MMMV PAGE

Character card for Chryses! What do you think of my friend Sora's work? She outdid herself!

My book cover for MMMV!

Art by Gtoraverse

Here's a wip of the back:

​The crown of the realm is heavy, but the weight of the grave is heavier.

​In a kingdom where life is a currency and the soul a resource, Chryses was never meant to be more than a pawn. As an undead scion bound by necromantic corruption, she exists in the narrow, suffocating space between a pulse and the rot. But when the political machinations of the ruthless Queen Lousheia culminate in a betrayal that threatens to tear the fabric of the living world apart, Chryses is forced to face a destiny written in blood.

Shoots of my OC's

Chryses (Spore Mage, undead)

Chryses (Priestess of Bluebells, alive)

Photo dump of my Astrid cosplay from Skyrim.

Belladonna

I rose before the boat had truly begun to wake, slipping from my bed like a silent spectre. I drifted out onto the deck on a hush of sea breeze, my body feeling heavy with a sorrowful song that the Nightingale in my chest seemed to hum in time with the waves. The first peaks of sunrise crested over the rim of the sea, bleeding gold across the salt-crusted wood.

I leaned against the rail, letting the ache in my heart roll through me. The Isles were drawing close now, their dark shores lifting from the water like serrated teeth against the lightening horizon. I knew I should wake Chryses, but the wind was cool and soft against my face. For a fleeting moment, I found peace in the quiet.

I stood at the lip of dawn as though I had been carved there. The wind snapped my black hair back, the dark strands flashing a faint, unnatural green where they caught the light. It was a shimmer that lived just beneath the surface, like something growing under the skin. Behind me, the Nightingale lingered. She was not close enough to touch or visible to the eye, but her influence moved through my marrow like humidity before a storm. I felt it in the thin seam between my thoughts and my instincts. Subtle. Inevitable.

I would be obedient. The ward on my neck ensured that. I was a child shaped by divine rot and careful design, a companion engineered never to hesitate. A single command and I would move with a pride woven into my bones like gold thread in funeral cloth. I would do what was asked. I would do it beautifully. I would do it smiling.

The first call of my name cut across the deck, and I was already turning. My body answered before my mind could process the sound. By the time I reached Chryses, I was steady and composed, though the sea wind had made my hair curly and unruly.

"Good morning, Chryses," I said gently, trying to act as though nothing in the world were amiss. I forced my voice to remain calm, even as the air began to taste faintly of something sharp and strange, like spores in a stagnant forest. "I can see the Isles on the horizon. We should reach them within the hour."

I looked over my shoulder at the dark landmasses ahead, the awkwardness of the previous night still draped over me like a heavy cloak. I felt exposed in the morning light, my feline features softened by the rhythm of the sea. I rubbed at my face, my fingers catching in the salt-tangled mess of my hair.

"How was your rest?" I continued, my tone warm and almost shy. "Forgive me. I was not there when you woke. I needed some air."

I slipped my hands into my pockets to hide the way they had begun to tremble. I stood at ease, yet I was not at ease at all. Somewhere in the hollow behind my ribs, an anticipation coiled. It was not fear or doubt, but a cold, heavy expectation.

I looked at her, searching her face, but something felt... different. There was a restless, chaotic energy rolling off her that did not match the woman who had held me so tenderly just hours before. The air around her felt thick, the sunlight hitting her in a way that seemed almost offensive to her posture. I waited, perhaps unwillingly, for an instruction. I waited for the command that would let the thing inside me bloom.

Chryses

The wood of the railing groaned under my borrowed weight as I leaned into the role. To any observer, it was a hauntingly perfect display. The way the sea breeze caught my hair, the specific pitch of that giggle, and the very tilt of my chin was Chryses through and through. But behind these eyes, I moved with a vast and ancient coldness.

Deep within the vessel of this body, I could feel the frantic, rhythmic drumming of a heart that was not mine. It was such a loud, tiny thing. In the back seat of this consciousness, the real girl remained a muffled echo, drifting in a golden haze that felt like a dream but functioned as a cage. I suppressed a shudder of delight. The intimacy of wearing another’s skin was the ultimate thrill for a deity of chaos.

I kept my gaze fixed on the churning wake of the ship, letting my smirk soften into something more vulnerable and calculated.

"The salt air feels different today, does it not?" I murmured. I let my voice drop into that specific, breathless register she used when she was overwhelmed by beauty. "It feels sharper. More alive."

I did not look back immediately. I knew the power of a silent invitation. I left a deliberate space beside me at the splintering wood, an empty slot designed for a companion to fill. Every inch of my posture was a trap. The relaxed shoulders and the tilted head were all designed to signal safety to a woman who should have been running for her life.

"Come," I repeated, my tone velvety and beckoning. "The ocean does not care about secrets. It just swallows them. Surely a moment can be spared for Chryses?"

I let a soft, melodic sigh escape my stolen lips. "I feel as though I’ve been gone for an eternity, and I have missed the view. I would like to enjoy it with you."

I finally turned my head just enough to catch her glance. I offered a flash of simulated warmth, a mask designed to hide the predatory void within.

Belladonna

The air on the deck has changed. It no longer carries the honest sting of salt and spray, but instead a heavy, stagnant chill that sticks to the back of my throat like wood ash. I stand by the railing and watch the woman who wears my lover’s skin. She is beautiful, bathed in the pale light of the approaching Isles, but the sight of her makes the fur along my spine stand rigid.

Chryses always kept her hair bound. She treated that silver braid like a ritual, a way to keep her scattered pieces together, yet now her hair flows wild and unconstrained. It spills over the dark lace of her funeral gown like ink bleeding into water. The gown itself, once a symbol of her fragile survival, now looks like a predator’s shroud. When she moves, there is none of the careful, rhythmic stiffness I have come to know. There is no gingerly favoring of her stitched side. Instead, she glides with a liquid, terrifying grace that belongs to something that has never known the burden of a heartbeat.

She reaches out to me, her fingers grazing my wrist. I do not flinch, though every instinct I possess screams for me to bolt. Her touch is not the warm, calloused pressure of a healer. It is the cold of a deep-sea trench, a temperature that does not belong to the living. I look into her eyes and see the perfect mimicry of a smile, but the gold of her irises feels flat, like painted glass.

Deep within the hollow of my chest, the Nightingale has gone deathly quiet. My mother’s divine essence, usually so shrill and demanding of my breath, has retreated into the darkest corners of my marrow. She recognizes the shadow standing before us even if my mind is still trying to find excuses for the wrongness of the woman I love.

The boat thuds against the wooden docks of the Isles with a violent jar. I brace myself, my boots digging into the salt-slicked wood, but the woman in the funeral gown does not even sway. She absorbs the impact with an unnatural steadiness, her gaze fixed on the Mershark guards waiting on the pier. She turns to me then, her untied hair whipping in the wind, and her voice is a perfect, breathless echo of Chryses.

"We have arrived, "she whispers, and the sweetness of the tone is so precise it makes my stomach turn.

Chryses

The chill was not merely in the air; it was a creeping frost that settled deep into my marrow. As I curled into my bedroll, the world did not just fade into sleep. It collapsed into the suffocating, familiar ink of the Void.

"Necromoria. Please. Just let me be," I whispered. My voice trembled as I pressed my hands over my ears, trying to shut out the silence that always screamed too loud in the dark.

"Now, now. Is that any way to greet me? It has been a while, has it not, petal? Ha!" The laugh was jagged, a bark of sound that made Necromoria double over while clutching their sides in mock hilarity. Then, the humor vanished. The shift was violent, a sudden drop into a predatory stillness that made my skin crawl.

Necromoria lunged. Their fingers were like iron talons snapping around my wrist and yanking me forward. Our faces were inches apart as their cold breath ghosted over my skin. "Being silenced back at the fort was very rude, do you not think?" A cruel twist of my arm followed, eliciting a sharp yelp of pain. I thrashed to break the hold, my voice breaking. "Let me go!"

Necromoria rolled their eyes with exaggerated exasperation. They let go only to immediately snare my braid in a punishing grip. "Uh-uh. No way. You are mine. M-I-N-E, mine. Mine to play with, mine to break, mine to boss around. You are on my agenda, remember?"

With a brutal tug, Necromoria hoisted me up by the hair. I dangled, the sensation of my neck unstitching itself like the phantom tearing of thread and flesh. A wave of nausea rolled through me as the world tilted.

