The world slammed back into me with the weight of broken stone and scorched air. Dust choked my lungs, stung my eyes, and coated every inch of my skin in a gritty film. The bitter stench of burnt metal and smoldering rubble clung to the ruins like a living thing, making every breath a labor. My body skidded across the cracked pavement, ribs screaming in protest with every jolt, and for a moment, I thought I might not move again. The world blurred, dizzy and spinning, stars dancing behind my eyelids.
Then I heard him—ragged, harsh, painfully human amidst all the chaos.
"Lysander!"
I forced myself upright, each movement sending sharp jolts of pain through my chest. My hands scraped raw against the debris-strewn ground. The Rift had spat us out into what remained of the city, though "remains" barely covered the scale of destruction. Towers that had once pierced the clouds now lay flattened, twisted metal beams and shattered stone rising like jagged teeth from the rubble. Streets were split into gaping chasms, swallowing anything that had once dared stand there. Smoke twisted skyward, curling into the dying sunlight, painting everything in an ashen haze.
And there he was.
Lysander knelt on one knee, one hand pressed hard against his chest as though holding in a storm that could tear him apart from within. His other hand clawed at the ground, fingers digging into stone as if trying to anchor himself against the pull of something far darker than gravity. His blade lay beside him, flickering weakly with remnants of silver fire that now bore the faint, terrifying streaks of black.
Veins, black and thick as tar, snaked across his skin, carving paths from his chest to his fingertips. The corruption inside him was no longer subtle—it was alive, pulsing like a second heartbeat beneath the surface.
I staggered to him, dropping to my knees, hands pressing against his shoulders. "Stay with me, Lysander. Look at me."
His head snapped up, eyes locking on mine. One was still silver, steady and fierce. The other burned with black flame, devouring the light instead of reflecting it. My stomach twisted, a cold pit forming where fear and anger collided.
"I'm fine," he rasped, voice low and hoarse, far too quick, far too defensive.
"You're not," I shot back, gripping his shoulders harder. My fire stirred beneath my skin, licking at my palms as I willed it into him, trying to burn away the corruption. But the ichor didn't flinch. It clung, deeper and darker, drinking my flames like water.
Lysander shuddered, but not from pain. From restraint. "Stop. You'll burn yourself out," he warned, voice tight with exhaustion and something else—something sharp and dangerous I didn't want to name.
I wanted to scream at him. Shake him. Tell him he was lying, that he wasn't fine, that this stain inside him wasn't something to contain—it was something to fight. But the bond throbbed, pulsing violently under my ribs, a tangled thread I could not untangle. His emotions bled into me—rage, fatigue, and a sharp edge of darkness that made my stomach curl.
"He belongs to the Rift now," a whisper brushed against my ear. Not the Watcher's cold, mechanical tone—this was softer, seductive, twisting into my mind.
I spun my head, but the ruins stretched empty around us. Smoke twisted lazily from smoldering fires, the wind carrying with it the acrid bite of ash and metal. Nothing moved but the shadows.
Lysander's corrupted eye narrowed, catching the shift in me. "What did you hear?"
I froze. The fact that he'd asked meant he had heard something too.
"Voices," I admitted quietly, my throat tight. "Yours?"
He nodded once, jaw set in a line of iron. "They don't shut up."
The silence pressed in, broken only by the low groan of collapsing concrete somewhere in the distance. And then, unexpectedly, he laughed. Low, bitter, not quite him. A sound that made my skin crawl and my chest ache all at once.
I grabbed his face, forcing him to meet my gaze. "Don't you dare let it in. You hear me, Lysander? I don't care if it whispers, screams, or sings—you are not theirs."
For a second, just a single heartbeat, the black flame in his eye dimmed. His hand rose, rough and trembling, covering mine. "You think you can hold me together forever?"
"Yes," I hissed, teeth gritted, fire flickering along my skin. "Even if it kills me."
The bond surged, hot and jagged, threading between us like molten wire. His silver and black fire sparked together, clashing and writhing, and I saw it clearly: Lysander was fighting. Fighting with every shred of himself to remain, to resist, to not let the ichor win.
But then, cutting through the fragile moment like ice, the Watcher's voice filled the air, cold and impossible to ignore.
"Subject 001 unstable. Progression: accelerating. Monitoring continues. Subject 002 interference: noted."
I felt the words sink into me, heavy as lead, freezing my blood. They were watching. Watching me too.
Lysander's corrupted eye locked onto mine, intensity that was almost painful. "Aria… if the Watcher marks you—"
"Then let them," I spat, fire licking between my fingers, edge sharp and biting. "I'll burn them too."
