The ichor boss moved with unnatural grace, limbs stretching long and liquid, its faceless head tilting as if it could see every heartbeat, every thought. Black fire dripped from the crown of its skull, sizzling faintly as it struck the Rift floor. The air itself seemed to tremble under its weight, walls bending, shadows warping, reality shivering like fragile glass.
I didn't wait. My hands tightened on my blade, flames roaring to life along the steel, coiling up my arms like a living thing. The air hissed around me as I lunged, fire slicing in a blazing arc meant to strike the creature's chest. But it was fast—impossibly fast.
Its hand, skeletal, dripping with ichor, snapped out and caught my flaming blade. The fire screamed against the cold, unnatural substance. Pain shot up my arms as the boss shoved me back, sending me sprawling across the slick, ichor-streaked floor. I hit hard, ribs cracking against stone, and tasted copper in my mouth. Blood mingled with the metallic tang of the Rift.
Lysander was already moving. His silver fire erupted like a storm, sword blurring with every strike, slicing chunks of the ichor boss that splattered the Rift floor as black sludge, only to have the fragments slither and rejoin, mocking our efforts.
"Damn it!" I shouted, spitting blood, fire flickering along my veins. "It keeps regenerating!"
"Then we cut faster than it can heal!" Lysander snarled, teeth gritted, voice edged with something inhuman, wild and desperate. The silver fire along his blade burned bright, but streaked now with black, pulsing with the stain I had feared. Each strike felt like the bond between us was straining under too much weight, beating too fast, too erratic.
The Rift whispered through the boss, low and cruel. "He belongs. Give him to us, and burn together."
I clenched my teeth, forcing fire through my veins like liquid steel. Flames lashed outward, striking the boss's chest, exploding in molten fury. For a heartbeat, the ichor's regeneration faltered, the body cracking like brittle glass.
"Now, Lysander!" I screamed, voice raw.
He roared, silver fire colliding with mine in a storm of flame, and his sword struck true. The boss shrieked, a sound like metal tearing inside a furnace, ichor sputtering in every direction, but it was far from over.
The bond pulsed violently. I could feel Lysander's fire jerking against the black veins, his body trembling under the ichor's grip. My chest ached as I pushed my own flames into him, weaving them like threads of molten steel into the storm of his fire. Pain stabbed through me—ribs screaming, blood burning—but I wouldn't release him.
He's mine, I thought, and I won't lose him. Not here. Not now.
The ichor boss split, dozens of whip-like limbs lashing outward. One slammed into me, hurling me across the floor. My head cracked against stone, white-hot stars dancing behind my eyes. I gasped, fire lashing back instinctively to protect me, warmth searing my skin even as pain lanced through every nerve.
When my vision cleared, Lysander had moved, standing tall in the center of the Rift, his silver fire flaring bright, streaks of black coiling through it like poisoned veins. His blade glowed with the twin flames of silver and darkness, twisting and writhing as if alive.
And then he smiled—not cruelly, not like before—but ragged, sharp, alive.
"Together, you said?" His voice hoarse, steady, edges raw with determination. "Then burn with me."
The bond roared in response. My fire exploded from my chest, latching onto his. Silver and orange collided, weaving into a storm that shook the Rift, heat and light mingling with the acrid smell of burning ichor.
The boss lunged. We moved as one. Silver met orange in a dance of fire and steel, devouring ichor in a united blaze. The creature screamed, faceless head cracking, splitting, collapsing under the force of our strike.
The Rift shuddered. Walls buckled. The orb at the center shattered, fragments dissolving into ash. Silence followed, thick and heavy, but the bond between us didn't quiet. It burned hotter, harder, too fast, too much.
Lysander dropped to his knees, hand clutching his chest, veins pulsing black beneath the surface. His breath came in ragged gasps.
"Aria…" His voice cracked. "If I… if I turn—"
I collapsed beside him, forehead pressed to his, fire wrapping tighter around us both. "Then I'll drag you back. Even if it kills me," I whispered, voice raw with desperation and iron resolve.
The Watcher's voice cut through the quiet, colder than the Rift itself. "Subject 001 remains unstable. Observation continues. Adjustment—pending."
The ground trembled. The Rift groaned, beginning to collapse. I hauled Lysander to his feet, fire flaring along his veins, tethering him to me.
We stumbled out as the walls shattered around us. Ruin awaited, but we were still alive—together, bound by fire, silver, and unbroken defiance.
The ichor boss shivered, broken but far from defeated. Its faceless head tilted, black fire dripping like molten oil, limbs stretching further as if mocking the laws of the Rift itself. Even half-destroyed, it pulsed with malevolent life.
