7. Chapter Seven
CHAPTER SEVEN
AGGONID
B uilding another dreamscape is the only tenable solution, as it will mean we can connect across realms—a manifestation of shared consciousness, born from magic and memory. It isn’t real in a tangible sense, but it feels visceral, as if the bonds we’ve forged shape the very air we breathe here. The last time we created this place, it was to help Morte when she was snatched from the underworld, as she’d lost all memory of us when she was sent back to Bedlam.
But this? This dreamscape is a nightmare, fractured and wrong. The landscape is unnatural, twisting and bending in ways that defy the laws of reality. Jagged mountains stretch toward a bruised sky, their peaks piercing through an expanse that bleeds violet and black. The ground underfoot shifts, cracking like fragile bone with each step, as if the earth itself resents our presence here.
A roaring ocean crashes in the distance, its dark waters boiling, surging against invisible shores that exist only in fragments. The scent of sulfur clings to the dreamscape—familiar and suffocating. This domain holds nothing for us but failure, yet we return to it. Again and again.
I stand at the center of it all, barely containing the rage thrumming beneath my skin. This place is our dreamscape creation, an extension of Romarie, but I feel none of its calm within its bounds. Caius lingers nearby, his eyes tracking me with a quiet that grates my nerves, as though I’m one match away from a wildfire. And perhaps I am. One flint from razing Valtorious and his entire realm. And his little prick of a son, too.
Caius doesn’t speak as he approaches me, and instead, he slides his palm against mine, locking our fingers together. I know he’s holding it together for my sake, for all of our sakes, because if I crack, everything falls apart. Caius knows this. Always has, for the thousands of years we’ve been mates. He doesn’t need to say it; the strength in his grip, the way his claws retract to avoid digging into my skin, says enough.
You know things are bad when he’s the voice of reason, the one keeping me tethered to sanity.
Across from us, Wilder paces, his enormous merfae body tense with frustration. His teeth grind together, and the magic around us shifts, brimming with restless energy. We had no problem forming this dreamscape, not with the enormous amount of sanguimetal here. But even he knows the truth—none of this matters if we can't reach her. His ocean, his storms—they’re meaningless here, trapped in a dream we can barely control.
Emeric leans against a fractured stone pillar, his pale blue eyes astute as ever, drifting between Wilder and me like he's daring one of us to break first. His hellhound blood pumps with the same heat that courses through me, but we both hold it in check. Here, surrounded by the remnants of what should be power, we’re powerless. There’s nothing more damning than that.
The dreamscape shudders. A vague pulse beats somewhere beyond the horizon, weak but persistent, like a lifeline we can’t quite grasp. Morte. She’s out there somewhere, but even now, this place—the closest we can get to her—isn’t enough to bridge the distance between us.
I clench my fists, teeth grinding as the dream fights back against my control, spitting and twisting away from me .
Azazel.
His name crawls through my thoughts, vile, staining everything with its poison. Traitor . I want to tear his name from my mind, but it clings like blood. If we don’t find her, if he keeps her ... no, I can’t let that thought linger. It’s too dangerous.
I’d never kill him for good. No, he deserves far worse than that. I’ll spend the rest of eternity torturing him in the underworld.
Healing him just enough to take him back from the brink before I do it all over again.
My wings itch to spread, to tear through the oppressive weight of this place, but I keep them furled, my rage building beneath the surface. The others feel it, too—I see it in the way Wilder’s eyes shift to the horizon, in the way Caius tightens his grip against my hand. We’re trapped in this limbo of false reality, searching for her in the void of Azazel’s lies.
Emeric straightens, his attention locking onto the shifting horizon, catching something the rest of us missed. Something is moving.
“She’s here!” he breathes, not pausing to do so much as look back at us as he takes off in a run, his figure blurring into the swirling colors of the dreamscape.
We follow, desperation fueling our strides, each of us pulled towards Morte. The landscape shifts endlessly around us, continually morphing—a valley morphs into a desert, then to a forest only to become a vast expanse of scorched earth under our feet. Trees twist into gnarled specters, the ground swells like a living entity, and the sky flits between dusk and a storm-laden twilight. No doubt whatever bullshit Valtorious and his son have done to hide her is causing this.
Crimson strands cling to her tear-streaked face, and though her limbs tremble, she forces herself upright after the ground heaves beneath her. My breath snags in my lungs at the sight of her, something ancient cracking open inside of me at being in her proximity, even if it’s just in a fractured dream.
Morte.
Queen of the Underworld.
Soul bond .
My shadows race across the upturned land, buoying her until she’s steady, caressing her cheek until I can hold her.
We break into full sprints, the ground warping beneath our strides as though even the dreamscape struggles to keep up with us.
Emeric reaches Morte first, the two colliding in an embrace. Her brows knit together, her eyes wide with both relief and grief.
“Emeric,” she whispers, her forehead lowering to rest against him just as Caius approaches. His lips move closer to her ear, urgent words I can’t hear spilling from him, fingers trembling against her back.
Caius barrels into them, his raw energy crashing into the moment like a tsunami. He rips Morte from Emeric’s arms, and his hands tighten around her waist as if he could fuse them together by force alone. His breaths come ragged, and his eyes burn with an almost feral intensity.
“You’re here,” Caius rasps, trembling. His hands trace her face, her arms, her sides, searching for something tangible, some proof she hasn’t already slipped through his fingers. “You’re fucking here.” His voice cracks, wild and guttural.
Morte looks up at him, her lips parting as if to speak, but Caius doesn’t give her the chance. He crashes his mouth against hers, desperate, brutal. The kiss is fire and fury, an explosion of everything he's held back since the moment she was torn from us.
Emeric doesn’t move, though conflict ripples across his face, that silent question of whether to intervene or let Caius burn out.