"Say it, Chryses," Necromoria growled, their eyes wide and glittering with a manic, hungry light.

"I am... yours... ah!"

The grip vanished. I hit the ground with a sickening thud and immediately clutched my throat. My fingers searched frantically for the seam, making sure I was still stitched together. I was, for now.

"Necromoria. Please do not take over again. I know you are bored, but you will get a body soon," I pleaded from my knees, trying to find any bargain in the dark.

Necromoria dropped to one knee and tilted my jaw up with a spindly finger. They traced the jagged, scarred line where my head met my shoulders with a terrifying tenderness.

"I promise, Necromoria," I begged.

The response was a crushing squeeze to my windpipe. The Void rushed back in, colder than before.

"Sorry, princess, but not really. I have got things to do," Necromoria cackled. The sound echoed in the back of my mind as my consciousness was shoved into a dark, cramped corner. "So, I am taking the front seat for a while longer."

When my eyes finally opened again, I was no longer the one behind them.

The entity looked over at the empty dent in the bedroll where Belladonna had been. Right. The ship. She leapt up and swung my arms with a restless, chaotic energy that felt foreign to my limbs. She squinted as the morning sun poured through the porthole, far too bright and disgustingly cheerful for the passenger now in control.

"Bella? Where are you?" she called out. The voice was a perfect, melodic mimicry of my own, a hollow imitation of the girl she was currently haunting.

Belladonna

The world drifted in a slow and disjointed blur, as if I were watching the horizon from behind a pane of thick, distorted glass. My eyes felt wide and blown out, the vibrant green replaced by exhausted saucers that reflected a cold fear rather than the morning light. In this massive, monstrous form, I felt weathered. The beast within me looked worn thin and frayed at the edges, older than I had ever allowed myself to appear.

I still had not shrunk back down. Even once we were settled into the small boat, I clung to the damp wood of the gunwale with both hands. My knuckles were bone white as I stared at the torn and bloodied remains of the fabric over Chryses' stomach. I looked at the hole in her clothes as if it were something separate from her body, a physical manifestation of my own failure.

When Chryses spoke, her voice seemed to come from miles away. It was muffled and distorted by the roaring pulse that hammered against the inside of my skull.

The mage is speaking to you.

The Nightingale’s voice slithered through my thoughts, echoing against the hollowness between my ears with a chilling clarity. I swallowed hard, the back of my throat tasting of copper and bile. I felt as though I might be sick over the side of the vessel.

That single flicker of red hair and the spray of gore, was it truly a memory? The moment the steel entered her, the way her body jerked under the impact, and the sudden shock of red had cracked something deep inside me. A fault line had split open, raw and trembling, exposing a part of my soul I didn't recognize.

Tell her you are fine.

The Nightingale’s tone sharpened, moving from a whisper to a command that brooked no argument.

"I am fine," I forced out, but the words were empty and brittle. My voice sounded like it belonged to a stranger, someone made of nothing but paper and shaking hands.

What was that vision? Why had seeing her get stabbed, that one moment where I was not fast enough, shaken me so violently? It felt as though something vital had broken inside me while I was trying to reach her. I looked down at my hands, still large and clawed, and wondered if I would ever be able to touch her gently again without seeing the blood.

Chryses

I reached up toward the ragged, towering form of Belladonna and gently pet her cheek. I wanted to offer some fragment of comfort to the creature who looked so weathered and frayed by the violence we had just escaped. I stepped down from the rail, my hand still pressed against my sore side as I navigated the swaying deck to sit upon the wooden steps. The flesh had knit itself back together, but the phantom ache of the steel remained, a dull pulse that reminded me of how close the end had truly been.

As I held myself, I watched her. She was frightened and shaken apart, her massive frame trembling with a tension that seemed ready to snap. I looked down at my ruined, blood-stained clothes with a quiet sigh of distaste. With a focused breath, I raised my hand and let my magic bleed into the fabric, melting the shredded remains into a simple, long-sleeved dress that felt soft against my skin. I pulled the pins from my hair, letting the braid unravel until it fell loose around my shoulders.

I was much more comfortable now, but the state of the woman before me filled me with a far deeper worry than any ruined corset ever could.

"Join me. For a moment," I said, my voice barely a whisper against the sound of the waves.

I patted the space on the step beside me, offering her a sanctuary away from the blood and the memory of the docks. I could see the way she looked at me, as if she were seeing a ghost, her vibrant eyes wide with a trauma I didn't yet fully understand. I needed her to come back to herself, to leave the beast behind and find the person who was still hidden under all that fury and green hair.

The Isles were still a distant promise on the horizon, but here on this small boat, the only thing that mattered was the silence between us and the slow, steady rhythm of the sea.

Belladonna

Chryses placed her hand on my shoulder, her thumb moving in a slow and rhythmic circle that tried to ground me to the deck of the boat. Her touch was warm, a startling contrast to the icy void that had opened up in my chest the moment the steel pierced her.

"I am. I promise I am. I am very much still here too, my dear," she whispered. Her voice was a tender thread of silk weaving through the jagged noise in my head.

I felt her muster every ounce of softness she possessed, offering it to me like a shield against the memory of the docks. I knew she had seen the horror in my eyes, a flash of a secret I had never dared to name. She must have sensed that I wasn't just reacting to her wound, but to a ghost that had suddenly decided to walk beside us. The vision of that red hair, the spray of blood, and the sudden, final silence of a life snuffed out had surged up from the depths of my mind, nearly drowning me.

"I am here with you, right?" she asked. She gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze before resting her head against me. "You witnessed something terrible. Are you alright?"

The question was simple, almost reaching the point of being obvious, but the weight of it nearly broke me. I wanted to tell her that I was fine, that the beast was just tired, but the paper-thin lie wouldn't form. I felt her head against my shoulder, a physical proof of her life, and I focused on the steady rise and fall of her breathing.

I finally felt the monstrous tension begin to drain from my limbs. The sharpened ridges of my spine smoothed over, and the unnatural height of my frame began to recede. I shrank back into the smaller, more fragile shape of the woman she knew, my bones clicking and shifting with a dull ache as I returned to myself.

"I am not sure," I admitted, my voice trembling and raw. I reached up and covered her hand with mine, holding onto her fingers as if they were the only thing keeping me from drifting away into the ultramarine sea. "I thought I had lost you. I thought the world was going to turn red again."

I leaned back against her, closing my eyes and letting the salt spray wash over my face. For the first time since we entered Neprene, the roaring in my ears began to fade, replaced by the quiet, rhythmic heartbeat of the woman I had almost failed to protect.

Chryses

I felt the tremors beneath my palm as Belladonna’s form continued to recede, inch by painful inch. It was as if her very bones had forgotten how to hold the shape of a woman, shifting with a jagged, uncertain rhythm. Every time my skin brushed hers, a new ripple of shivers cascaded through her frame, small and involuntary.

"I don’t remember," she whispered, her voice wavering with a frightened honesty that made my chest ache. "I think it was so terrible... I must have blocked it out."

She didn't answer my question. I don't think she could. I watched the way her eyes searched the horizon, unable to find the boundary where the shaking stopped and the terror began. Instead, she reached out with a weak, unsteady hand, her fingers clutching at my sleeve as if I were the only solid thing left in a world made of salt and shifting mist.

"You scared me today," she admitted, the words slipping out raw and fragile.

I moved closer, pulling her into the crook of my arm so she could feel the steady, rhythmic heat of my life against her side. I didn't care about the salt spray dampening my new dress or the lingering throb in my gut. I only cared about the woman who had turned herself into a monster to keep me breathing.

"I know, my dear. I know," I murmured into the mess of her darkening hair. "But the fog is closing in behind us, and the Motherians cannot follow where we are going. You did not fail. You brought us to the water."

I held her hand tightly, interlacing our fingers to still her trembling. The boat rocked gently as it cut through the rising swells, the distance between us and the shore growing with every passing second. For now, the red hair and the screams of the past could stay buried in the deep. I just needed her to feel the wood of the deck and the warmth of my breath until the beast finally went to sleep.

Belladonna

"Time," I breathed at last, the word scraped from a hollow, echoing chamber deep inside my chest. My eyes had finally begun to settle, the pupils widening as the familiar feline slits bled away. Without them, I looked startlingly human, the vibrant orange of my irises dulling into a muted, golden brown like embers clinging stubbornly to their last bit of warmth. "I just need some time to breathe."

