious "friend" Gerald had promised.
Winter trailed at the rear, every instinct screaming at her that they should not be here. She had grown up hearing tales of the Banished Realm, of how the Vards—gods in their cold, unyielding judgment—had sealed away those who dared to touch the black veins of dark magic. No mortal or celestial had entered willingly in thousands of years.
Yet here she was.
Every time doubt began to gnaw at her, she thought of Blue—his eyes, the sound of his voice, the way his presence could fill a space and steady her breathing. She thought of him lost, alone, perhaps in danger, and her steps hardened. Fear was no longer enough to turn her back.
Gerald stopped abruptly. The crunch beneath his boots ceased, and the echo of it faded into the mist.
Siren halted just behind him, eyes narrowing. "What is it?"
"We're here." Gerald's voice was quiet but certain, carrying a weight that made the air feel even heavier.
Winter and Siren looked around. The fog thinned just enough to reveal a small, hunched silhouette a few paces ahead—a hut.
If it could be called that.
It looked ancient, its wooden frame warped with age and rot, its roof sagging like a dying thing. The door hung crooked on rusted hinges. The whole structure seemed as though a strong wind—or even a sharp breath—could send it collapsing into dust.
"This… is it?" Winter's voice was barely above a whisper. "Is this friend of yours… a witch?"
Gerald chuckled, a low sound that held an edge of nostalgia. "Not exactly." His gaze softened in a way Winter rarely saw from him. Without another word, he strode forward and pushed the door open as though he'd done so a thousand times before.
Winter and Siren exchanged a look—half doubt, half warning—before stepping after him.
The moment they crossed the threshold, something invisible pressed against their skin. A faint shimmer in the air enveloped each of them—the natural protective bubbles that their celestial blood summoned in the presence of danger.
Inside, the hut defied its exterior. It was… bigger. Much bigger.
The darkness within was thick, swallowing the edges of the room. A strange green mist hovered in the air, unmoving, like a watchful sentinel. The walls were lined with skulls—human, animal, and others that belonged to no creature Winter could name. They hung like macabre paintings, hollow eyes fixed on the intruders.
The floorboards creaked beneath their weight. Somewhere in the shadows, something moved, slow and deliberate.
Then he stepped into view.
Veyran.
Tall, draped in a dark robe stitched with silver threads that shimmered faintly in the green light. His hair, black as the void between stars, fell loosely around his sharp face. His skin was pale, almost translucent, as though it had never felt the touch of sunlight. His eyes—deep, cold, and a shade of metallic gray—regarded them like a predator assessing prey.
"Gerald." His voice was low, resonant, the kind that could linger in a person's mind long after it was heard. "You bring strangers into my den?"
"They're not strangers to me," Gerald replied without flinching. "And they need your help."
Veyran's gaze slid over Siren, then Winter, pausing on her just long enough to make her protective bubble flare faintly. He smirked. "Help? That is not a word often spoken here."
Siren stepped forward, unafraid. "We're looking for someone. My brother. His name is Blue. He's—"
"—in a place you cannot reach." Veyran's interruption was smooth, confident, and unnervingly certain.
Winter's breath caught. "You know where he is?"
"I know… enough," Veyran said, and when he smiled this time, there was nothing friendly about it. "But knowledge has a price."
Veyran didn't wait for their answer. He turned his back to them and moved toward a low table in the corner, where black candles burned with a flame that did not flicker. The air thickened as he approached, the green mist gathering around him as though drawn by some unseen force.
"You want me to find him," Veyran said without looking back. "You want me to reach through the threads of the worlds and pluck his name from the void. But the void doesn't give freely."
Siren's jaw clenched. "Name your price."
Veyran's slow, cold smile returned. "You speak as if you understand what you're offering." He picked up a blade—long, thin, and curved—and let the candlelight run along its surface. "The Banished Realm is built on exchange. To see, something must be unseen. To touch, something must be untouchable. To find someone… someone else must be lost."
Winter took a step forward, her voice tight. "We don't have time for riddles."
