36. Selis
Selis
The trees part like they’re exhaling. Like they’re done keeping the world out.
And there it is…
The Garden of Selene.
I stop walking. Not because I want to—because I can’t not . It rises from the forest floor like something sacred and wrong. A secret that should’ve stayed buried, dragged into the light against its will.
Domed. Vast. Too clean. It doesn’t look built. It looks grown —like it sprouted up from the earth the same way rot does when you’re not watching.
The buildings inside shimmer pale with polished stone, wood veined with silver, and dome after dome of glass that catches the light like a wound catching salt. The largest of them towers at the center, crowned in a great glass curve that gleams like a second moon.
“The Garden,” Naera breathes beside me.
And all I can think is: It’s a tomb.
Her tomb.
There’s a wall around it—white, unblemished, smooth as polished bone. No guards. No obvious defenses. Nothing standing between us and it but the air .
And that’s how you know a place is dangerous.It doesn’t bare its teeth. It doesn’t try to scare you. It assumes you already understand.
We walk the last stretch in silence. I trail behind the two vampires.
Rialeth walks beside Naera now, talking too softly for me to hear. Probably filling her head with prayers and lies about purity and balance.
I watch Naera’s back instead.
The line of her shoulders—held just a little too straight. Like she’s trying to convince herself this doesn’t scare her. The way her silver hair catches the moonlight, every strand aglow like it’s already being called upward, already answering a goddess that doesn’t deserve her.
She’s walking toward her own death.
And the worst part? She looks like she belongs here .
Like some part of her is relieved to be back on holy ground. Like she’s come home.
My throat goes tight, raw. I want to call out to her. Shake her. Drag her away. But my feet keep moving.
The gate comes into view—if you can call it that. No bars. No lock. Just a wide archway carved with moons in every phase, set into that gleaming bone-white wall.
As we step closer, it opens. Not with sound. Not with effort. Just a hush of air, parting like it’s been waiting. Like The Garden has known she’d return all along.
And I realize—I’m not ready.
Not for this.
Not to let her go.
Not to watch them strip her down, sanctify her bones, and turn her into a myth .
Somewhere inside me, something old and sharp and familiar twists—it feels like losing Lior all over again.
The helplessness. The cruelness of the gods. The slow, brutal unraveling of someone you’d die for—while you stand by, powerless, watching it happen.
I swore I’d never feel that again. I built a life around never feeling that again.
And yet here I am. Watching her step into the mouth of The Garden like she was carved for it.
I hate it. Hate how my hands shake. Hate how the air feels too thin. Hate that I can’t stop this, not without becoming the monster she swore I wasn’t.
One part of me trembles with the need to grab her, run, burn this place down before it swallows her whole.
The other watches with cold logic, arms crossed, already letting her go.
She’s leaving, the softer part murmurs, raw and frantic . This is it. She’s leaving.
Then let her, the other replies, sharp as flint. You kept her alive. You did your part.
But you love her.
And love doesn't survive in places like this…
She was never going to survive this. Not with me. Not with them. Not with gods who treat her blood like a promise.
She was always going to bleed.
I just kept pretending otherwise, and I hate us both for it.
We stop just inside the threshold. The moonlight sharpens around us.
The Garden rises ahead: towering, pale, and beautiful in the way venom is beautiful. Moonlight and bone and silver glass—holy and hollow. A sanctified grave .
I don’t believe in omens. I don’t believe in fate. But this place makes me feel like I’m the only one who doesn’t.
Rialeth moves forward, head bowed, every step soaked in reverence.
I want to bury my dagger in her back.
A figure emerges from the central building—tall, draped in gray, old enough to wear sanctity like skin. Something about him rings wrong. Sharp smile. Glassy eyes. Vampire, maybe. Or something worse wearing a priest’s robes.
“Daughter of The Garden, you return at last. The Circle has prepared—”
Then he sees Naera. His words die in his throat. He drops to his knees like the moon herself walked through the door. I hate him instantly.