For the first time since the Rift, he smiled. Not broken. Not corrupted. Just him—sharp, ragged, alive. "You're insane," he said.
I leaned closer, forehead pressing to his. "Good. It means we match."
The bond steadied. The corruption didn't vanish, but it stopped spreading for now. He exhaled shakily, loosening his grip on me. But deep down, I knew the truth.
The ichor wasn't leaving. It was waiting. Growing. Patient.
And next time, I might not be able to pull him back.
The city didn't sleep after the Rift died. It burned.
The air was thick with smoke, choking and pungent, carrying the scent of scorched stone, melted metal, and something darker—charred flesh, twisted beyond recognition. Fires licked at the sky where Aberrations had rampaged unchecked, painting everything in orange-gold shadows that danced like mocking specters. Amid the chaos, voices rose—not claws, not roars—but human voices. Shouts, arguments, fear laced into every syllable.
From the edge of the rubble field, silhouettes emerged. Half a dozen, maybe more, ragged figures crawling out from shattered buildings and scorched streets. Their clothes hung in tatters, caked with soot, dust, and dried blood. Makeshift weapons glinted in their hands—pipes, knives scavenged from debris, one even brandishing a bent rifle.
I felt Lysander shift behind me. His posture was tense, predator-like, the faint flicker of silver and black fire along his blade casting a trembling light across the ruin. His corrupted eye remained hidden beneath the fall of his dark hair, but the air around him pulsed with threat.
"Easy," I whispered, stepping forward, placing myself slightly ahead of him. My hands itched, flames already lacing my fingers, ready to flare if things turned ugly.
The survivors stopped, wary, fear sharp in their movements. One man stepped forward, trembling. "They… they came out of the Rift," he stammered, voice rough from shouting or smoke, I couldn't tell. His hand shook violently as he pointed toward the horizon, where shadows of Aberrations still prowled. The pipe in his other hand clanged against the rubble with every twitch of his grip.
Another voice cut in, sharper this time—a woman. "Alive—and changed. Look at their eyes."
My stomach knotted.
Her gaze locked on Lysander. The bond between us twisted, pulsing erratically. I felt his tension ripple through me, faint flickers of black and silver fire intertwining beneath his skin, betraying the corruption that clawed its way upward from within.
"She's right," a rough voice muttered. "You brought it back with you."
Murmurs rose through the group. Fear curdled into suspicion, suspicion into dread.
"Maybe they're infected."
"Maybe they're not even human anymore."
"We should kill them before it spreads."
The words hit harder than any blade. I could feel the ichor inside Lysander thrumming in response, drawn toward the aggression. My chest tightened, fire lashing at my ribs instinctively, demanding to be unleashed.
"We're not your enemy," I said, forcing my voice steady even as every fiber of my body screamed. "The Rift—whatever it was—it chose us. But we're still fighting the same war you are. Against them." I jabbed a finger toward the skyline, where a distant Aberration howled its rage into the smoldering air.
The crowd didn't move. Fear had a slower reflex than reason.
One of them—the woman with the rifle—lifted it, aiming directly at Lysander.
He didn't flinch. The black vein pulsed faintly beneath his skin, shadows bending subtly toward him, eager. I could feel the bond twist sharply, a painful spike that sent heat and panic coursing through my chest. Rage. Exhaustion. Temptation. All of it.
"Lysander," I hissed, grabbing his arm. "Don't."
His jaw tightened. "They'll never stop."
"Then let me."
I stepped forward, palms blazing with controlled fire. The heat rolled outward, scorching the dust and painting molten cracks across the rubble-strewn ground. The survivors recoiled instinctively, fear twisting their features into grotesque masks.
"We didn't crawl out of hell just to burn this world with you," I snapped, letting the fire flare, licking the air dangerously close to their faces. "If you want to survive, move. Otherwise… you'll be ash before the monsters even touch you."
Silence fell, heavy and suffocating.
Then the rifle lowered. The woman sneered, voice thin, strained. "Stay out of our way, freaks."
One by one, the others followed, disappearing back into the smoke, muttering like knives sliding through air.
When the last of them vanished, I let my flames die, dropping to my knees, chest heaving. The bond throbbed sharply against my chest, hot and tense.
Lysander crouched beside me, voice low. "You spared them."
"They're people," I said, throat raw, fire still flickering across my palms. "Scared. Stupid. But people."
He studied me, the corrupted eye hidden, then spoke softer, voice laced with fear I'd never heard from him before. "And when it's not people anymore? When it's me?"
I froze.
