8. The Grave
The Grave
Ianthe
For three days, I drank Eryx’s draught.
Every morning and every evening, Iaso handed me the small vial.
Every time the liquid slid down my throat, the numbness took hold.
The medicine did exactly what Eryx had promised.
It put the pain to sleep. The jagged pressure against my ribs vanished, and I could draw a full breath without bracing for agony.
I knew the potion didn’t cure the Thorn-Sickness. It merely masked the symptoms, leaving the parasite to grow quietly beneath my skin. But the relief was undeniable, and so was the routine.
When I slept, Skaros still came to me.
The potion numbed my nerves, but it couldn’t keep him out. He slipped past the frost, easing his essence into my breath to meet me in the misty garden of my dreams. We spent hours in that shared sanctuary. He held me. We spoke in the quiet language of minds pressed together.
But a subtle distance lingered between us.
It wasn’t a boundary created by the medicine.
It was an emotional chasm. His profound frustration pulsed beneath the surface of our connection.
He was forced to borrow my dreams just to possess a face and a voice.
I was a woman living a half-life, spending my waking hours half-numb so I could fall asleep and see him.
We were both ghosts, haunting a space between life and death.
The deeper our bond grew in the dark, the more I resented the waking world.
I wanted him to be real. I wanted to open my eyes and see the golden mane and the amber eyes, not just the smooth, creeping vine.
I could feel him holding back, burdened by the reality of his own unraveled existence.
I was sitting on the edge of my bed on the third afternoon, staring at the polished basalt floor, when the wooden door of the healing chamber opened.
Iaso stepped inside, accompanied by a woman with cascading silver hair.
“Ianthe,” Medea said, her lips curving into a warm, genuine smile. “It’s so good to see you awake.”
I stood up. My legs held my weight easily, free from the exhaustion that had once crippled me. “Medea, I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I asked to visit,” she explained, glancing at Iaso. “She agreed that a short walk in the fresh air might do you some good, provided you feel up to it.”
I looked toward the doorway. Skaros was here, hidden in this room. But he couldn’t manifest during the day without the harvesters coming to erase him. Perhaps it would do me good to leave the healing wing, just for a little while. “I feel perfectly fine. I would love a walk.”
Iaso retrieved a simple shawl and draped it over my shoulders. “Don’t push yourself, child. The draught numbs the pain, but your body is still fragile. If you feel faint, Medea will bring you straight back.”
“I will,” Medea promised.
We left the healing chamber together, emerging into the echoing corridors of the infirmary. The air, carrying the scent of damp stone, grew cooler as we approached the main doors.
As we crossed the threshold into the silver-blue twilight of Asphodelia, Medea hooked her arm through mine. She was wearing gloves today, no doubt an attempt to protect me. “This must be so difficult for you, Ianthe. I hope you know, Asphodelia doesn’t mean you harm.”
“I do know that,” I replied. “Iaso and Eryx have helped me so much with the Thorn-Sickness. It’s just… Everything here is so different.”
Medea guided me down an obsidian avenue and over an arched bridge. Underneath us, black water flowed through majestic canals. Dark barges glided silently through the mist. Death crystals flourished everywhere. But most notably, there were no asphodels.
I couldn’t find a way to ask Medea about it, so I changed the subject. “How did you manage it? Finding your mate for the first time?”
It should have been a simple enough question. After all, we’d spoken about it before. Several times. Yet, this time, Medea hesitated.
“I suppose… It’s a long story. And with everything that’s been happening, it has weighed heavily on me.”
I waited for her to say more, but she didn’t. Instead, she kept walking in silence, guiding me farther away from the main city.
The path finally opened into a massive, sprawling garden. It unfolded before a grand structure carved directly into the bedrock of the island. And as far as the eye could see, there were asphodels.
I could feel him again. Skaros. Almost as deeply and intimately as I did in the infirmary. “What is this place?” I asked.
“This is Phix’s garden,” Medea murmured, catching my expression as we approached. “Her den is nearby.”
“But that’s not the reason you brought me here, is it?” I prompted.
Medea didn’t bother to deny it. “You see right through me, Ianthe. Yes, I had another reason.”
We ventured deeper into the garden, into a portion that had been entirely swallowed by the overgrowth.
The vines here were as thick as my wrists, shifting in hues from pale green to a deep, burnished bronze.
They twisted around each other, forming a dense carpet across the stone.
The air vibrated with vitality, and with a quiet sense of resentment.
Medea stepped into the chaotic growth, moving toward the giant mound of asphodels at its center that glowed almost as brightly as the sun in Korinos. Her expression softened into a look of deep sorrow. “This place… It’s also his grave. This is where he fell.”
I stared at the thickest bronze vine in the cluster. “Who?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
“Skaros.”
The name left her lips with a delicate reverence. Hearing it spoken aloud in the waking world sent a shiver racing down my spine. I kept my eyes on the vines, afraid that looking at her would give me away.
“He was a manticore,” Medea continued. “A fierce, terrifying creature. He served in the same harvesting unit as Aion and Theron. They were as close as brothers.”
I let her words settle in the quiet of the garden.
Aion had visited my bedside, speaking gently of his father’s teachings and offering me a priceless scroll.
And I had seen Theron from the infirmary balcony days ago, methodically clearing the pathways.
He hadn’t just been performing a chore. He had been tending to the remains of his oldest companion.