Get it together, Belladonna. You are giving away too much. We have been over this. That memory no longer exists. It was too bad for you, so I took it. You are embarrassing me.

The Nightingale’s voice slashed through my mind, cruel and cold. I felt her influence peeling away from my skin like oil slipping off water, leaving me raw and exposed to the salt air. I rose shakily to my feet and stumbled toward the side of the boat, the ocean wind hitting me with a sudden, violent force. The gusts were sharp and tearing, whipping the loose strands of my hair where streaks of green still glowed with a faint, dying light.

The runes across my neck flared with a frantic, agonizing heat, burning into my flesh like molten coals. The pain was excruciating, a physical manifestation of the Nightingale's displeasure. Every time I blinked, I saw it again. A shadow. A fall. A flash of red hair. A scream muffled by the weight of years. I wondered if that scream belonged to me.

I gripped the wooden rail with both hands and vomited over the side, my whole body spasming with the violence of the heaving. When the sickness finally passed, I slumped forward, my forehead resting against the cold, damp wood. I was trembling on the fragile brink of tears, my voice cracking when I finally tried to speak.

"I think," I started, my breath hitching as I steadied myself. "I think a dear friend of mine was killed by the Motherians."

I did not lift my head. I just breathed, letting the spray of the sea wash over my skin. "I do not remember the friend, or their death, but when you were stabbed, I saw them. I saw them in you for just a heartbeat."

My fingers curled tighter around the rail, the wood biting into my palms. The Nightingale took the memory because it was too much for me to handle.

Why are you telling her this? She does not care, the Nightingale growled, her presence a heavy, suffocating pressure behind my brow.

A bitter, broken laugh escaped me. It was a soft, sad sound, the realization of just how fractured I had truly become. I did not care if my honesty embarrassed my mother. Someone needed to hear the truth of the wreckage she had made of me.

The truth is, I understand why she did it. If this is my reaction to just a glimpse of what happened, I do not think I want to remember the rest. I shut my eyes tight, my jaw trembling as I held onto the boat, waiting for the ghosts to fade back into the mist.

Chryses

I stood up from the wooden steps and moved to Belladonna’s side, hooking my arm around hers as the sea spray misted our faces. Silence was all I could offer her at first. I searched the dark, churning waters for an answer that would suffice, but how does one comfort a soul that has been rendered feral by a loss so terrible it was erased from her own mind?

I looked up at her, my heart aching at the sight of her golden-brown eyes, so human and so haunted. "I am here, sweet lass," I whispered tenderly. I ran my hand along her arm, the fabric of her sleeve rough beneath my palm. I finally understood the jagged edges of her defensiveness and the visceral, bone-deep hatred she carried for the Motherians. It was not just politics; it was a mourning she couldn't even fully name.

"Your friend will not have died in vain," I said, my voice as soft as the waves lapping against the hull. "We will make sure what is left of their memory is honored. "I did care. In truth, I cared more than I ever intended to admit to anyone, perhaps even to myself. "Darling, it is alright if you do remember. If those ghosts return, I will ride the memory out with you. If it shakes your reality, I will be the one to keep you steady." I made that vow with every ounce of certainty left in my heart.

Belladonna looked at me and let out a long, broken sigh, a sound of absolute relinquishment. The dam finally broke, and tears began to stream down her face in a silent, silver tide. Her shoulders shook with a defeated sob that seemed to pull from the very marrow of her bones. I do not think I can live with this memory, she confessed, her hand finding mine and gripping it with a desperate strength.

"They are not the only friend I have lost," she continued, her voice trembling. "I have done horrible things in my life, Chryses. Not only of my own accord, but from influence and circumstances I could not control. But this one... my mother took it. I woke up with so many new scars and wounds where my memory ends and begins again. A gap of time just gone. I think I may have tried to end it all when they died."

I did not let her pull away. I took her hand and drew her into me, holding her in a fierce, silent embrace as she cried and shivered against my chest. The weight of her grief was a physical thing, pressing into my own skin.

"No matter what you have done, or what memories the Nightingale keeps from you, you are here, right now," I murmured into the crook of her neck. "You are here with me on this beautiful, mad journey, and we are trying to do something good."

I pulled back just enough to look up at her, watching her sniffle as she tried to force the tears back. "I am sure they would be proud of you," I said firmly. I reached up and gently wiped the salt and sorrow from her cheek with my thumb, wishing I could reach into her mind and burn away the Nightingale’s influence forever.

Belladonna

I took her hand and pressed my face into the center of her palm, the warmth of her skin a startling contrast to the salt-crusted chill of the sea. I tried to shield my eyes as the last of the tears flooded their way out, my breaths uneven and ragged. I leaned into the curve of her hand with a desperate, heavy pressure, as though that single point of contact was the only thing holding my fractured mind together.

"I hope you are right," I whispered, my voice worn thin and sounding like dry leaves skittering over stone. "I hope they do not hate me for the person I have become."

The Nightingale’s presence in my mind had gone quiet, a predatory silence that felt like a coiled snake waiting for the next moment of weakness. I could still feel the phantom heat of the runes on my neck, a dull throb that reminded me of the price of my defiance. I was relaxing into the moment, but it was an uncomfortable, jagged sort of peace. My body didn't quite know how to exist without the armor of my fury.

I stayed there for a long beat, my forehead resting against her thumb. The green light in my hair had finally faded, leaving the strands a dull, mossy brown in the grey morning light. I felt smaller than I had in years, stripped of the beast and the bluster. The ship pitched slightly as we hit a larger swell, and I tightened my grip on her wrist, terrified that if I let go, the memory of that red hair would surge up from the depths to claim me again.

I didn't know the name of the friend I had lost, but in the quiet of the boat, I felt the shape of the hole they had left behind. It was a jagged, hollow space that the Nightingale had tried to fill with bitterness and obedience. As I felt Chryses’ steady heartbeat through her palm, I realized that for the first time since the gap in my memory began, I was actually trying to fill that hole with something else.

Chryses

I held her face with infinite tenderness, prepared to stay like that for as long as she needed. I stood completely still in the heavy silence, a quiet broken only by the soft, wrenching sounds of her sobs. The world narrowed to just the two of us, suspended in a moment of raw vulnerability above the ultramarine waves.

There was not much else I could say. Words felt entirely inadequate in the face of such profound pain. I spoke anyway, keeping my voice low and steady to serve as an anchor in her internal storm.

"There is nothing about you that can be hated," I whispered. "I can only speak for myself, but I quite like and admire the rogue standing in front of me." I paused, letting the words settle between us in the salty air. "I think your friend and I would both agree that you are something wonderful. You are something extraordinary."

I looked down at the small space between our bodies. My thumbs moved in gentle, rhythmic circles against her tear-stained cheeks. When I looked up into her muted, golden-brown eyes, my own vision blurred with unshed tears. I carefully stroked away the fresh trails of moisture that continued to fall. I made sure each touch was deliberate and reverent.

"You are doing an exceptional job on your mission thus far," I added after a long moment, my voice thick with an emotion I could no longer swallow down. I could feel her trembling beneath my hands. The frailness of her shaking frame broke something wide open inside my chest.

Slowly and carefully, I began to lead her away from the railing. I wanted to guide her away from the dark water below and whatever desperate, final thoughts might have been forming in the depths of her grief. I pulled her toward the center of our small vessel. The gentle rocking was less pronounced there, making the wooden deck feel safer and more grounded.

"Stay with me, my dear," I murmured. My hands never left her face, desperate to maintain that crucial, living connection. "Just breathe for me. That is all I ask. Just breathe."

Belladonna

I swallowed hard. The sorrow scraping down my throat felt like a stolen thing I was never meant to keep. My breath hitched and my chest pulled tight as Chryses’ hands held me together with a gentleness I had never known in my life. The absolute tenderness of her touch almost shook more tears from me, but my stinging eyes were finally dry.

"I do not understand you," I whispered, my voice raw and frayed at the edges.

My fingers curled around her wrists. It was a desperate gesture, not to push her away, but to anchor myself, terrified she might slip right through the wooden deck if I dared to let go. "You should not admire me. You do not know the things I have done, or the things I might still do."

