Chapter 17
OLIVIA
Iwake before Kursk. The first sharp strike of dawn finds me watching him sleep—his chest barely rising, ribs taut, skin pale gold from the breaking light.
I press myself more into his side, memorize every curve of his cheek, the slope of his tusks, the way his fingers uncurl and flex.
I want to hold the image in me—just in case.
Because sometimes hope is a photograph you don’t take, you simply remember.
When I move, the floor is cold beneath my bare feet, frost from the broken windows still melting in patches of acidic light.
I scoop up my coat, the one with pockets heavy with vials and bandages, and tiptoe out the door.
Kursk murmurs, a low sound, and I wait; when he doesn’t stir, I slip away into the cool morning.
Out the door, I find the town already waking—but with an edge of madness. The grass is wet with dew, mixed with something oily and dark. The path into Walnut Falls smells like wet concrete, coffee, fear. As I walk, I taste grit on the air, metallic like Old Blood.
First I see bright lights—TV vans, satellite trucks—parked outside the old festival grounds.
Reporters bobbing in cameras and tripods, microphones extended like inquisitorial claws.
Some drones hum overhead, whirring like insects.
Doomsday bloggers snap photos, live-streaming; crowd of conspiracy tourists follow them, whispering, pointing, recording.
The festival grounds—once full of candy floss and smiles—are a ruin. Tents sagged, lanterns burnt, banners shredded. The scent of smoke lingers; faint ash in every breath. I want to gag, but I swallow it down. Someone nearby coughs. A child cries, and it's broadcast live.
A reporter steps toward me—camera thrust, mic in hand. “Miss Wilkins,Olivia, what can you tell us about last night? Is Kursk safe? Was it true you tried the forbidden ritual?”
I clamp my jaw. “No comment.” My voice veneer calm, though I can feel my heart hammer like a war drum. The reporter frowns. “Can you confirm the shard was recovered?”
I don’t answer. I turn away. My boots crunch over broken glass. I want to find something—supplies, privacy—even a place to think without being a spectacle.
I duck down an alley toward Peggy Sue’s house; she insisted she had more medical herbs, more magical reagents in her workshop.
Voices follow: microphones, recorders, “Olivia!” “Librarian!” “Witch!” People shouting.
I duck behind cars, duck behind hedges. My ears ring with static from camera gear, the buzz of voices.
I taste polyester from their clothes, cheap cologne, sweat.
Peggy Sue bursts through her front door at the end of the block—armed with a flyswatter in one hand, a tote bag of tinctures in the other. A reporter lunges for her. “Peggy, do you believe the town is cursed? Can you show us Kursk’s wound? Has the creature returned?”
Peggy Sue flicks the flyswatter. SWAP! She bats the reporter’s recorder. “Take a hike,” she says, voice low and fiery. “This ain’t your circus.”
The reporter, stunned, stumbles backward. Other reporters close in like vultures. Peggy Sue draws back inside, shaking out her hair. I slip into her kitchen. The windows rattle with distant thunder—wind? Or the tremors of unreality?
I press my forehead against cold glass. Outside the window a human chain of friends—townsfolk, festival survivors—stand. Some hold signs: “We saw him!” “Save Kursk,” “Monsters Among Us.” Others record, take photos. Flashing lights. Headlines are being written this very moment.
One reporter’s monitor flickers: live footage of the transformed house, of Calvin/monster, of the smoldering ruins of the festival grounds. Words scroll: smarthome corruption, terror in Walnut Falls, hero or abomination.
A kid across the street stares at me, feathered microphone held by an adult. He says, “Miss Olivia—do you believe Kursk is from this world now?” His voice trembles. I want to lie. I want to protect him. Instead I say, “He’s fighting to come back to us.”
The kid nods, uncertain. The camera moves on.
Peggy Sue offers me coffee. Strong, bitter, burnt. I sip it like poison that gives me strength. My hands shake. My mind pulls all the strings: the shard, the ritual, Kursk’s wound, Calvin’s transformation, how close the world is to ripping itself apart.
The sky is overcast now, clouds bruised purple and gray. The wind picks up. I can feel something tearing at the edges of reality—little flickers where physics warps, shadows moving in the wrong directions. Something subterranean shifting.
I put the coffee down. I touch the scar on my wrist—the one I made when I bound the Spear shard. It stings.