Wilder hovers at the edge, watching with those cool, calculating eyes for a moment to retrieve her. She spots him over Caius’s shoulder and lets out a cry, tugging Wilder into an embrace.
The world bends at the seams, threatening to collapse under the sheer weight of our emotions. The fuckery Valtorious has cast here may hide her from us, but nothing can hide her from our mating bonds. We’ve always been connected.
But something’s wrong.
Her eyes. Even locked in the heat of Wilder’s kiss, they search for something. There’s relief, yes, but something darker hides beneath it. A tremor in the way her hand clutches at Wilder’s hair, in the way she breaks away from the kiss just enough to suck in a desperate breath.
I stagger forward, something breaking loose inside me as her focus shifts over his shoulder and settles on me. The raw anguish in her eyes slices deeper than I thought possible. Her mouth parts, a soft exhale escaping as though she doesn’t quite believe I’m real.
Morte stumbles toward me, her hands clutching at my arms with a desperation that leaves me breathless. I draw her close, her body leaning into mine, surrendering to the haven she’s resisted for so long. She grips the fabric of my shirt, her fingers trembling as a sob wracks her frame.
Her voice comes out soft, the words muffling against me as she speaks. “I thought ... I thought you wouldn’t come.”
I tilt her chin up gently, meeting her tear-filled eyes. “Even in the worlds were unmade, no force in the cosmos, nor god, nor beast, will stand between us. I would rise from the ruins to bring you home, My Soul.” I cup her cheeks with desperate hands, bringing my lips to her forehead. “The earths could split, and time itself could shatter, but I would still find you.”
Her breath hitches as she melts into me, her pale hands clutching at my arms. The tension in her frame eases slightly, like a thread pulled taut for too long finally loosening. A soft, shuddering exhale slips past her lips, her forehead resting against me as though drawing strength from the contact. For the briefest moment, it feels as though the bond between us hums with relief, her shoulders sagging as she lets herself lean into me.
But then her body stiffens again, and she jerks upright with a sharp inhale. Her eyes, like saucers, meet mine, frantic.
“Azazel,” she whispers. The sound of his name on her lips turns my blood to fire. My hands drop to her shoulders as I search her eyes.
Caius stiffens, too, his tail whipping angrily behind him as though the name itself has ripped him in half. His voice drops, quiet and with a lethal edge to it. “Don’t say that name.”
But Morte pulls back, her eyes flitting between us all like a cornered animal. As though she knows we’ve come for his blood and will make good on it the moment we’re able. She can taste the vengeance in the air. The desperation. I’d like to think that’s why she was so quick to embrace me, but stepped away when she remembers fucking Azazel .
How he betrayed her, too.
Nearly as bad as I did. When I had her sent back to the fae realm after torturing and killing her. It’s something I’ll never get over.
And it’s not even the worst of my crimes towards my soul bond. The thought has me bracing my palms against my knees, my breath sawing in and out of me with difficulty.
"He ... he has me," she stammers, her words shaking. "He—he’s not what you think?—"
“Doesn’t fucking matter!” Caius roars, his fury erupting. "He stole you. He’s a liar, a spy. No excuses can change that."
Wilder steps forward then, his words calm but barbed in their intensity. “Let her speak, Caius.”
Caius turns on Wilder, his fists clenching, eyes wild with unchecked rage. For a moment, I think he’s going to lash out, and the entire dreamscape trembles under the weight of that possibility. But my mate just growls low in his throat, releasing Morte from his bruising grip, though his eyes never leave her.
I rise to my full height. “What has he done?” The words scrape out of my throat, each syllable laced with my hatred for that bastard son of Valtorious. The one who dared call her his mate.
Morte looks up at me, her eyes full of sorrow, full of something that should never be there. Fear.
And it kills me.
“We’re camping somewhere?—”
“—Where?” Caius interrupts.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know.” She turns to face me fully. “There are woods with silver trees. It’s cold. Sleeting right now. There are three moons. But magic isn’t working right.”
“What do you mean?” Wilder tucks a lock of her red hair behind her ear.
“Servants and guards were able to sift into the forest not long after us, but when we went to bed, Az nor his father could do a silencing spell.” Morte shivers, wrapping her arms around herself as if feeling the chill of that strange place, even within the warmth of the dreamscape. “It’s like the magic is being … drained or filtered. I overheard one of the guards saying the forest might be cursed.”
“Maybe you’re in a territory where magic is unpredictable or nullified. King Valtorious must be desperate to hide there,” Wilder offers.
Morte shakes her head again. “The king seemed surprised magic wasn’t working.” She swallows, glancing between us. “I don’t know where we are. But I’m going to see if I can get any information out of Az as soon as magic starts working again. Once we can talk without his father overhearing.”
Her words undulates through the dreamscape, twisting the landscape again. The sky darkens, and the ground beneath us rumbles, cracking as though it might swallow us whole. I steady myself, forcing the dream to bend to my will. It’s thin, slipping through our fingers like sand, but I tighten my grip on it. We’re running out of time.
“Then we’ll tear it all apart until we find you,” I growl. "We’re coming for you," I promise her, though I don’t miss the shadow of doubt clouding her eyes.
The sky brightens, as though in the real world, she’s beginning to wake.
"But listen to me closely," I continue, leaning in so that my face looms larger in the dreamscape, ensuring she captures every word. I bring a hand to her cheek, cupping it to bring her close as I murmur against her lips, “I love you.” Before she can respond, I press my mouth to hers in a chaste kiss and pull back. "Until we get there, you must keep yourself safe. Trust no one."
Grief flashes across her features as her image begins to fade, her outline blurring with the onset of morning light filtering into whatever captive place she occupies until she fades entirely.
No matter where she is, we’ll make the worlds bleed until she’s back in our arms.