Chapter Eleven
I became a Seer through blood magic. I was the first witch ever to discover the art of it. And through it, with my blood, I have kept Mal Blackburn’s powers at bay.
I’ve also kept a close watch over her.
Tabitha Wysteria
The land upon which Mal fell was unlike anything she had ever known, a desolate realm sculpted by torment and despair.
The earth beneath her was cracked and lifeless, as if it had never known softness or bloom.
A thick orange mist hung low over everything, curling like smoke through the air, clogging the lungs with every breath.
Mal gasped, coughing violently as she dropped to her knees, her throat burning.
A hand gripped her arm firmly, insistent, and hauled her upright.
All around her, the remnants of a forgotten world crumbled in silence.
Shattered ruins lay strewn across the barren plain like the bones of something ancient and long dead.
Through the haze, she glimpsed wandering souls, dragging their broken bodies forward, leaning against some unseen force that pushed them back with cruel, relentless pressure.
Some had collapsed entirely, sprawled upon the cracked earth, mouths stretched in silent screams of agony. The moment they caught sight of the newcomers, their eyes sparked with desperate hope, and they reached out, trembling arms lifting, pleading for contact, for salvation, for anything.
‘We need to keep moving,’ Thanatos said, his voice low but firm.
‘I can hardly feel my feet,’ Mal replied, her limbs heavy, as though the very ground beneath her was sapping the strength from her bones.
Without hesitation, Thanatos clasped Makaria’s hand in his own, then reached for Mal’s, his expression tinged with amusement. ‘You won’t make it across this cursed land without my aid.’
‘Is that so?’
‘I am Death,’ he said with a smirk.
‘And I am a goddess or so you feel compelled to remind me every waking hour,’ she muttered.
Thanatos chuckled, unbothered. ‘This is the dominion of one of Hell’s many kings. Belphegor. Not the worst of the lot, though not one for conversation either.’
‘Why does it feel as though I can’t move?’ Mal asked, struggling forward, each step more labour than the last. Her very marrow ached, her breath short, as though the air itself wished to lull her into stillness.
‘Each ring is ruled by a king, and each king punishes souls according to the sins they bore in life or those that linger in their hearts,’ Thanatos explained, gesturing with a nod towards the wretched souls dragging themselves through the mire.
‘This ring belongs to Sloth. That’s why your limbs are leaden.
The realm weaves lassitude into your flesh, tempts you to rest, to yield.
But if you stop, you’ll never leave. You’ll be one of them. ’
‘Why doesn’t it affect you?’ she asked, gritting her teeth against the pull of exhaustion.
‘Because I am Death, Melinoe,’ he replied smoothly. ‘Without me, the kings would have no souls to claim.’
‘How special you must feel,’ she muttered under her breath.
From the way his chest lifted in a silent laugh, she knew he had heard and that it amused him greatly.
They pressed on, but with every step, Mal found her limbs growing heavier, her muscles stiffening as though she were wading through honeyed tar.
Thanatos bore most of the burden now, half-dragging them through the thickening haze.
The air had grown viscous, almost suffocating, and with it came a mounting urge to simply lie down and let the world fall away.
‘I just want to sleep,’ Makaria murmured, crumpling to her knees. Thanatos caught her swiftly, hauling her upright again with little patience.
‘Keep moving,’ Mal snapped, though the words were as much for herself as for her sister. Her legs had become stone, her body unwilling, as though it no longer obeyed her command.
‘I can’t carry both of you,’ Thanatos said, irritation colouring his voice. ‘I’ll take you first and come back for her.’
‘No,’ Mal said sharply, her gaze flaring with defiance. ‘Take Makaria. Then return for me.’
He didn’t argue. He simply nodded, as if understanding there was no room for debate, and gathered Makaria into his arms. Her eyes had already closed, her limbs limp as threads of silk.
Mal collapsed to her knees, breath shallow, fury and fatigue twining through her like vines.
She tried to rise, and saw then the way Thanatos looked at her, worry stretching in those obsidian eyes.
It startled her more than any demon might have.
She forced herself upright again, spine trembling with the effort, if only to banish that look from his face.
‘Go,’ she whispered, voice tight. And just like that, he vanished into the orange fog, his figure devoured by the mist.
Mal released a long, shuddering breath, relief washing through her briefly, only for despair to settle in its place as the moments dragged on.
Thanatos did not return.