He looked at her then, and for the first time, the weight of his gaze felt like it could crush bones. "And yet, without the riddle, the truth would kill you faster."
Gerald moved closer to the table. "Veyran. Stop playing."
Veyran studied him for a long moment, something unspoken passing between them. Finally, he sighed. "Very well. I'll take no life from you. But you will give me a piece of yourselves. A memory. A good one. Something you would never want to forget."
The room seemed to tilt. Even Gerald tensed.
"That's the price?" Winter asked carefully.
"Memories are worth more than gold," Veyran said, already setting out strange objects across the table—black stones, a vial of liquid that moved like mercury, a piece of bone carved with symbols. "A good one can feed the magic for years."
They hesitated.
Siren broke the silence. "Fine. Take it."
Winter shot him a look, but Veyran was already motioning for them to come closer. "Place your hands on the table. All three of you."
The wood was cold beneath their palms, colder than the air. Veyran began to murmur in a language none of them understood, his voice weaving through the green mist like a living thing. The candles burned brighter, the flames stretching unnaturally tall.
The floor trembled. The skulls on the walls rattled in their places.
Then Veyran's eyes snapped open, glowing with a silver light that made the green mist recoil. "Show me," he whispered, though it wasn't clear if he was speaking to them or to something else.
The liquid in the vial began to swirl, faster and faster, until it formed a whirlpool without spilling over. Within the spiral, images began to take shape—blurry at first, then sharp.
A desolate plain.
Sky the color of bruised steel.
Structures rising in the distance like the bones of dead titans.
And there—Blue.
He walked among what looked like humans, but their eyes… their eyes burned faintly red when they thought no one was looking. Their smiles were too sharp, their movements too precise.
Winter's hand trembled. "He's alive."
"For now," Veyran said, his voice like a blade sliding between ribs. "But he walks in a place where the gods hold no dominion. That realm is older than your heavens, and it answers only to blood and shadow. You call them humans—but the witches and demons there have worn human skins for centuries."
Siren's face darkened. "Tell us how to get there."
Veyran's smile returned, slow and cruel. "You think walking into that place will save him? That realm swallows heroes whole and spits out bones. If you go, you'll either be dead or worse."
Winter's voice hardened. "We're going."
The candles flickered, as if reacting to her defiance.
For the first time, Veyran's gaze softened—not with kindness, but with something like interest. "Then you will need a key."
He turned to a cabinet in the shadows, unlocked it with a twist of his fingers, and pulled out a shard of something that looked like crystal—but it pulsed faintly, like a beating heart.
"This," he said, holding it up so the silver veins inside caught the light, "is the only thing that can open the veil between worlds. Touch it carelessly, and it will devour your soul before you take your first step through."
Winter reached for it, but he pulled it back. "Not yet. The path is not open. I'll send you when it is—but when that moment comes, you won't have long. Once you step into his world, the veil will close. You will be trapped there until you find another way out."
Siren's voice was steady. "Then we'll find one."
Veyran studied him, then Gerald, then Winter, as though measuring the truth in their words. Finally, he placed the shard on the table between them.
"Very well. But remember—once you cross, the realm will know you don't belong. And it will come for you."
The silver light faded from his eyes, and the green mist settled once more into its watchful stillness.
Gerald picked up the shard, its cold seeping instantly into his palm. "Then we'd better be ready."
Somewhere outside, a long, low howl echoed through the mist, and for a moment, Winter thought she saw the shadows move against the hut's walls—shadows with shapes that were not human.
Veyran's voice cut through the silence. "You have until the next moonrise. After that… Blue's fate will no longer be in your hands."
Blue's Pov
The sunlight is loud.
I don't care if that doesn't make sense — it's loud, like it's mocking me for being alive when I shouldn't be.
I've lived through centuries where battles raged under skies that bled red, where blades sang in my ears, and yet… this thin strip of morning light cutting across my room feels heavier than any sword. It falls right across my face, and I swear it's doing it on purpose.
