The world slammed back into me with dirt, dust, and the acrid stench of burnt metal. My body skidded across jagged stone, each shard biting through fabric and flesh, pain shuddering through every bone like a drumbeat in my chest. For a moment, I couldn't breathe; my lungs felt as if they had ignited, fire crawling up my throat, my vision swimming with stars and smoke.
Then I heard him.
A ragged gasp, a curse spat through clenched teeth.
"Lysander!" My voice tore itself from my chest, raw, hoarse, desperate. I forced my body upright, ribs screaming, hands scraped raw from the rubble, dirt ground into my nails. The Rift had spit us out into what was left of the city. Nothing looked the same. Towers that had once jutted crookedly into the sky now lay flattened into jagged wrecks. Streets were torn open, chasms yawning wide enough to swallow buildings whole. The smell of ash, ichor, and twisted metal filled my nose, suffocating, bitter, and unrelenting.
And there he was.
Lysander was on one knee, one hand clutching his chest, the other digging into the broken earth as if to anchor himself to reality. His sword lay beside him, its silver fire sputtering weakly, flickering like a dying heartbeat. But my eyes didn't linger on the weapon—they traced the black veins pulsing across his skin. Thick, crawling lines inked from his heart to his fingertips, burning under his skin like molten corruption.
I staggered toward him, my legs trembling, every step a scream from my battered body. Dropping to my knees, I grabbed his shoulders, shaking him just enough to catch his gaze. "Stay with me. Look at me, Lysander."
His head snapped up. One eye burned silver, steady and bright. The other… black. Black flame writhed where his iris should have been, swallowing light instead of reflecting it. My stomach twisted, bile rising in my throat.
"I'm fine," he rasped, voice low, hoarse, defensive too fast, too sharp.
"You're not," I shot back, pressing my hands harder to his shoulders. My fire licked at my palms instinctively, hissing, trying to crawl into him, burn through the corruption. But this time, the ichor didn't flinch. It clung deeper, drinking my flames like water, mocking my effort.
Lysander shuddered, but not from pain. From restraint. "Stop. You'll burn yourself out."
I wanted to scream, to shake him violently, to tell him he was lying through his teeth. But the bond pulsed between us, thrumming erratic, a thread I couldn't untangle. His emotions spilled into me like spilled ink—rage, exhaustion, and something darker, sharper. A knife twisting in my chest.
A whisper brushed my ear. Not mechanical like the Watcher, not the cold cadence of the System—softer, seductive, chilling.
"He belongs to the Rift now."
I snapped my head around. Nothing. Just rubble, shadows stretching long and jagged across the ruins.
Lysander caught my movement, his corrupted eye narrowing. "What did you hear?"
I froze. The fact that he'd asked meant he'd heard it too.
"Voices," I admitted, voice low. "Yours?"
He nodded once, jaw tight, the veins in his neck pulsing black under his skin. "They don't shut up."
Silence fell heavy, broken only by the distant groan of collapsing stone. Then he laughed—low, bitter, not him, the sound scraping against the edges of my mind.
I grabbed his face, forcing him to meet my gaze. "Don't you dare let it in. You hear me? I don't care if it whispers, screams, or sings—you are not theirs."
For a fraction of a second, the black flame in his eye dimmed. His hand rose, trembling, rough, and covered mine.
"You think you can hold me together forever?"
"Yes," I hissed, teeth gritted. "Even if it kills me."
The bond convulsed violently, my chest aching as if my heart had ceased to belong to me. Black and silver fire sparked, clashing inside him. I saw him then—really saw him—fighting, refusing to fall despite the ichor gnawing at his veins.
The Watcher's voice cut through the charged moment, cold and mechanical. "Subject 001 unstable. Progression: accelerating. Monitoring continues. Subject 002 interference: noted."
My blood ran cold. They were watching me now, too.
Lysander's gaze shifted, black flame locking onto mine with intensity that wasn't fully his own. "Aria… if the Watcher marks you—"
"Then let them," I spat. "I'll burn them too."
For the first time since the Rift, he smiled—not broken, not cruel, just him. Sharp. Alive. Infuriating.
"You're insane."
I leaned closer, forehead pressing to his. "Good. It means we match."