I looked down and turned my face away from her. My cheeks were flushed and tender from the salt, the scattered freckles across my skin standing out like a constellation of pale stars. I wanted nothing more than to shrink away and hide in the simple, quiet shape of my feline form. I felt utterly hollowed out, exhausted by the violent ghosts wreaking havoc across the landscape of my mind.

"You call me extraordinary," I breathed, giving my head a slow, heavy shake. "But I have only ever been a weapon. I am just a tool to be pointed at something until it dies."

My voice cracked as the confession trembled past my lips. "No one has ever spoken to me like that. Not without wanting to carve something out of me in return." I finally looked up and met her gaze, holding onto the deep, quiet warmth in her eyes. "You want something too. You are using me to reach your own end goal. Yet, it all feels right with you. It feels as though I am exactly where I am meant to be."

Chryses

My breath softened the way it always did when I felt Belladonna’s walls begin to crack. It wasn't pity, I would never insult her with that, but a fierce, aching tenderness I no longer bothered to hide. I let her clutch my wrists, her trembling fingers pressing into my skin like a lifeline, and I did not flinch. I leaned in closer instead, my forehead nearly brushing hers, my voice low and steady against the rhythmic creak of the boat.

"Bella," I murmured, "if I ever slip through the deck, you are coming with me. I promise you that."

My thumbs brushed the corners of her cheeks in a careful, reverent motion, wiping away the phantom sting of tears that had finally stopped falling. I didn't need her to understand the labyrinth of my own heart; I only needed her to be present in the quiet of the sea.

"You do not have to understand me," I said gently. "Just let me stay here with you. In this moment."

Her confession hung between us like a sharp, trembling blade. When she spoke of being a weapon, my expression dimmed with a sudden sorrow. It wasn't for her guilt, but for the people who had spent years carving that belief into her soul until she couldn't see anything else.

"A weapon does not cry because she fears she will hurt someone she cares about," I whispered, my eyes locking onto hers. "A tool does not cling like this. You are so much more than what they used you for."

I let my hands slide from her face to cradle her jaw, lifting her chin slightly so she could not look away from the truth in my gaze. I felt the heat of her skin against my palms, a living heat that defied the Nightingale's cold touch.

"You are right," I admitted, my voice dropping to a hush that felt like a confession in return. "I do want something."

I swallowed hard, feeling the faintest flush rise along my throat as I allowed myself to be vulnerable in a way I rarely permitted. "I want you safe. I want you to stop thinking you are something disposable. And yes..." I paused, the honesty of it a heavy weight in the air. "I want you beside me. Not because you are useful, but because it feels right with me too."

My brows knit together, earnest and raw. I wanted to reach through the trauma and the scars and pull her into the light of the present.

"If you are meant to be anywhere," I said softly, my forehead finally coming to rest against hers, "then you are meant to be here. With me. Not as a weapon, but as someone I choose to keep the companionship of."

Belladonna

I leaned in, pushing up onto my knees to press my forehead against hers. It was a soft, instinctive gesture, a feline headbutt of pure devotion. It was an unspoken thank you from a creature that had survived far too long in the cold without a single hand extended in tenderness. Her words had struck a chord in an old, hollow space I had carried since childhood, lighting a flicker of hope in a life that had felt endlessly and mercilessly bleak.

A low sigh slipped from me as I finally dropped back onto my haunches. The tension poured out of my limbs all at once, leaving me feeling both feral and heartbreakingly tired. The weight she had lifted from my shoulders was immense, and without it propping me up, I sagged. My posture folded in on itself as the years of strain finally caught up and settled deep into my bones.

"Chryses," I rasped, my voice soft and worn at the edges. "Would you mind if I transformed? I am exhausted, and I think I need a moment to rest." I lifted my gaze, a faint, weary smile tugging at my lips. "It would be nice to just... drape myself over your shoulders for a while."

The gratitude in my eyes was quiet and achingly sincere. I didn't want to be a weapon anymore. I didn't even want to be a woman. I just wanted to be safe.

"Feel free to, my love. I will carry you to bed. Rest well in my arms," she said, her voice a soothing balm.

I let go. My body shifted, the heavy ache of my human form dissolving into the familiar, light grace of the cat. I felt her strong, steady hands scoop me up, embracing my small form with a tender care that made my heart swell.

"I have got you," she whispered.

I tucked my head under her chin, my fur damp with the sea mist, and let out a long, vibrating purr. As she carried me away from the railing and into the shelter of the cabin, the world outside ceased to exist. There were no Motherian generals, no cruel mothers, and no haunting memories of red hair. There was only the steady beat of her heart against my side and the sombre, quiet bliss of being cherished.

Belladonna

The world did not shatter when the steel entered Chryses’ stomach. Instead, it went silent. Something inside me snapped with the sound of a dry branch breaking in a winter forest. It was not a bone, and it was not a scream. It was a thread, delicate and vital, the very thing tethering my sanity to the present.

I stood paralyzed, my feet rooted to the salt-slicked wood of the dock. I stared at her in a total, suffocating terror. My breath was caught somewhere between my ribs and my throat, refusing to move, refusing to let me cry out. My hands shook with a violent, rhythmic tremor around the hilt of my blade, my knuckles polished to a bone-white brilliance. For a heartbeat, the docks of Neprene faded. The smell of the sea and the clatter of militia boots vanished. Everything disappeared except for a flicker of red in the back of my mind.

A memory burst across my vision like a physical blow. It was brief and brutal. I saw red hair tumbling like a fallen flame. I heard a scream choked off in its infancy as blood painted the air in a spray of crimson lace. The grief lodged itself in my chest like a heavy stone, dragging my heart down into the dark. My lungs tightened, my voice trapped behind a wall of cold iron.

Then, the spell on my neck seared to life.

It was a vicious, white-hot heat that branded my skin, yanking me back into my own body with the force of a tethered horse. I was back on the docks. I was in the blood. I was in the fury.

I moved before I could think. I moved before the first tear could even form in my eye. I ripped the heavy knife from my hip in a savage, fluid arc. There was no hesitation, no fencing, and no more playing with my victim. In one smooth and merciless motion, I drove the steel deep into the general’s neck.

I felt the resistance of the muscle and the grind of the vertebrae as the blade found its home. I didn't pull away. I leaned into the strike, my eyes locked on his as the silver-moth confidence finally bled out of him. He had touched her. He had tried to take her from the world.

I didn't care about the empire. I didn't care about the Queen. I only cared about the heat of the blood on my hands and the desperate, frantic need to get back to Chryses' side before the red hair in my memory became the only thing I had left.

Chryses

I pushed the general's weight off me, the silver armor clattering against the damp wood as he fell. The sword remained, a cold and intrusive presence in my gut, until I gripped the hilt and pulled. A sickening groan escaped my throat as the steel slid free, the sound of it wet and heavy in the sudden silence of the docks.

"I-I am alright. It just looks worse than it is," I managed to say, my voice breathy but firm. I could feel the color draining from my face as the pain spiked, a white-hot bloom that pulsed with every heartbeat. But I was not so easily snuffed out. Not while the Necromoria still danced in the back of my mind, savoring the copper tang of the moment.

I lifted the hem of my blouse, my fingers trembling slightly as I inspected the damage. My corset was ruined, the fine fabric shredded by the lunge, a small vanity lost to the necessity of survival. I watched with a detached sort of fascination as the flesh beneath began to knit itself back together, the wound sealing with the unnatural speed of a body that no longer strictly obeyed the laws of the living.

"There... much better," I sighed, the tension in my shoulders finally uncoiling.

Ilchymis stepped over the carnage, his expression a fractured mask of exhaustion and lingering adrenaline. He tossed the general’s head aside with a grunt of finality and kicked the body away from the path. "I have never been more grateful for someone being undead. Such irony," he muttered, a disbelieved chuckle breaking through his exasperated relief. "Chryses, are you okay to stand? We need to get you two on that boat. There is no time to celebrate our victory."

He motioned for Belladonna to lead the way, his gaze lingering on her for a moment. He tapped her shoulder, a quiet, grounded gesture of respect between two warriors who had just held back the tide. "Take care of yourself over there."

I pulled myself upright, my boots finding purchase on the salt-slicked boardwalk. Ilchymis was right. We had bought ourselves minutes, not hours, and the Queen’s reach would only grow longer once the silence of this garrison was discovered.

"Belladonna, let us go," I said, catching her hand. I kept one arm pressed firmly against my stomach, though not because the wound remained, but because the memory of the cold steel still felt fresh against my nerves.