I check my pack: bandages, sage, warding salt, some iron filings Peggy Sue had. Enough for tonight. Maybe not more.
I glance out the window: TV cameras converge on Kursk’s cabin. Reporters yell questions. Fans, frightened friends, frightened enemies, all blending. I want to scream: leave him be! But the cameras keep rolling. The world is watching, wanting a story. Wanting a monster.
I close the blinds. The edges of wood scrape against each other like fingernails. I lean against the wall, breathing hard. I need to believe—that I can protect him, that I can lie, cheat, steal whatever magic, truth, whatever is needed—for even one more night. For all the nights that come.
The wind howls outside. The reporters shout. Reality cracks.
The coffee’s gone cold by the time I return.
I find Kursk in the back room by the window, staring at the shattered shards of the Sky-Blade on the ground.
Morning light slants through cracked glass, dust motes dancing like fever dreams. His face is pale.
His eyes hollowed with exhaustion—or something worse.
I swallow, pressing my hands together. “Kursk,” I say soft, stepping in. My voice echoes, betraying how much fear is sitting just under my ribs.
He doesn’t look at me right away. He picks up one of the shards, finger gently brushing the dark veins tracing along its edges. I taste rust and ash in my mouth. My heart hammers because I know what’s coming.
“Olivia,” he says finally. His voice is low, thick with something like sorrow and resolve mashed together.
“What is it?” I ask. I want the truth. Damn it, I need the truth.
He sets the shard down. “The Spear… it isn’t just mine or ours anymore. It’s part of it.” His eyes flick toward the shard and then back to me. “The Vorfaluka. It’s embedded deep in its essence now.”
“Part of it?” I echo, voice tight. “You mean it’s corrupted? Usable?”
He nods slowly. “Yes—and no.” He presses his hand over his chest, where the last scar from the embedding throbs. “Killing the Vorfaluka with the Spear… may no longer be enough. It might tear the Veil permanently.”
I jerk back. “Tear the Veil?” My stomach muscles twist. “What are you saying?”
He stands, hands trembling. “To destroy both—the creature and what we’ve become attached to… I must use the Spear from the inside.”
His words hang in the air, heavy with death. I swallow. “Inside?”
“Yes.” His expression is haunted. “Merge with it, dive through its wound, guide the blade from within. It may be the only way.”
I stare at him. Try to clear the miasma of dread settling in my chest. “You mean… you’d have to sacrifice yourself?”
He doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say no. He only looks away, fingers brushing the blade’s edge. His eyes burn. “If I die, the Spear dies with me—or what remains. If I fail, the Veil breaks.”
The room smells of old wood and grief. I can feel tears behind my lids, choking me. I want to pull him into my arms, tell him there’s another way—but there isn’t, not one I can see.
“My God,” I whisper. “That’s… that’s a suicide plan.”
He meets my eyes, steady now. “Not just mine. Ours.”
I shake my head. “You don’t have to do this alone. We—” I reach for him, touch the bruise at his side, the dark under-skin veins, “we can try something else. Another ritual. Another source of magic.”
He gently pulls my hand away. Not harshly, but with the weight of inevitability. “There is no another. The Spear’s power is used up. Every ritual we’ve stretched beyond its safety. This corruption—I felt it seep into the blade. Into me.”
"I hate that you even have to choose," I say. My voice cracks. “I’d rather you alive and mortal, Kursk. I don’t… I can’t handle you being legendary if it costs your life.” I swallow. “If it costs us.”
He closes his eyes. His breath rattles. “Olivia…” His voice is torn.
I press forward. “Then we do it together. If you have to go in, I’ll be there. If you have to lie, cheat, steal magic—I don’t care. We’ll get up at dawn and fight. And if this is the end, I want no illusions, no false goodbyes—only the truth.”
He opens his eyes. They’re haunted, yes—but something else glimmers: pride, love, fear. “You’re asking me to die.”
“Yes.” I swallow past the scream in my throat. “If that’s what it takes.”
He stands—and the room feels too small, his shadow too large. “If I go in… there’s no guarantee I’ll come back. Even the Veil might reject me.”
I move close. “Even if you don’t, I want you to know I love you—not the hero version, not the warrior, you—so much that knowing I stood by you will be my armor.”