For a single heartbeat, the bond steadied. The ichor didn't vanish, but it stopped spreading. His breath came shakily, the tension in his muscles easing just enough to let me feel his presence.
But deep down, I knew. The ichor wasn't gone. It was waiting, biding its time. And next time, it might take him faster than I could drag him back.
The world slammed back into me with a violent jolt—dust and grit scraping across my skin, the acrid stench of burnt metal burning my nostrils. My body skidded across broken stone, ribs screaming, muscles trembling. Stars danced in my vision, and for a heartbeat, I couldn't breathe. Every inhale burned like fire.
And then I heard him.
A ragged gasp, raw and strained, followed by a curse spat through clenched teeth.
"Lysander!" I forced myself upright, ribs threatening mutiny, hands scraped and bleeding from gripping the jagged rubble beneath me. The Rift had expelled us back into the ruins, but the city was unrecognizable. Towers that had once loomed crookedly now lay flattened, streets torn open into yawning chasms, swallowing debris whole.
And there he was.
Lysander was on one knee, one hand clutching his chest, the other clawing at the shattered ground, his blade flickering weakly beside him. The silver light that usually radiated from it was faint, almost reluctant, black threads coiling through it like veins of corruption.
But it was his veins that made my stomach twist. Thick, black streaks crawled across his skin from heart to fingertips, like inky rivers devouring his flesh. Not streaked, not subtle—they were alive, writhing, and hungry.
I staggered to him, falling to my knees, hands trembling as I grasped his shoulders. "Stay with me. Look at me, Lysander."
His head snapped upward. One eye still burned silver, steady and bright, but the other—oh, the other—was a void. Black flame writhed and danced where his iris should have been, consuming the light instead of reflecting it.
I swallowed hard, panic twisting my stomach. "I'm not going to let you fall," I whispered, more to myself than to him. But the bond flared violently in response, answering me with a roar of fear, pain, and unspoken longing.
"I'm fine," he rasped, voice low, rough, hoarse. Too defensive. Too quick.
"You're not," I snapped, hands pressing against his shoulders, fire licking up my palms, weaving into him. I tried to burn away the corruption, to wrest the ichor from his veins—but this time, it wasn't just stubborn. It resisted. Drinking my fire like water, twisting it into black smoke that curled up his arm.
He shuddered—not from pain, but from restraint. "Stop. You'll burn yourself out."
I wanted to scream. Shake him. Tell him he was lying through his teeth. But the bond throbbed again, a pulse too strong, too erratic, a thread I couldn't untangle. His emotions bled into me, inky and raw: rage, exhaustion, and something darker… hungry.
"He belongs to the Rift now," a whisper brushed my ear. Not the Watcher. Not mechanical. Softer. Almost seductive.
I snapped my head around, heart hammering. Shadows and rubble greeted me, nothing else.
Lysander caught my movement, his corrupted eye narrowing. "What did you hear?"
I froze. His question—his tone—meant he heard it too.
"Voices," I admitted softly. "Yours?"
He nodded once, jaw tight, teeth clenched. "They don't shut up."
Silence stretched like a rope pulled taut, broken only by distant groans of collapsing concrete and twisted metal. Then came his laugh. Low. Bitter. Not him.
I grabbed his face, forcing him to look at me. "Don't you dare let it in, Lysander. You hear me? I don't care if it whispers, screams, or sings—you are not theirs."
For a second, just a second, the black flame in his eye dimmed. His hand rose, covering mine, rough, trembling, but steady enough to anchor me.
"You think you can hold me together forever?" he asked, voice hoarse, raw.
"Yes," I hissed. "Even if it kills me."
The bond pulsed violently, throbbing in my chest like a second heartbeat. His fire sparked against mine—black and silver colliding, chaotic, alive. And I saw it then. Saw him fight. Really fight. Saw the man beneath the ichor refusing to break.
Then the Watcher's voice cut through the tension like a blade:
"Subject 001 unstable. Progression: accelerating. Monitoring continues. Subject 002 interference: noted."
Cold. Calculating. Mechanized. The voice left no room for argument. My blood ran ice-cold. They were watching me too, now.