The boardwalk creaked and bent beneath our heavy, hurried steps as we reached the small vessel. With Belladonna’s help, I untied the coarse rope and hauled the anchor from the muck. We set sail, the canvas snapping as it caught the brisk sea air, finally turning our prow toward the Isles.

I leaned against the rail, watching the silhouette of Neprene grow smaller against the horizon. I looked for the shadow of a stag in the trees, hoping Ilchymis would find his own way into the dark and stay alive. But when I turned back to the deck, my concern shifted.

Belladonna was standing rigid, her eyes fixed on the ragged, blood-stained tear in my blouse where the sword had entered. Her hand moved almost unconsciously, hovering over the sliced fabric as if she could still see the blade buried there.

Chryses

I did not look back. I kept my gaze fixed on the horizon of blue cobblestones, refusing to let the ghost of Lunné pull at my resolve. A heavy, bitter regret settled in my chest, a cold weight that sat alongside the phantom itch of the god in my skull. The way we had ended was a jagged wound that had never truly closed, but as I walked toward the salt air of the harbor, I realized the shape of our love no longer fit the woman I had become. I wanted him safe, and I wanted him away from the path of my blade, but the bond was severed. I shook my head, letting out a long, resolved sigh that tasted of sea salt and finality. It was over.

Ilchymis was waiting where the market stalls bled into the open docks. He didn't need words. One look at my face and the rigid line of Belladonna’s shoulders told him everything he needed to know. He gave a sharp, understanding nod and fell into step, his heavy hooves sounding a rhythmic warning against the stone.

The three of us finally reached the eastern docks, where a modest vessel bobbed against the pilings. It was a small boat, just enough for Belladonna and me to navigate the crossing to the Isles, its wooden hull looking fragile against the vast ultramarine of the bay. I looked up to the pale sky and whispered a silent, desperate prayer to the divines for a safe passage.

A voice like grinding gravel shattered my prayer. I spun around, my heart dropping into my stomach. Standing at the head of the boardwalk was a Motherian general I did not recognize, her armor gleaming with a predatory silver light. Behind her stood a small militia, their shields locked in a wall of iron. And there, trailing in her wake, was Lunné. He looked down at the ground, his expression a mask of agonizing pain and betrayal. I saw the white-knuckled grip he had on his bow, and I knew instantly that the mercy he had tried to show us had been stripped away.

Ilchymis, follow Belladonna. "Take the general. I will handle the others," I commanded, my voice dropping into a low, dangerous register.

Deep behind my eye, the itch suddenly vanished, replaced by a searing, euphoric heat. I felt it then, the dark, intoxicating bloodlust beginning to fester in my marrow. The promise of impending slaughter was a true arousal to Necromoria, a nectar that the god began to drink through my very veins. The vanity of the god surged, a cold tide of confidence that washed away my fear. I no longer cared if the docks ran red with the blood of every beautiful soldier standing before me. I hoped we would fell them all, save for one. My last gift to Lunné would be his survival, even if it was earned through the deaths of his comrades.

I rushed to the flank, my movements fluid and unnatural as the Void guided my limbs. With a sharp, guttural cry, I opened my grimoire and summoned Stachy. The air around me curdled instantly, the sweet sea breeze replaced by the suffocating, thick stench of rot and wet mold. It was a foul, necrotic odor that made the nearest soldiers stagger and retch into their helmets.

The poor fools who doubled over never had a chance to recover. My ever-hungry pet surged forward, a mass of shifting, fungal hunger that fell upon the weakened men. I watched with a detached, chilling fascination as they were consumed, their screams muffled by the very spores that had once claimed Illina.

Belladonna

The wooden planks of the dock hummed beneath my boots, vibrating with the rhythmic slap of the tide and the impending violence that hung heavy in the salt air. I kept my feet rooted at the edge of the boarding ramp, watching Chryses. She did not look back. That forward-staring gaze was a small rebellion and a small mercy both, a refusal to let the ghost of the archer she had once loved pull her apart.

I watched the set of her jaw and the way her fingers flexed around empty air. Regret passed over her like a shifting shadow, followed by a sudden, iron resolve that settled into her shoulders. It should have been enough to quiet the clawing jealousy under my ribs, but the knot remained, tight and cold.

When the militia stepped from the gloom, the Motherian general made himself a monument of silver and moth-winged confidence. Beside him stood Lunné, looking as though he had swallowed glass, his expression a fractured mask of duty and pain. My breath became shallow and practical. There was no room now for the bite of envy; there was only the shape of the threat and the weight of the steel in my hand. Ilchymis stood at my shoulder, answering the tension with a single, quiet nasal rumble. He understood. He would follow me into the mouth of the Void if I asked.

Chryses barked the orders I had been ready to give myself. Take the general. I almost wanted to laugh at the irony of it. The mage was handing me the task of violence like a grim gift. I nodded, my pupils narrowing into thin lines of malice as I mapped the path of my blade.

Then the smell hit.

It was a cloying, sour-sweet rot that promised ruin. Chryses moved like a storm breaking loose, and I could practically feel the dark electricity humming in her bones. Bloodlust was beginning to fester there, a thing that makes a warrior precise and terrible, but also unthreads the soul. It makes you forget the small, vital things, like the future that must be stitched together by the living.

I stepped forward before I realized I had decided to move. My hand found the hilt of my sword as naturally as a heartbeat. "Not like this," I said, my voice a low rope cutting through the sudden clamor of the docks. "Not for him. Not for any of them."

I didn't have to explain why. Survival is an ugly, stubborn sort of love that refuses the luxury of sentimentality. If it all boils down to our survival, let me go get him.

Ilchymis was a coiled force of nature beside me. I cast one final look at Lunné, seeing the way Chryses still held a piece of her heart for him, and then I turned my full attention to the general. Whatever favor he thought he carried within that polished armor would soon meet my steel and the bitter thing I became whenever someone threatened what was mine.

Chryses let loose Stachy, and the world seemed to retch. Men doubled over, their lungs seizing as the air turned to poison and mold. For a heartbeat, I felt that old, animal thrill of the kill, but I reached out and caught Chryses’ sleeve, my fingers biting into the fabric.

"Focus," I urged, my voice low but not unkind. "Keep one of those sparks for later. Live."

I would carve a path through this silver militia if I had to. I would hold the line between her and oblivion. If sacrifice was the price of his survival, I would not let her burn herself out on the morbid beauty of death. I would not let her make that tragic gift alone. We would win this, or I would personally tear the stars from the sky to make it so.

Chryses

Ilchymis moved with a fluid, natural grace that complemented my own, his heavy hooves and shifting weight creating a rhythm I could easily follow. He rolled with my strikes, his staff whistling through the air to launch jagged thorns at the unsuspecting Motherians as I sliced through their formation. Chryses had a keen eye for this sort of coordination, knowing exactly which of our strengths would knit together to form a seamless front.

Ilchymis rushed toward the final cluster of soldiers guarding the general, who only smirked from beneath the shadow of her helm. The air grew thick and heavy, a volatile mix of earthy magic and the stinging salt of the sea. Ilchymis raised his staff high above the fray, his voice steady as he recited a spell to summon a rose petal storm. The petals phased into existence with a shimmering light, honing in on the militia. They were beautiful and lethal, slicing through light armor like razors.

Ilchymis smirked as the storm cleared a path directly to the general. "Get on with it, the general is yours," he shouted, giving me a quick thumbs up before he spun away to finish off a Motherian lancer with a fresh burst of petals.

I focused my attention on the woman in silver, but I could not help but cast a glance toward Chryses. She had cornered Lunné near the edge of the docks. Even from here, I could see his white knuckles and his reddened eyes. The poor man was in an impossible position. The punishments of Lousheia were whispered to be worse than death, and if the Queen learned he had failed to capture her prize, her creativity would surely outpace their darkest nightmares.

"Lunné, do you want your freedom? You could come with us," I heard Chryses say, her hand extended toward him in an offer of salvation. "We could use someone like you to help us liberate Vitaemorphia."

The archer loosened his grip on his bow, his shoulders sagging as he weighed the thought. He looked stuck, caught between the terror of his Queen and the desperate pull of his past. "You know I can't, Chry. Lousheia's rage would be far too great for either of us to handle." He reached out as if to take her hand, then stopped, letting out a heavy, broken sigh. "The only way out is if you strike me down."