Naera startles. Just a flicker in her body. But then she breathes. Slow. Deep. And steps forward.
That’s when I move. Not thinking. Not breathing.
I reach for her.
My hand curls around her wrist, tight enough to stop her. She turns to me. Eyes wide. Soft. Like I’m something holy.
Expecting… what?
A goodbye? A command? Permission?
I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck she wants from me—only that she’s still looking at me like I’m hers, like I didn’t just walk her to the edge of her death.
I move before I can think better of it.
I cup her face.
My thumb brushes the curve of her cheekbone. Her skin is too warm. Too real. I tilt her chin up like I might kiss her again—but I don’t.
I just look .
I make myself memorize her.
The flush rising along her throat. The glint of moisture in her lashes. The way her lips part, waiting, breathing me in like I’m the one full of light.
My pulse punches through my ribs. This is reckless. This is dangerous. This is wrong.
She is yours , some bone-deep part of me murmurs.
And maybe I’m a fool. But I lean in anyway. Close enough for her breath to hit my mouth.
“You’re sacred,” I murmur, my voice like a blade dulled by grief, “but not to me.”
She blinks.
“To me, you’re a job I should’ve finished before it bled me dry.”
My throat tightens. I hate how much it costs me to keep speaking.
“I should’ve walked away the night I met you.”
Her hand is in mine, trembling.
I feel it—her fear, her faith, her fire—all of it bleeding into my palm.
I let it go.
I drop her hand.
She doesn’t speak at first. She just stares at me—like I’ve cracked her open with my bare hands and now I’m walking away from the mess. Her throat works like she’s trying to swallow something too sharp.
Then, quietly, “I know.”
Two words.
That’s all.
But they feel like a knife slipped between my ribs. Clean. Inevitable .
She nods, barely—like she’s trying to convince herself it’s fine. Like she knew this would happen all along. Then she steps back, her face shifting into something unreadable.
I want to scream.
Instead, I clench my jaw and stare straight ahead as the priest stands and steps forward. He moves like he owns the moonlight, like the ground should bend for him.
“Child,” he says, voice honey-thick with reverence. “The moon has not forsaken us after all.”
He takes Naera’s hands in his, and despite what I said, I have the strangest desire to cut his off at their wrists.
But then his gaze slides to me.
“And you,” he says, with a nod and a smile like frost. “You’ve done the moonmother’s work.”
I force a smirk. Let it settle on my face like armor.
“I’ve done mine,” I say.
The priest smiles, soft and indulgent, like that’s the same thing. Like we’re both just faithful servants playing our parts.
Another priest emerges. Long robes trailing over the marble like mist, eyes sharp as flint. He bows to Naera like she’s already ascended, murmurs something about preparation, then turns to Rialeth.
They follow him.
Naera doesn’t look back.
I don’t call her name. Don’t move. Not an inch. Because if I do, I won’t stop.
The rest blurs.
And another priest appears. This one has the purse. A satchel of coin so heavy it should’ve made a sound when it hit my hands, but I barely feel it. Doesn’t matter how much it is. Could buy a ship, a city, a new name—but it won’t buy her back .
They don’t offer me a place to rest. Don’t pretend to care. Just motion toward the gates and point me towards a nearby town.
So I walk.
And when those gates shut behind me, seamless as breath, I still don’t breathe.
Silence crashes over me like a wave.
But inside—inside there’s screaming:
“You let her go… You let her go! How could you let her go?!”
Like she was never real.
Except I can still feel her hand in mine, small and trembling.
Still feel her mouth on my skin, the bruise she kissed into my collarbone like a brand.
Still taste the vow I never let myself speak.
This is why you don’t love things.
This is why you leave before you’re left.
This is why you never let anyone become a reason.
I stare at the gate of The Garden just long enough to know I’ll never forgive myself.
Then I turn.
And I walk.
And though my pockets jingle with coin, I already feel poorer than I’ve ever been.