"Didn't you exist before me?" I asked. "I thought the spirit was passed down through a bloodline, only reshaped by the will of a new companion."
"Yes and no. What I was at the beginning did not allow us to grow and change together. Our bond is forming now, in haste, as we try to reclaim the years we lost. The spell meant to separate us was, in truth, an attempt to destroy me. The trinity nearly succeeded. But trying to unmake something already created by Mother Nature is a dangerous endeavor. Everything has its price. If lycanthropy itself is the work of witches, then the origin of companion spirits was torn from the natural order. In Xertonia, wolf spirits dwell, but in other cities you may find bears or lynxes. As it turned out, any attempt to harm one of us causes a surge of darkness. Your mother, though a gifted witch, was far too consumed by matters of the heart in her youth. She had no understanding of what she was doing—nor did her friend. Your grandmother, however, knew exactly how things stood and what price would have to be paid. Yet, out of love for you, she carried that burden like a cross throughout her life."
"And what happened in the end?" I asked quietly.
Kaandor crossed his arms over his chest and straightened. The familiar playfulness vanished from his amber eyes. For the first time, he seemed truly serious—and, perhaps, even… sad.
"They severed our bond, tearing it out by force, believing they had removed it completely. But they failed to notice the thin, nearly imperceptible thread that remained. I was weak, as you were in your infancy, and I could not resist. I barely understood what was happening or why—only that it was wrong, and that I was powerless to change it. Helpless, I believed that when the spell was completed, I would fade into nothingness. I waited for oblivion, for peace. But the dark force born of that unnatural intent created a current. And Darkness accepted me."
Max and I took turns retelling Kaandor's profoundly metaphysical story. Diana sat on the bed with an expression that made it painfully clear: we had lost her. Her mind—untouched by magic and, until recently, preoccupied with nothing more alarming than choosing a prom dress—was grinding under the weight of information she had never asked for. Neither had anyone else in the room. Yet we were all bound by the same thread now, dependent on one another and on the events multiplying around us.
"So what is Darkness, really?" Max asked at last. "A place—or an entity?"
"Neither," Kaandor replied. "And both. It is everything and nothing at once. A counterweight to all we have ever known. The reverse side of existence—one you cannot simply turn away from."
Max's face could be summed up in a single phrase: Max was trying to understand. Conversations with Kaandor always had that effect—leaving you suspended in a fog of questions, starting with why do we even need these reflections on the inverse of balance? and ending with what does any of this have to do with Viola? The discussion was clearly meant to lead somewhere logical, yet there was so little that felt concrete it became exhausting to follow. I couldn't decide whom to be angry with—myself, for failing to grasp it all, or Kaandor, for his remarkable inability to explain things plainly.
"But if everything is as you say," Max pressed on, carefully searching for solid ground beneath us all, "and Darkness doesn't have a defined personality, remaining something more ephemeral—closer to a force of nature or raw energy—then how can you know its intentions? Its thoughts? It doesn't speak, does it?"
His brow creased with genuine effort. Welcome to my everyday life with Kaandor, my friend.
"When I found myself within the Darkness," Kaandor answered calmly, "I became—how should I put it?—a part of it."
That only deepened Max's confusion, and I relayed Kaandor's words to the others.
"Part of the ship, part of the crew," Stas rasped theatrically, doing his best impression of a pirate from some old movie franchise.
I forced a tight smile at his attempt to lighten the mood, marveling at how he managed to stay so composed. Perhaps the secret was simple: unlike Max and me, Stas couldn't see the Dark Companion.
"I was weak and undeveloped, like any spirit torn from its source. Darkness preserved me in the only way available to it. That merging gave me strength, allowed me to continue evolving—to grow. Many of my abilities, in fact, came to me through Darkness. But everything changed when Asya came to it."
"What?" Max and I blurted out in unison, instantly drawing everyone's attention. Stas had to shake me firmly by the shoulders before I stopped staring at Kaandor long enough to translate.
"Wait—so the dream where I was drifting through that dark void… it wasn't a dream at all?"
"No. The remnants of magical power that remained in this body," Kaandor said, gesturing vaguely to encompass all of me, "even after my separation, protected you from the first dose of vampiric venom. Like most humans, you would not have survived the turning. But your true nature resisted its natural enemy. That, however, was not the end of it. Doctor Smirnov continued feeding you his own poison, believing he was helping restrain the beast within you. In truth…"
Kaandor fell silent—whether for dramatic effect or because voicing the truth was genuinely difficult, I couldn't tell. Somewhere deep inside, I had long suspected what Vladimir's "help" had truly cost me. And yet I was afraid to hear it confirmed. I had never liked Vladimir, but he was one of the few who had any understanding of what I truly was.
Any interaction with Doctor Smirnov was a gamble. Mother had risked everything, acting from the best of intentions, binding herself to him in the process. I still felt anger—toward her and father—for hiding the truth from me all those years, for playing their roles while sweeping the dust off their daughter's life, denying themselves the chance at a genuine, carefree happiness, all in the name of dubious theories. And now, one of those dubious theories might not be what it seemed at the start.
"What really happened?" I asked.
"You already know the answer," Kaandor replied, turning to the window. The curtains were drawn only halfway, but the light outside was so bright that nothing beyond the glass was visible. In the reflection, two amber points—Kaandor's eyes—stared back at me, tinged now with sadness. The spirit wrapped his limbs around himself, and for a fleeting moment, he seemed smaller yet somehow more imposing than usual. Memories of what had happened brought him pain—but it was not in the way he spoke, nor in his posture. It was something else. For the first time, I felt the echoes of his emotions in my chest and tried to receive them as they were.
"You'll have to speak this answer for Vladimir's children," I told him.
Kaandor froze, uncertain—an expression I had never seen on him before. It was one thing to put on an air of mystery, to speak boldly, to deliver biting sarcasm as a shield, but quite another to become the bearer of bad news.
I glanced at Stas. Horror flashed in his eyes, cold as ice, settling on the skin and poisoning the soul. This was not how I had wanted the day to end—but they had the right to know. Nervously, Stas sat up straighter, as if searching for a foothold of protection before life rolled over him again like a crushing steamroller.
"Very well," Kaandor inhaled deeply through his nostrils, though I could have sworn he didn't need to breathe. "Since you insist. While administering the vampiric venom, Vladimir was slowly killing Asya."
Max straightened immediately:
"But he didn't kill her!"
"What did he say?" Stas asked his brother, voice sharp.
"He said Kaandor said Dad nearly killed Asya while giving her the venom," Max replied.
"Technically, I didn't say that," Kaandor interjected. "I said Doctor Smirnov was slowly killing Asya."
He paused for a second, and our eyes met: mine, silver-clear in the chill of winter; his, like honey melting into tea.
"And, ultimately," he added, "he did kill her."