I'm slow to move. My body protests in every language pain knows. My ribs ache with each breath, my left shoulder grinds when I shift, and there's a deep throb behind my eyes that pulses with the beat of my heart. The bandage Lacey wrapped around my head itches, but the smell of ointment lingers and keeps me still.
Lacey comes in with a tray — she sets it down like I'm made of glass, like the wrong sound will shatter me. She fusses over the blanket, pretending not to look at the fading bruises peeking above my collar. Robert already checked on me twice before leaving for work, the kind of checking that lingers too long on my face, like he's reading something he doesn't understand.
It should feel nice. It should feel safe.
Instead, it makes me restless.
I can't stay home.
Not because I'm eager to see that smug bastard again — but because hiding would be an admission, and I'm not giving Grey the satisfaction.
---
The walk to school is quiet, but the air feels different today.
There's a shift — not wind, not temperature — something heavier. My senses are dulled compared to before, yet my instincts still hum when eyes are on me.
And there are plenty.
I step through the gate, and conversations dip for just a second before resuming with that practiced casualness people wear when they're desperate to seem like they're not staring.
Shane is waiting just inside the courtyard. She's perched on the edge of the low wall, swinging her legs like she's been here a while. The moment her eyes land on me, her face splits into a grin that's far too bright for the morning.
"You're alive!" she calls, hopping down. "Well, obviously, but—damn, you look like hell."
"Good morning to you too," I say flatly, brushing past her.
She matches my pace without missing a beat. "You're welcome, by the way. If I hadn't—"
"I didn't ask you to."
That makes her pause for half a heartbeat, but she recovers fast, smirking like she just decided on something. "So that's how it is? You're one of those 'I'm too mysterious to say thank you' types. That's fine. I'll accept gratitude in… other forms. Coffee. Sandwiches. Carrying my bag for the rest of the semester—"
"Not carrying your bag."
"You will." Her tone is so sure it almost makes me stop walking.
---
The first sight of him comes earlier than I expected.
The hallway stretches ahead, crowded with students milling about before class. But even in the noise, in the movement, there's a still point at the far end. Grey leans against the lockers like the building was built for him to lean on, one boot crossed over the other, a cigarette between his fingers despite the no-smoking signs plastered everywhere.
His friends are spread out around him like shadows, pretending to talk but scanning the hallway the way predators watch an open field.
Our eyes lock.
It's not a glare.
It's worse.
It's a calm look that says, You're still standing. Good. That means I get to try again.
Shane's steps falter. "Maybe—"
I keep walking.
The crowd shifts, parting just enough for me to pass through. When I'm close enough to smell the faint trace of his cigarette and that same lavender-sandalwood scent, he exhales smoke and says, "Morning, maiden."
I stop two feet from him. My voice is steady. "Find another hobby."
The corner of his mouth lifts, almost a laugh. "You've got fight in you. I like that."
"I don't care what you like."
A muscle jumps in his jaw. His friends exchange glances, like they're waiting for the spark to catch. But Grey just tilts his head, eyes never leaving mine, and says, "We'll see."
Shane tugs my sleeve hard enough to make me glance at her. Her eyes are wide, but I shake her off and walk away first.
---
Class drags.
Not because of the work — I don't even listen — but because Shane is relentless. She passes me notes with doodles of Grey's face covered in devil horns. She kicks my chair when she's bored. She leans so far into my space I can feel the warmth of her hair against my arm.
And yet… between her noise, there are moments when she studies me quietly. Like she's searching for something I'm not showing.
By lunch, I'm almost relieved when she finally says what she's been holding in.
"You know," she says, chewing a sandwich like she's telling me the weather, "most people who get on Grey's bad side don't show up the next day. Or the day after. Or, you know… ever."
"I'm not most people."
Her gaze sharpens just slightly. "No, you're not. But you should know… he's not done with you."
I glance at her. "And you care because…?"
She grins, crumbs still on her lip. "Because you're interesting. And I want to see how this ends."
---
When the final bell rings, I think I've made it through the day.