The black veins along his neck pulsed faintly, glowing like embers beneath his skin. The ichor was persistent, relentless.
I pressed my hand against his chest, fire threading weakly over the dark veins. "Then I'll burn it out. Every time. As long as I'm breathing."
His corrupted eye found mine, flickering for a heartbeat with something human. Something terrified.
Then he looked away. "You won't win forever."
"Then I'll lose with you," I whispered.
The bond pulsed again, hot and sharp, anchoring us together in a city that no longer wanted us, amidst smoke, fire, and rubble.
Above us, the sky split, thin cracks of light piercing the darkened clouds. Not a Rift—not yet—but a watching eye. Patient. Waiting. The Watcher had not left.
The city was quiet now—quiet in the way that pressed on your ears and lungs, thick with the remnants of smoke and ash. Fires still licked at skeletal buildings in the distance, and the acrid scent of burnt metal and stone burned the back of my throat. But the real weight was in the silence—the kind that made every creak of rubble, every whisper of wind, sound like a scream.
I sat beside Lysander, hands still scorched and trembling from holding back fire, from tethering him to something human. The black veins under his skin pulsed faintly, as if counting every second we had left. His silver-and-black blade rested beside him, dull embers crawling along its edge, reflecting the dying fires around us.
I pressed my hand to his chest again, feeling the bond thrumming violently, wild, almost desperate. The ichor inside him throbbed like a heartbeat I couldn't control. I could feel every flicker, every twist of it, feeding on the darkness in him.
Why does it feel like it's alive? I thought, chest tightening. Like it knows we're here, like it's waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Lysander exhaled slowly, the sound ragged, uneven. "Aria… you could have burned yourself out back there." His voice was low, hoarse, edged with a mix of admiration and fear. "I should've stopped you."
I shook my head, flames flickering weakly across my fingers. "No. I had to. You were slipping… and you didn't even notice." My words were quiet, almost lost in the wind that carried dust into my eyes. "I can't… I won't let you go to it. Not ever."
His corrupted eye glimmered faintly, silver trying to push back the black. "And if I can't fight it forever? If this bond… if it isn't enough?"
I swallowed hard, fire pooling in my chest like molten iron. "Then I'll fight for both of us. Every single time. I'll burn whatever tries to take you—no matter the cost."
We sat like that, silence stretching, the heat from fires rolling over our skin, sweat and ash sticking to us like a second layer. I could feel the shadows shifting, subtle, almost imperceptible—the remnants of the Rift's energy, the ichor's hunger, and that cold presence watching from somewhere beyond the city.
The Watcher. Its gaze hadn't left. I could feel it in my chest, pressing like ice against the fire.
It's learning, I thought, eyes scanning the ruined skyline. Marking us. Testing us.
Lysander's hand moved over mine, fingers trembling but holding firm. "Aria…" His voice cracked, soft, vulnerable, the human slipping through the darkness. "What if it comes back for me? For you? For both of us?"
I met his gaze, feeling the bond spike again, sharper than before, a tether straining at its limits. "Then we'll be ready. We'll burn through it. Every time. And we'll leave nothing standing that can touch us."
His shoulders slumped, exhaustion pressing down, but his hand didn't leave mine. The faint flicker of silver fire in his veins mingled with the black, pulsing, struggling, and I could feel him fighting—fighting to remain Lysander, to remain himself.
I can't let it win, I thought. I can't let it touch him. Not now. Not ever.
A distant rumble made me flinch. It could have been a collapsing building or something worse—something waiting in the shadows, waiting for us to falter. The ichor wasn't gone. It lingered like a shadow in Lysander's veins, patient, hungry, whispering to him in a voice only he could hear.
I pressed my forehead against his shoulder, feeling the pulse of our bond, the heat, the fear, and the determination all wrapped into one impossible thing. "We're not done. The Watcher hasn't left, and the ichor… it's still there. But as long as we're breathing, we fight it. Together."
Lysander let out a shaky laugh, bitter but genuine. "Together," he echoed, voice rough. "Even if it kills us."
The sky above was fractured, thin slivers of light bleeding through the smoke. Watching. Waiting. The Watcher hadn't gone. And the city around us was still a graveyard, littered with fire and fear.
But in that moment, sitting amid ruin and ash, I made a silent promise to myself. No matter what came next—no matter the horrors waiting in the darkness, no matter the ichor, no matter the Watcher—I would hold him. I would fight. And if it tried to take him again, I would burn everything around us first.
The bond pulsed once more, a hot, dangerous rhythm in my chest. And I knew, deep down, that this was only the beginning.