I staggered back, fire sputtering from my veins, sweat stinging my eyes, lungs burning. The acrid smell of ichor filled my nostrils, hot and metallic, clinging to my skin. I could feel it—the stain inside Lysander pulsing, feeding, whispering through him like a parasite seeking dominance.
"Aria…" His voice trembled, silver fire flaring weakly. Black veins snaked under his skin, twisting and writhing with every heartbeat. "If I… if I lose myself—"
"Shut up!" I screamed, fire coiling around him, latching, burning, tethering. Pain stabbed me like knives beneath my ribs, my blood sizzling under the heat of our bond, but I didn't let go. Not now. Not ever.
The Watcher's presence pressed against our minds again, sharp and cold, probing, judging. Its voice wasn't just in the air—it carved directly into thought. "Subject 001—stabilizing. Further resistance: unnecessary."
The Rift responded. The ichor surged like a tide, black sludge wrapping around Lysander's legs, climbing his torso, threading into his arm. He slashed, silver fire screaming from the blade, burning some away—but it clung, black veins spreading like wildfire.
I pressed closer, fire from my chest spilling into his, threading through the stain, pulling, searing, tethering him to himself. Pain tore across my body, every nerve aflame, lungs heaving with each desperate breath.
You're not leaving me here. Not now. Not ever. I forced the thought into every thread of the bond, and for a moment, I felt it—Lysander's storm of fire stabilizing, flickering but still alive.
The boss lunged, dozens of arms whipping outward like dark whips, each strike a roaring force of ichor and malice. One slammed into me, throwing me across the Rift again. My head cracked against stone, white-hot stars dancing behind my eyes, taste of blood and smoke in my mouth.
When I rose, Lysander was at my side, still burning, still defiant. His silver fire streaked with black, wild and untamed, but his gaze found mine, sharp and alive, ragged determination written across every line of his face.
"Together," he rasped. The word carried steel and fire. "You said together."
The bond ignited, a storm of silver and orange fire, colliding, wrapping, tethering. Flames poured from my chest into him, and his fire answered, burning in twin streams, feeding one another. Pain lanced through my body, burning ribs, blistering skin, but I held tight, screaming defiance into the abyss.
The ichor boss shrieked, faceless, splintering into dozens of arms that lashed outward. But our combined fire cut through, devouring ichor in waves, light piercing shadow, heat searing cold. Its regeneration faltered, pieces cracking and disintegrating, smoke hissing as it dissolved.
The Rift groaned, trembling as if reality itself feared the force we had unleashed. The orb at its center shattered into fragments of molten shadow, disappearing in ash, leaving only the echo of its darkness behind.
Silence followed. Thick, heavy, but the bond didn't quiet. It burned hotter, erratic, alive with every heartbeat. Lysander collapsed to his knees, clutching his chest, black veins writhing beneath the surface, breath ragged.
"Aria…" His voice cracked, raw with pain and fear. "If I… if I turn—"
I pressed my forehead to his, flames weaving tighter, fire searing my own flesh. "Then I'll drag you back. Even if it kills me," I whispered, steel threaded through every syllable. My heart hammered in sync with the bond, with the fire, with him.
The Watcher's voice cut through the quiet, colder than any shadow. "Subject 001 remains unstable. Observation continues. Adjustment—pending."
The Rift shivered, trembling, beginning to collapse. Rocks cracked and fell, ichor sizzling as it hit the ground, and the walls bent like molten wax. I wrapped an arm around Lysander, hauling him up. His silver fire flickered weak, the stain still pulsing beneath, but my flames burned alongside his, tethering, guiding, holding him together.
We stumbled toward the exit, Rift crumbling behind us, air thick with heat, smoke, and the metallic tang of destruction. Every step was a battle, every breath a victory, but we moved as one.
When the ruins opened up before us, the Rift finally collapsed into a smoking crater, echoing its fury into the night. We fell onto the jagged stone, gasping, fire still clinging to our veins, the bond screaming, alive, burning, refusing to die.
Lysander's chest heaved, silver fire flickering faintly, black veins pulsing but contained. He looked at me, eyes ragged but alive, a grim, ragged smile curving his lips.
"Together," he whispered again, voice hoarse, a thread of humor threading through exhaustion.
"Together," I echoed, fire still spiraling around us, tethered in flame and unbroken defiance.
Even as silence settled, the Watcher lingered in the shadows, its observation cutting sharper than any blade, a reminder: this fight was over, but the war had only begun.