Mal forced her legs to move, each step torn from her with a grunt and a low curse breathed against the weight of the world. Still, she pressed forward, inch by agonising inch, sheer will dragging her across the desolate, dust-choked landscape. Until, without warning, a hand seized her from behind.
She cried out, spinning with a gasp, only to be met by the ghastly sight of three wretched souls.
They clung to her like drowning men to driftwood, desperate and voiceless, their mouths gaping in silent screams, their hollow eye sockets staring into nothing.
Mal thrashed, struggling to wrench free, but her limbs were leaden, her strength almost spent.
The souls pulled her down, dragging her to the cracked, ochre earth. Dust billowed up around her, filling her lungs, stealing the breath from her lips. Her vision blurred. The air turned thick as smoke.
She collapsed, body trembling, and her mind, fragile and fraying, slipped away.
It took her somewhere gentler.
A memory.
To a castle bathed in firelight, where a prince with golden skin and hair spun from sunlight had once looked at her like she was everything.
Ash appeared behind her eyes, smiling in that quiet, beautiful way he always had, as though she were his entire world.
She could almost feel the ghost of his hands against her skin, the warmth of his breath at her ear as he whispered, keep going.
And so Mal slipped into her memories, into the soft cradle of dreams, letting the world bleed away as the dead clawed and clung. The pain, the weight, the hands, became distant, dulled beneath the tide of her recollection.
She retreated where they could not follow, into the echo of Ash’s voice, into the warmth of what once was. A refuge not of stone or shield, but of love and longing.
There, in the silence between heartbeats, she was lost.
Not to death.
But to memory.
…
‘Mal, open your eyes.’
She didn’t want to. Not really. But something in the voice, familiar and firm, pulled at her, coaxing her from the dark. Slowly, reluctantly, she obeyed.
And blinked into a world that could not possibly be.
She was seated in the grand hall of the wyverian castle, the great chamber draped in shadows and flickering with the cold glow of blue fire. The wind whispered through the high open windows, and somewhere far off, the mournful cry of a wyvern split the sky. Her heart clenched at the sound.
Beside her stood her father, King Ozul, his calloused hand resting gently on her arm.
‘We need to go, or we’ll be late,’ he said, his voice rich with the weight of command softened by affection. He wore no armour now, only a simple set of black wyverian robes, their fabric whispering with movement.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, her voice a thread of confusion. ‘Is Kai here? And Kage?’
‘Kage is walking with your mother,’ King Ozul said, a smile playing on his lips. ‘They’re having one of their morning strolls. And your brother is giving your sister a lesson.’
Mal blinked, her brow furrowing. ‘My sister?’
‘Yes, Mal.’ He laughed, and it was a sound that broke her heart with its warmth. ‘Your sister. Haven. Are you feeling unwell, child? Shall I send for one of the court physicians?’
She went very still.
This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. And yet his voice, his touch, the castle around her, all of it pressed in like a memory made flesh.
‘No,’ she whispered, shaking her head faintly. ‘I’m fine.’
Her eyes dropped to his outstretched hand, patiently waiting for hers. She took it, trembling, her fingers curling around his. And the feel of his skin, warm, alive and here, unravelled something inside her. She hadn’t realised just how much she had missed him. Missed this.
Tears pricked her eyes. She did not look away.
Mal followed her father through the shadowed halls of the castle, their steps echoing like whispers of the past. Beyond its looming gates, the path unfurled in silence, leading towards the Forest of Silent Cries, a place where the soil remembered every soul it had swallowed.
She hesitated at the threshold, her boots grazing the death-touched earth. A chill crept through her bones, and with each step deeper into the forest, a growing unease twisted in her gut.
In the distance, the crooked silhouette of the Seer’s hut emerged through the trees, its shape too familiar, too still. Mal faltered. The memory wrapped around her like a shroud.
From the gloom, the Seer emerged just as Mal had remembered.
Her hair, a cascade of grey feathers, rustled softly in the breeze.
Her eyes, yellow as moonlit owls, gleamed with an ancient knowing.
Half-woman, half-nightmare, though Mal now understood such illusions were only masks.
The Seer’s true face lay hidden beneath layers of shadow and spellcraft.
‘She is growing quickly,’ the Seer murmured, her voice rasping like parchment dragged through ash.
‘She is,’ the king replied, pride softening his usually stern features. But then his brow furrowed, troubled. ‘Will he come back?’