The momentary calm shattered, but Lysander's gaze locked on me, his corrupted eye a furnace of desperation and raw will. "Aria… if the Watcher marks you—"
"Then let them," I spat, fire crawling across my skin, ready to ignite. "I'll burn them too."
And for the first time since the Rift, he smiled. Not broken. Not corrupted. Him. Sharp. Infuriating. Alive.
"You're insane," he muttered.
I leaned closer, forehead pressing to his. "Good. It means we match."
The bond steadied—just for that breath. The ichor didn't vanish, but it paused, waiting, simmering. Lysander exhaled shakily, loosening his grip. But deep down, I knew.
The ichor wasn't gone. It was waiting. Growing. And next time… next time, I might not be able to pull him back.
The ruins were silent now, but silence had a weight heavier than any scream. Dust hung thick in the air, coating my throat, stinging my eyes. The acrid tang of burned ichor lingered, clinging to my skin, to my hair, to my clothes. Each breath was a reminder: the battle was over, yet nothing was truly safe.
I helped Lysander to his feet, one arm over my shoulder, the other wrapped around his waist. His silver fire flickered weakly, a pale ghost of the storm it had been. The black veins under his skin pulsed slowly, almost lazily—but I knew better. It was biding its time, tasting the residual heat of the Rift.
I forced my own fire to simmer, reluctant, wary. Every flicker I let loose might feed the ichor instead of burning it. The bond hummed between us, frayed threads snapping and knitting together, wild, unpredictable, a reflection of Lysander's fractured state.
"It's not gone, is it?" I asked softly, voice barely more than a whisper.
He shook his head, lips pressed tight. One hand pressed against his chest, fingers digging into himself as if the black veins were something tangible he could claw out. "No. It waits… it learns. Every fight, every strike… it adapts. The Rift, the ichor, the Watcher—they watch too."
I swallowed hard, tasting blood and ash. The truth pressed against my chest like a stone: they were not done with us. Not even close.
I crouched beside him, eyes scanning the ruined horizon. The city that had been a battleground of fire and shadow was quiet now, but quiet meant nothing. The fissures in the streets whispered of collapse. The skeletal remains of buildings groaned, threatening to fall with the slightest provocation. And somewhere, deep beneath, the ichor remained, a memory of the Rift itself, waiting to resurface.
"You held it back. Together, you were enough." I said, trying to anchor myself in that truth. "But the ichor—whatever's inside you—it's patient. It's smarter than we think."
Lysander exhaled sharply, silver fire flickering weakly around his shoulders. "Patience," he muttered, voice low, more to himself than to me. "It has… a long memory. And it doesn't forget." His gaze drifted toward the horizon, as though he could see the next threat emerging before it even arrived. "The Watcher… the Tier rankings… it won't leave us alone. Subject 001, Subject 002… whatever they want… it's not done."
The bond pulsed violently in my chest, reminding me I wasn't a bystander. My fire didn't just tether him—it tethered me, our connection alive, fragile, full of potential for both salvation and destruction. I squeezed his arm, trying to communicate everything words couldn't: I'm here. I'm not leaving. I'll fight alongside you, no matter the cost.
"Then we'll be ready next time." I said, more to the air than to him, a vow that sounded fragile even as it left my lips. "We'll find them before they find us, and we'll burn everything they throw at us. Together."
Lysander's corrupted eye—the black flame—shifted as though considering my words. One corner of his mouth lifted in the faintest hint of a smirk, weary but sharp. "You're insane. But… I'll follow you. Always."
I allowed myself a breath, shaky and short, the weight of exhaustion pressing against every muscle. The ichor had not been beaten, not truly. It lingered in the shadows, in Lysander, in me, in the ruins themselves. It would come back. And when it did, we would have to be ready.
I straightened, pressing a hand to my chest where the bond hummed strongest. The fire, the rage, the determination—it all pooled there, coalescing into something I could hold onto. I would not falter. I would not let it consume him.
The Watcher might be observing. The ichor might be waiting. The next Rift might already be forming.
But we would face it. And this time, we would not be caught off guard.
Even if the world burned around us, I would burn alongside Lysander, tethered by fire, bond, and stubborn defiance.
And next time, we would win—or die trying.