He closes the distance between us. His breath warm against my forehead. “Olivia…”
He steps back, already limping, the wound at his side flaring. I see the pain flicker across his features. The shard on the floor vibrates, faint light pulsing in its veins.
I try to stand strong for both of us. But my hands shake. My throat is dry. I taste ash.
We are both fragile.
I look at him, my heart in my chest like a wounded bird. “Let’s do it. Tonight.”
His breath comes fast. “Tonight.”
He turns, limping toward the table, gathering his cloak, the Spear’s pieces, knapsack. I follow. The world outside is still unmade. Reporter vans roll away—or being blocked off. Walnut Falls is still reeling.
He stops, hand hovering over the shard at his neck, where it's fused. The blade looks alive, like it’s breathing. A fine sheen of dark liquid along its edge. I flinch.
He looks at me—his eyes torn between resolve and fear. “If I don’t come back—”
I step close, pressing both my hands to his chest. “You will. I promise. If the world ends, at least let it be with you.”
It’s no less terrifying than standing on the edge of a cliff. But we both know it’s the only path left.
He’s sitting by the shattered window, sunlight cutting across his scars.
Kursk looks like he’s carved out of stone and regret.
The shard of the Spear lies on the table between us, its veins glowing faintly, like fireflies caught under skin.
I can smell the last rain on broken glass, hear distant news trucks rumbling, smell coffee gone cold on the counter.
“Kursk,” I say, my voice soft. “Walnut Falls is a lost cause unless we move now.”
He turns, eyes haunted. He looks every bit the hunted beast I promised to protect. He lifts his hand, trembling, and brushes a shard of glass off the table.
“I know,” he says, voice low. He doesn’t move the shard. It’s embedded in something deeper now. Something alive. “But there’s something you need to understand first.”
I sit beside him, knees dug into cold floorboards. I reach out—“What is it?”
He takes a breath. The room smells of woodsmoke and healing salve. I try to steady my pulse, my throat. I want him alive; I want him whole. I want him without pain.
“The spear,” he says, “is no longer just a tool. It’s part of it.” He doesn’t need to say Vorfaluka—it echoes through the room. “Killing the creature with the Spear… might tear open the Veil permanently.”
My heart lurches. “What do you mean? The Veil?” I swallow down sudden nausea.
He closes his eyes. Shadows drift on his skin. “The Spear is embedded now — not just physically, but magically. The corruption, the essence of the Vorfaluka… it has merged with it. If I strike from the outside—it could rend the Veil. Let more slip in, let the worlds bleed together.”
I shake my head. “That’s…” I don’t finish. It feels too big. Too dangerous. “What choice do we have?”
He swallows. His side twitches with pain. “There’s one way. A way through.” He places a hand on my knee, and I feel how thin he is—fragile, broken. “I must go inside. Merge with it. Use the Spear from the inside. Guide its destruction from within.”
Silence. The shard pulses on the table. I can almost hear it whisper death.
“That’s a suicide plan,” I whisper.
He looks at me, eyes sharp. “Yes.”
I lie back, panic and grief swirling in me. “Don’t say that.”
He kisses me then—soft, desperate. Like he’s tasting farewell or promise. “If I don’t return,” he murmurs, “name your first axe after me.”
I punch his arm—half from love, half from fear. It hurts a little. I laugh through tears. “You’re still being dramatic.”
He grips my hand. His fingers are cold. “Wouldn’t want you besmirched by mediocrity.”
I hug him then, like if I let him go he’ll vanish. My arms around him tight, tears soaking into his shirt, his heart beat fluttering.
Then there’s a loud rumble outside. Wheels screech. Booger and Burnout burst through the door, truck bed full of fireworks—rockets, sparklers, tubes of colored powder. Booger slaps the side of the truck, grinning like he’s stolen the sky. Burnout is braced next to him, a long fuse in hand.
“We’re in, boss!” Booger shouts, fireworks banging against metal.
I pull back, laughing so hard that the grief catches in my throat. Tears slide down my cheek but I don’t wipe them. I laugh because this—this rebellion is beautiful. This defiance in the face of inevitable collapse.
He watches me laugh. The shard glows again, darker now, humming with power I can almost feel in my bones.
We stand in the ruin of what was, in the promise of what might be.
It’s the beginning of the end.