He sank to one knee on the salt-stained wood, bowing his head for an atonement I knew she would never give.

Chryses held both her hands out in a frantic protest. I saw her shake her head, backing away from the man she still loved in some fractured way. "Lunné, you are asking the impossible from me. I cannot strike you down." She looked over her shoulder at the battle I was about to join, her eyes darting between Ilchymis and me. "We are fighting to liberate everyone, you included, dear Lunné."

I saw the way Lunné watched her. He looked at how she followed my every move, and I could practically feel the twist of jealousy in his gut from across the boardwalk. He was wondering what I was to her, just as I had wondered about him.

"Lunné, you will act then as if you were knocked out in battle," Chryses insisted, her voice breaking him out of his heated thoughts. "When we defeat your general, do not say a word. We will meet again. Your survival is my mercy."

She blew him a kiss, guiding her breath with her palm as her spores drifted toward him. The beautiful man slumped over, falling into a forced unconsciousness. Chryses turned on her heel and sprinted toward us, her loyal, rotting pet Stachy skittering behind her with an unnatural speed.

I turned back to the general, my blade held low and ready. She looked tough, her silver armor gleaming with a mocking confidence, but she was finally alone.

Belladonna

I strode into the center of the docks like a living omen, death wrapped in flesh and cold steel. My sword felt less like a tool and more like an extension of my own arm, every swing a blur of precision and calculated brutality. I cut through the Motherian soldiers like ribbons of silk. My off-hand flicked needle-thin blades that found their marks in the gaps of their armor, grounding men before they could even think of fleeing. When they fell, I was already upon them, my blade drinking deep from the life they tried to hold onto.

Every splash of blood that kissed my skin felt like a tonic. I could feel my hair shifting, shimmering into a richer and wilder green that fed on the carnage around me.

We were surrounded by a ring of blades and desperate fear when I finally turned to face the general. My eyes glowed like foxfire, vibrant and feral in the shadow of the silver armor. High in the rafters of the nearby warehouses, the nightingales stirred, their song trembling as if the city itself were holding its breath. I bared my teeth, the copper tang of blood staining my grin. The general, to his credit, looked almost admiring as he shifted his weight.

I bit my lip until the skin broke, dragging my tongue slowly across the red smear.

"I would say send the queen my regards," I purred, my voice low and dark with delight, "but last I checked, she was not a medium."

I felt my body begin to shift, my tendons twisting and bones bending beneath my skin with a deliberate and brutal grace. The sound was like heavy leather tearing. My muscles coiled and reshaped, sharpening into a form that was colder and more calculated than any mindless frenzy. I was not turning into a beast; I was becoming something worse. I was a predator in perfect control. A panther with a sword and murder in her smile.

The general grinned back, his movements practiced and calm. He parried my barrage of attacks, his thin blade catching mine and keeping me at bay as if he were taming a dog.

"Easy now, he taunted," his voice steady beneath his helm. "I would not want to kill you, but I will if I have to."

He thrust his sword forward in a lightning-fast strike, the tip barely nicking my belt as I twisted away just in time. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chryses watching our dance of blades. She was already beginning to gather a potent ball of spores, a swirling mass of rot that promised to snuff the life from him. She caught my gaze and motioned for me to lead the silver monument her way.

I pivoted on the slick wood of the dock, my movements fluid and predatory. I began to circle him, feinting a heavy strike to his left to force him toward the trap. The bloodlust was a steady hum in my ears, but I kept my focus sharp. I would lead him to the slaughter, and I would make sure he didn't see the end coming until the spores were already in his lungs.

My fangs flashed like polished ivory in the moonlight. I danced through the wreckage of the docks, my movements mocking the very idea of his military discipline. I matched his swordplay stroke for stroke, the metal singing a duet of sparks.

"Oh, you are awfully confident for a bug," I whispered, my tone a mixture of silk and venom.

With a sudden, violent flick of my wrist, I caught the vibration of his steel just right. My blade sang a high, lonesome note as it struck his sword from his grasp. The weapon clattered to the blue stone at his feet, ringing out like a mockery of his rank. I stepped back, my lips curling into a smirk as I saw Chryses closing the distance.

"Go on then, General," I gestured with my blade in a mocking flourish. "Pick it up. I would hate to think you would fall for me without a fight."

I eased back further, pivoting my body to draw him into the trap. I was drawing him closer to the mage, closer to the rot. I felt the urge to fence with him, to engage in a dance of death I didn't remember learning. Was this the Nightingale’s gift, or some ancient hunger waking up in my blood? My hair was now a deep, mossy green, heavy with the scent of the hunt.

Chryses

The general recovered his sword with a frantic, metallic scrape against the stone and pushed himself back to his feet. He narrowed his eyes, edging toward Belladonna with a calculated, predatory caution. He spared a fleeting, jagged glance behind her as I drew closer, his gaze heavy with the weight of his duty. "My orders are clear. Retrieve the princess," he spat, his voice echoing with a hollow, military iron. He cocked his neck and sliced the air in front of him, a sharp threat that felt entirely fruitless against the darkness we had brought to the docks.

I looked up from the shadow of my hat, my eyes locking onto Belladonna as our small, battered company converged. "Belladonna, my dear, you should not play with your victims," I said, my voice tight and high with a visceral disgust for the man in silver. "This poor fool does not know he is already dead."

The general let out a roar of frustrated pride, a sound that was more animal than human. He sidestepped Belladonna with a sudden, violent burst of speed, shoulder-checking her just enough to throw her off balance before he lunged forward. I felt the cold, biting reality of his steel as it plunged into my stomach. He grinned, a sickening flash of triumph crossing his face as he ripped the blade out, already turning his body to deliver a finishing blow to Belladonna.

It took no more than a single, ragged exhale for the world to shift. The general collapsed to his knees, his momentum dying as his own sword was jammed upward into his sternum by a force he had clearly underestimated.

"Lucky shot, bitch," he gurgled, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. "But the empire still won." He forced a bloody, defiant grin even as the light began to flicker in his eyes.

Ilchymis did not give him the satisfaction of a final word. He reached his hand forward, his face a mask of earthen fury as a frenzy of rose petals exploded into the air. They swirled in a suffocating, pink-and-crimson cyclone around the general’s head, clogging his throat and blinding his sight. It was the opening we needed. The man was pinned by the very beauty Ilchymis commanded, leaving his throat exposed and his silver armor useless against the vengeance Belladonna was about to unleash.

Chapter 23

·

Mar 22

Belladonna

The world did not shatter when the steel entered Chryses’ stomach. Instead, it went silent. Something inside me snapped with the sound of a dry branch breaking in a winter forest. It was not a bone, and it was not a scream. It was a thread, delicate and vital, the very thing tethering my sanity to the present.

I stood paralyzed, my feet rooted to the salt-slicked wood of the dock. I stared at her in a total, suffocating terror. My breath was caught somewhere between my ribs and my throat, refusing to move, refusing to let me cry out. My hands shook with a violent, rhythmic tremor around the hilt of my blade, my knuckles polished to a bone-white brilliance. For a heartbeat, the docks of Neprene faded. The smell of the sea and the clatter of militia boots vanished. Everything disappeared except for a flicker of red in the back of my mind.

A memory burst across my vision like a physical blow. It was brief and brutal. I saw red hair tumbling like a fallen flame. I heard a scream choked off in its infancy as blood painted the air in a spray of crimson lace. The grief lodged itself in my chest like a heavy stone, dragging my heart down into the dark. My lungs tightened, my voice trapped behind a wall of cold iron.

Then, the spell on my neck seared to life.

It was a vicious, white-hot heat that branded my skin, yanking me back into my own body with the force of a tethered horse. I was back on the docks. I was in the blood. I was in the fury.

I moved before I could think. I moved before the first tear could even form in my eye. I ripped the heavy knife from my hip in a savage, fluid arc. There was no hesitation, no fencing, and no more playing with my victim. In one smooth and merciless motion, I drove the steel deep into the general’s neck.

I felt the resistance of the muscle and the grind of the vertebrae as the blade found its home. I didn't pull away. I leaned into the strike, my eyes locked on his as the silver-moth confidence finally bled out of him. He had touched her. He had tried to take her from the world.

I didn't care about the empire. I didn't care about the Queen. I only cared about the heat of the blood on my hands and the desperate, frantic need to get back to Chryses' side before the red hair in my memory became the only thing I had left.