I'm wrong.
The air outside the school is cooler, but there's a weight to it. I spot him instantly — Grey leaning against the fence like he's been waiting all day, hands in his pockets, his friends spread out behind him. They're not talking. They're just… there. Watching.
Shane freezes beside me. "Want me to—"
"No."
I walk past him without slowing. He lets me.
But as I pass, his voice follows, low and steady. "You'll break eventually, Blue. I'll make sure of it."
My steps don't falter. I don't look back.
But the coil in my chest tightens.
---
later that night
The house is quiet.
Too quiet.
Lacey went to bed early, muttering something about a headache. Robert's still out — probably working late again. The only sounds are the ticking of the clock in the living room and the occasional groan of old floorboards shifting under the cool night air.
I should be sleeping. My body demands it — every bruise aches with a dull, throbbing rhythm, and my head feels heavy enough to sink into the pillow and never resurface.
But sleep won't come.
Grey's voice is still in my ears.
You'll break eventually, Blue. I'll make sure of it.
It's not just the words. It's the way he said them — not as a threat shouted in rage, but as a quiet promise. Like a man already certain he'll get what he wants.
It's… irritating.
Dangerous.
Familiar.
---
I sit at the edge of my bed, staring at the faint outline of the bruises on my knuckles. My fingers curl into fists automatically. I should have fought harder in that alley. Should have left him with something to remember.
But the truth is… I couldn't.
Not the way I am now.
The old me — the real me — would have had them on the ground in seconds, broken, begging.
Now, I'm just another mortal in his eyes.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
---
Something shifts outside my window.
A shadow across the street, too tall and still to be a branch swaying in the breeze. I move to the curtain, pulling it back just enough to peer through.
Nothing. Just the dim yellow glow of the streetlamp.
But for a second, I swear I catch a faint curl of smoke dissipating into the air.
---
I don't sleep until well past midnight.
---
Morning – The Next Day
Lacey hovers again, fussing over the bandage and asking if I'm sure I should go to school. I don't tell her the truth — that staying home would feel like hiding, and hiding is the same as losing.
When I get to the gate, Shane's there again, sitting cross-legged on the low wall with a half-eaten bun in her hands.
"You're late," she says through a mouthful of bread.
"I'm not late."
"You are if I say you are." She hops down, walking backward in front of me. "You didn't call me last night. Rude."
"Why would I?"
She shrugs. "You could have thanked me for saving your sorry ass again. Or told me your tragic backstory. Or, I don't know, admitted you're a vampire and promised to bite me."
I stop walking. "You're insane."
Her grin widens. "And you're still here. Which means you didn't listen to me yesterday when I told you Grey's not done with you."
"I'm not done with him either."
That makes her blink. And for once, she has no quick reply.
---
Grey shows up before the first bell. Not in the hallway this time — outside, in the open courtyard, where everyone can see him.
It's subtle, but I notice the shift in the crowd. Students linger at the edges, pretending to be busy, but their eyes keep sliding toward us like they're waiting for a show.
He stands with that same lazy posture, cigarette in hand, like he's got all the time in the world. His friends are nearby, but not close enough to crowd him.
His eyes find me instantly.
I don't break the stare as I walk past.
This time, he steps into my path.
"Morning," he says, voice low but carrying in the hush that's fallen over the courtyard. "Sleep well?"
I glance down at the cigarette between his fingers. "I don't breathe in smoke from garbage."
There's a flicker in his expression — brief, almost amused. "Still got that mouth. I like that."
"Stop liking things about me."
"Can't."
The way he says it — casual, certain — sends a small, unwelcome jolt through me. Not attraction. Not fear. Something… more dangerous.
Shane appears at my side, slipping between us like she owns the space. "Move along, Proud Head," she says sweetly. "You've harassed my friend enough for one morning."
His eyes cut to her, then back to me, and he smirks. "Friend, huh?"
I don't answer.
I just walk past, Shane following close.
But I can feel his gaze burning between my shoulder blades until I turn the corner.
---