“You knew him well,” I said.
Medea let out a small laugh. She looked up at the sky, her silver hair shifting over her shoulders. “I knew him for a very brief, chaotic time. When I arrived in Asphodelia, I was torn. I had found my mate in Aion, but we were forbidden from being together.”
I thought about the bronze colossus who spoke of Medea with such gentleness. They were obviously meant for one another. “What problem?” I asked.
“The laws of the Bride Market are ancient and unyielding,” Medea explained, her voice dropping into a quiet sadness.
“To claim a bride, to seal a bond on that stage, a monster must have a thread. It must be woven by the Moirae. But Aion is a construct, forged from bronze by his father. Legally, he did not exist as a person in the eyes of the Agora. He couldn’t step onto the auction block.
And if no one claimed me, I would have been sent away. ”
She looked back down at the tangled vines. “So, Skaros stepped onto the block in his place. He was my groom. I chose him.”
The revelation struck me with dizzying force.
My breath hitched. I stared at the silver-haired woman standing beside me, my mind racing. The creature who had visited my dreams, who had held me with such desperate vulnerability, had belonged to someone else. He had been her husband.
A sharp ache bloomed in my chest. It felt wildly misplaced. I had only known him in the dark, through the hazy connection of a dream, yet the idea of him standing beside another woman sent a rush of fierce jealousy through me.
“He was your mate,” I murmured, struggling to keep my voice even.
“In title only. A proxy arrangement so I could stay in the city,” Medea corrected gently, catching the tension in my posture.
Her silver eyes softened with understanding.
“He did it to protect Aion, but he also did it to protect me. And in truth… he volunteered because he knew he would never truly take a bride of his own.”
I blinked, the sudden jealousy giving way to genuine confusion. “Why?”
“Because he was a predator in the truest sense,” Medea replied, pursing her lips. “He viewed humans entirely as prey. He was a man-eater, driven by a deep, primal hunger for human flesh.”
A man-eater.
The word hung in the air between us, stark and undeniable. I looked down at my own arm, where the raised scars of the Thorn-Sickness lay hidden beneath my shawl.
Skaros had never struck me as predatory. Despite his nature, he’d never done anything to harm me. When presented with my frail body, he hadn’t sought to tear my throat out. When Eryx’s potion had blocked his way, he’d asked for my permission.
“Because my touch was lethal, he knew he could never give in to his instincts and consume me,” Medea continued, oblivious to my thoughts. “It was a safeguard for both of us. He never wanted a mate. He only wanted to help his friends.”
That was the first thing that made sense in this conversation. I clung to it and pressed for details, for anything she’d be willing to tell. “But how did he fall?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “If he was so powerful, what brought him down?”
Medea wrapped her arms around her waist. The sorrow in her gaze deepened. “During my claiming with Aion, the city’s death energy violently ruptured. It triggered a chaotic surge. Skaros was standing in this exact spot.”
She knelt, pressing her palm flat against the ground. The flowers gathered around her covered hands, trying to nip at her fingers. “He unwound. Before my eyes, his flesh and fur dissolved into threads of energy. In an instant, he was gone.”
I sank to my knees beside her. My hands trembled as I reached out, resting my fingers against the thickest, most vibrant stalk. It hummed warmly against my skin, recognizing my touch instantly.
“He died for you,” I whispered.
Medea flinched. She bowed her head, her silver eyes bright with tears. “Yes. He paid the price for my happiness.”
A sudden, violent surge of anger rose in my chest.
It was hot and bitter, burning through the lingering awe I had felt upon entering the garden. I looked at the woman kneeling next to me. She was beautiful, healthy, and whole. She had her mate. She had her freedom.
And Skaros had only the dirt. He didn’t even have me, not really.
For the past three days, I had been mourning the loss of the majestic beast from my dreams. I had resented waking up to empty walls and smooth vines, wishing he could manifest in the flesh and stand beside me.
As I knelt in the dirt, tracing the shape of his leaves, I realized how incredibly selfish my frustration had been.
Skaros was Skaros. Whether he possessed the golden mane and amber eyes of a manticore or the pale petals of an asphodel, the soul beneath remained exactly the same. He was my mate. I didn’t need the beast from the dreamscape. I only needed him.
I drew my hand away from the vine and stood up. The lingering traces of his death energy fueled my muscles, and the fierce resentment gave me strength.
“He isn’t gone,” I whispered.
Medea watched me, her brow furrowing slightly. “His essence remains in the garden. In the city. We had hoped that he’d be resting by now, but—”
“He isn’t resting.” I cut her off, wiping a stray tear from my cheek. I looked up at her, my resolve hardening into something sharp and unyielding. “He is fighting. And he is doing it alone.”
I didn’t need to hide in the shadows of the dreamscape anymore. I didn’t need Eryx’s potion keeping me numb while my mate withered in the dirt, trapped in the belief that I only wanted the phantom he projected in my sleep.
“I have to go back to the infirmary,” I told Medea.
Medea opened her mouth, perhaps intending to reply. But I didn’t wait to see what she had to say.
I turned my back on the overgrown, untamed garden and retraced my steps toward the looming architecture of the healing wards.
He was waiting for me in the dark of my room.
The dreams were no longer enough. I was going to give him exactly what he needed, and I was going to do it with my eyes wide open.