Chryses

I pushed the general's weight off me, the silver armor clattering against the damp wood as he fell. The sword remained, a cold and intrusive presence in my gut, until I gripped the hilt and pulled. A sickening groan escaped my throat as the steel slid free, the sound of it wet and heavy in the sudden silence of the docks.

"I-I am alright. It just looks worse than it is," I managed to say, my voice breathy but firm. I could feel the color draining from my face as the pain spiked, a white-hot bloom that pulsed with every heartbeat. But I was not so easily snuffed out. Not while the Necromoria still danced in the back of my mind, savoring the copper tang of the moment.

I lifted the hem of my blouse, my fingers trembling slightly as I inspected the damage. My corset was ruined, the fine fabric shredded by the lunge, a small vanity lost to the necessity of survival. I watched with a detached sort of fascination as the flesh beneath began to knit itself back together, the wound sealing with the unnatural speed of a body that no longer strictly obeyed the laws of the living.

"There... much better," I sighed, the tension in my shoulders finally uncoiling.

Ilchymis stepped over the carnage, his expression a fractured mask of exhaustion and lingering adrenaline. He tossed the general’s head aside with a grunt of finality and kicked the body away from the path. "I have never been more grateful for someone being undead. Such irony," he muttered, a disbelieved chuckle breaking through his exasperated relief. "Chryses, are you okay to stand? We need to get you two on that boat. There is no time to celebrate our victory."

He motioned for Belladonna to lead the way, his gaze lingering on her for a moment. He tapped her shoulder, a quiet, grounded gesture of respect between two warriors who had just held back the tide. "Take care of yourself over there."

I pulled myself upright, my boots finding purchase on the salt-slicked boardwalk. Ilchymis was right. We had bought ourselves minutes, not hours, and the Queen’s reach would only grow longer once the silence of this garrison was discovered.

"Belladonna, let us go," I said, catching her hand. I kept one arm pressed firmly against my stomach, though not because the wound remained, but because the memory of the cold steel still felt fresh against my nerves.

The boardwalk creaked and bent beneath our heavy, hurried steps as we reached the small vessel. With Belladonna’s help, I untied the coarse rope and hauled the anchor from the muck. We set sail, the canvas snapping as it caught the brisk sea air, finally turning our prow toward the Isles.

I leaned against the rail, watching the silhouette of Neprene grow smaller against the horizon. I looked for the shadow of a stag in the trees, hoping Ilchymis would find his own way into the dark and stay alive. But when I turned back to the deck, my concern shifted.

Belladonna was standing rigid, her eyes fixed on the ragged, blood-stained tear in my blouse where the sword had entered. Her hand moved almost unconsciously, hovering over the sliced fabric as if she could still see the blade buried there.

Chryses

I did not look back. I kept my gaze fixed on the horizon of blue cobblestones, refusing to let the ghost of Lunné pull at my resolve. A heavy, bitter regret settled in my chest, a cold weight that sat alongside the phantom itch of the god in my skull. The way we had ended was a jagged wound that had never truly closed, but as I walked toward the salt air of the harbor, I realized the shape of our love no longer fit the woman I had become. I wanted him safe, and I wanted him away from the path of my blade, but the bond was severed. I shook my head, letting out a long, resolved sigh that tasted of sea salt and finality. It was over.

Ilchymis was waiting where the market stalls bled into the open docks. He didn't need words. One look at my face and the rigid line of Belladonna’s shoulders told him everything he needed to know. He gave a sharp, understanding nod and fell into step, his heavy hooves sounding a rhythmic warning against the stone.

The three of us finally reached the eastern docks, where a modest vessel bobbed against the pilings. It was a small boat, just enough for Belladonna and me to navigate the crossing to the Isles, its wooden hull looking fragile against the vast ultramarine of the bay. I looked up to the pale sky and whispered a silent, desperate prayer to the divines for a safe passage.

A voice like grinding gravel shattered my prayer. I spun around, my heart dropping into my stomach. Standing at the head of the boardwalk was a Motherian general I did not recognize, her armor gleaming with a predatory silver light. Behind her stood a small militia, their shields locked in a wall of iron. And there, trailing in her wake, was Lunné. He looked down at the ground, his expression a mask of agonizing pain and betrayal. I saw the white-knuckled grip he had on his bow, and I knew instantly that the mercy he had tried to show us had been stripped away.

Ilchymis, follow Belladonna. "Take the general. I will handle the others," I commanded, my voice dropping into a low, dangerous register.

Deep behind my eye, the itch suddenly vanished, replaced by a searing, euphoric heat. I felt it then, the dark, intoxicating bloodlust beginning to fester in my marrow. The promise of impending slaughter was a true arousal to Necromoria, a nectar that the god began to drink through my very veins. The vanity of the god surged, a cold tide of confidence that washed away my fear. I no longer cared if the docks ran red with the blood of every beautiful soldier standing before me. I hoped we would fell them all, save for one. My last gift to Lunné would be his survival, even if it was earned through the deaths of his comrades.

I rushed to the flank, my movements fluid and unnatural as the Void guided my limbs. With a sharp, guttural cry, I opened my grimoire and summoned Stachy. The air around me curdled instantly, the sweet sea breeze replaced by the suffocating, thick stench of rot and wet mold. It was a foul, necrotic odor that made the nearest soldiers stagger and retch into their helmets.

The poor fools who doubled over never had a chance to recover. My ever-hungry pet surged forward, a mass of shifting, fungal hunger that fell upon the weakened men. I watched with a detached, chilling fascination as they were consumed, their screams muffled by the very spores that had once claimed Illina.

Belladonna

The wooden planks of the dock hummed beneath my boots, vibrating with the rhythmic slap of the tide and the impending violence that hung heavy in the salt air. I kept my feet rooted at the edge of the boarding ramp, watching Chryses. She did not look back. That forward-staring gaze was a small rebellion and a small mercy both, a refusal to let the ghost of the archer she had once loved pull her apart.

I watched the set of her jaw and the way her fingers flexed around empty air. Regret passed over her like a shifting shadow, followed by a sudden, iron resolve that settled into her shoulders. It should have been enough to quiet the clawing jealousy under my ribs, but the knot remained, tight and cold.

When the militia stepped from the gloom, the Motherian general made himself a monument of silver and moth-winged confidence. Beside him stood Lunné, looking as though he had swallowed glass, his expression a fractured mask of duty and pain. My breath became shallow and practical. There was no room now for the bite of envy; there was only the shape of the threat and the weight of the steel in my hand. Ilchymis stood at my shoulder, answering the tension with a single, quiet nasal rumble. He understood. He would follow me into the mouth of the Void if I asked.

Chryses barked the orders I had been ready to give myself. Take the general. I almost wanted to laugh at the irony of it. The mage was handing me the task of violence like a grim gift. I nodded, my pupils narrowing into thin lines of malice as I mapped the path of my blade.

Then the smell hit.

It was a cloying, sour-sweet rot that promised ruin. Chryses moved like a storm breaking loose, and I could practically feel the dark electricity humming in her bones. Bloodlust was beginning to fester there, a thing that makes a warrior precise and terrible, but also unthreads the soul. It makes you forget the small, vital things, like the future that must be stitched together by the living.

I stepped forward before I realized I had decided to move. My hand found the hilt of my sword as naturally as a heartbeat. "Not like this," I said, my voice a low rope cutting through the sudden clamor of the docks. "Not for him. Not for any of them."

I didn't have to explain why. Survival is an ugly, stubborn sort of love that refuses the luxury of sentimentality. If it all boils down to our survival, let me go get him.

Ilchymis was a coiled force of nature beside me. I cast one final look at Lunné, seeing the way Chryses still held a piece of her heart for him, and then I turned my full attention to the general. Whatever favor he thought he carried within that polished armor would soon meet my steel and the bitter thing I became whenever someone threatened what was mine.

Chryses let loose Stachy, and the world seemed to retch. Men doubled over, their lungs seizing as the air turned to poison and mold. For a heartbeat, I felt that old, animal thrill of the kill, but I reached out and caught Chryses’ sleeve, my fingers biting into the fabric.

"Focus," I urged, my voice low but not unkind. "Keep one of those sparks for later. Live."

I would carve a path through this silver militia if I had to. I would hold the line between her and oblivion. If sacrifice was the price of his survival, I would not let her burn herself out on the morbid beauty of death. I would not let her make that tragic gift alone. We would win this, or I would personally tear the stars from the sky to make it so.

Chryses

Ilchymis moved with a fluid, natural grace that complemented my own, his heavy hooves and shifting weight creating a rhythm I could easily follow. He rolled with my strikes, his staff whistling through the air to launch jagged thorns at the unsuspecting Motherians as I sliced through their formation. Chryses had a keen eye for this sort of coordination, knowing exactly which of our strengths would knit together to form a seamless front.

Ilchymis rushed toward the final cluster of soldiers guarding the general, who only smirked from beneath the shadow of her helm. The air grew thick and heavy, a volatile mix of earthy magic and the stinging salt of the sea. Ilchymis raised his staff high above the fray, his voice steady as he recited a spell to summon a rose petal storm. The petals phased into existence with a shimmering light, honing in on the militia. They were beautiful and lethal, slicing through light armor like razors.

Ilchymis smirked as the storm cleared a path directly to the general. "Get on with it, the general is yours," he shouted, giving me a quick thumbs up before he spun away to finish off a Motherian lancer with a fresh burst of petals.

I focused my attention on the woman in silver, but I could not help but cast a glance toward Chryses. She had cornered Lunné near the edge of the docks. Even from here, I could see his white knuckles and his reddened eyes. The poor man was in an impossible position. The punishments of Lousheia were whispered to be worse than death, and if the Queen learned he had failed to capture her prize, her creativity would surely outpace their darkest nightmares.

"Lunné, do you want your freedom? You could come with us," I heard Chryses say, her hand extended toward him in an offer of salvation. "We could use someone like you to help us liberate Vitaemorphia."

The archer loosened his grip on his bow, his shoulders sagging as he weighed the thought. He looked stuck, caught between the terror of his Queen and the desperate pull of his past. "You know I can't, Chry. Lousheia's rage would be far too great for either of us to handle." He reached out as if to take her hand, then stopped, letting out a heavy, broken sigh. "The only way out is if you strike me down."

He sank to one knee on the salt-stained wood, bowing his head for an atonement I knew she would never give.

Chryses held both her hands out in a frantic protest. I saw her shake her head, backing away from the man she still loved in some fractured way. "Lunné, you are asking the impossible from me. I cannot strike you down." She looked over her shoulder at the battle I was about to join, her eyes darting between Ilchymis and me. "We are fighting to liberate everyone, you included, dear Lunné."

I saw the way Lunné watched her. He looked at how she followed my every move, and I could practically feel the twist of jealousy in his gut from across the boardwalk. He was wondering what I was to her, just as I had wondered about him.

"Lunné, you will act then as if you were knocked out in battle," Chryses insisted, her voice breaking him out of his heated thoughts. "When we defeat your general, do not say a word. We will meet again. Your survival is my mercy."

She blew him a kiss, guiding her breath with her palm as her spores drifted toward him. The beautiful man slumped over, falling into a forced unconsciousness. Chryses turned on her heel and sprinted toward us, her loyal, rotting pet Stachy skittering behind her with an unnatural speed.

I turned back to the general, my blade held low and ready. She looked tough, her silver armor gleaming with a mocking confidence, but she was finally alone.

Belladonna

I strode into the center of the docks like a living omen, death wrapped in flesh and cold steel. My sword felt less like a tool and more like an extension of my own arm, every swing a blur of precision and calculated brutality. I cut through the Motherian soldiers like ribbons of silk. My off-hand flicked needle-thin blades that found their marks in the gaps of their armor, grounding men before they could even think of fleeing. When they fell, I was already upon them, my blade drinking deep from the life they tried to hold onto.

Every splash of blood that kissed my skin felt like a tonic. I could feel my hair shifting, shimmering into a richer and wilder green that fed on the carnage around me.

We were surrounded by a ring of blades and desperate fear when I finally turned to face the general. My eyes glowed like foxfire, vibrant and feral in the shadow of the silver armor. High in the rafters of the nearby warehouses, the nightingales stirred, their song trembling as if the city itself were holding its breath. I bared my teeth, the copper tang of blood staining my grin. The general, to his credit, looked almost admiring as he shifted his weight.

I bit my lip until the skin broke, dragging my tongue slowly across the red smear.

"I would say send the queen my regards," I purred, my voice low and dark with delight, "but last I checked, she was not a medium."

I felt my body begin to shift, my tendons twisting and bones bending beneath my skin with a deliberate and brutal grace. The sound was like heavy leather tearing. My muscles coiled and reshaped, sharpening into a form that was colder and more calculated than any mindless frenzy. I was not turning into a beast; I was becoming something worse. I was a predator in perfect control. A panther with a sword and murder in her smile.

The general grinned back, his movements practiced and calm. He parried my barrage of attacks, his thin blade catching mine and keeping me at bay as if he were taming a dog.

"Easy now, he taunted," his voice steady beneath his helm. "I would not want to kill you, but I will if I have to."

He thrust his sword forward in a lightning-fast strike, the tip barely nicking my belt as I twisted away just in time. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chryses watching our dance of blades. She was already beginning to gather a potent ball of spores, a swirling mass of rot that promised to snuff the life from him. She caught my gaze and motioned for me to lead the silver monument her way.

I pivoted on the slick wood of the dock, my movements fluid and predatory. I began to circle him, feinting a heavy strike to his left to force him toward the trap. The bloodlust was a steady hum in my ears, but I kept my focus sharp. I would lead him to the slaughter, and I would make sure he didn't see the end coming until the spores were already in his lungs.

My fangs flashed like polished ivory in the moonlight. I danced through the wreckage of the docks, my movements mocking the very idea of his military discipline. I matched his swordplay stroke for stroke, the metal singing a duet of sparks.

"Oh, you are awfully confident for a bug," I whispered, my tone a mixture of silk and venom.

With a sudden, violent flick of my wrist, I caught the vibration of his steel just right. My blade sang a high, lonesome note as it struck his sword from his grasp. The weapon clattered to the blue stone at his feet, ringing out like a mockery of his rank. I stepped back, my lips curling into a smirk as I saw Chryses closing the distance.

"Go on then, General," I gestured with my blade in a mocking flourish. "Pick it up. I would hate to think you would fall for me without a fight."

I eased back further, pivoting my body to draw him into the trap. I was drawing him closer to the mage, closer to the rot. I felt the urge to fence with him, to engage in a dance of death I didn't remember learning. Was this the Nightingale’s gift, or some ancient hunger waking up in my blood? My hair was now a deep, mossy green, heavy with the scent of the hunt.

Chryses

The general recovered his sword with a frantic, metallic scrape against the stone and pushed himself back to his feet. He narrowed his eyes, edging toward Belladonna with a calculated, predatory caution. He spared a fleeting, jagged glance behind her as I drew closer, his gaze heavy with the weight of his duty. "My orders are clear. Retrieve the princess," he spat, his voice echoing with a hollow, military iron. He cocked his neck and sliced the air in front of him, a sharp threat that felt entirely fruitless against the darkness we had brought to the docks.

I looked up from the shadow of my hat, my eyes locking onto Belladonna as our small, battered company converged. "Belladonna, my dear, you should not play with your victims," I said, my voice tight and high with a visceral disgust for the man in silver. "This poor fool does not know he is already dead."

The general let out a roar of frustrated pride, a sound that was more animal than human. He sidestepped Belladonna with a sudden, violent burst of speed, shoulder-checking her just enough to throw her off balance before he lunged forward. I felt the cold, biting reality of his steel as it plunged into my stomach. He grinned, a sickening flash of triumph crossing his face as he ripped the blade out, already turning his body to deliver a finishing blow to Belladonna.

It took no more than a single, ragged exhale for the world to shift. The general collapsed to his knees, his momentum dying as his own sword was jammed upward into his sternum by a force he had clearly underestimated.

"Lucky shot, bitch," he gurgled, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. "But the empire still won." He forced a bloody, defiant grin even as the light began to flicker in his eyes.

Ilchymis did not give him the satisfaction of a final word. He reached his hand forward, his face a mask of earthen fury as a frenzy of rose petals exploded into the air. They swirled in a suffocating, pink-and-crimson cyclone around the general’s head, clogging his throat and blinding his sight. It was the opening we needed. The man was pinned by the very beauty Ilchymis commanded, leaving his throat exposed and his silver armor useless against the vengeance Belladonna was about to unleash.