Chapter 28 Seth
Seth
I’m still shaking.
Not from cold—the Void doesn’t have temperature. Except for that god forsaken chamber she was in. But from whatever just happened, whatever that was, when something locked into place so final that my entire body felt like it was being torn apart and rewritten at the same time.
The thread in my chest hums. Steady. Real.
I press my palm flat against my sternum, half expecting to feel something physical—a mark, a scar, anything that proves what just happened wasn’t my mind finally breaking.
Nothing. Just skin and bone and that impossible hum beneath both.
“What the hell is it?” I whisper to the darkness.
No answer. Just the pulse, rhythmic and insistent, like a second heartbeat I didn’t ask for but can’t live without now.
The Void feels different.
Not empty anymore. Not pressing in on me like it’s trying to decide whether to consume or ignore me.
It’s… listening.
That thought should terrify me. Instead, I just feel exhausted.
I slump against something that might be a wall or might be nothing at all. My legs give out and I slide down, arms wrapping around my knees.
“Just need a minute,” I mutter. “Just one goddamn minute.”
The hum synchronizes with my breathing. In, out. Steady. Like it’s trying to calm me down or maybe remind me I’m not alone anymore.
I close my eyes.
Sleep shouldn’t be possible here. But my body doesn’t care what should or shouldn’t be possible. It just shuts down, dragging me under before I can fight it.
After what could be minutes or hours, a sound pulls me back.
Soft. Rhythmic. Pads on stone.
My eyes snap open, heart hammering, every muscle tensed to run.
Ethos. Or worse—one of those things that screams without sound, the ones that hunt anything stupid enough to move.
But the shape that steps from the shadows is small.
Made of shadow that moves like smoke but holds its form. A fox. Eyes that burn like tiny stars in a face made of living darkness.
It sits a few feet away and tilts its head at me.
Curious. Not predatory.
“You’re not real,” I whisper.
The fox yawns, showing sharp white teeth, then settles back on its haunches like it’s got all the time in the world.
My breath comes fast. Shallow. Every instinct screaming at me to move, to run, to do anything except stand here waiting to be devoured.
But it doesn’t move. Just watches me with those burning eyes.
When I shift a little, testing, it doesn’t flee or attack.
It walks right up to me.
I freeze.
Its nose nudges my hand—warm, solid, real—and I jerk back like I’ve been burned.
Void creatures don’t touch without devouring. They don’t have warmth. They don’t—
The fox just sits again, tail flicking through the air, leaving faint trails of silver light that fade as soon as they appear.
The darkness around it stays still. Doesn’t writhe or pulse or consume.
It’s just… there.
“You shouldn’t exist,” I mutter.
The fox’s ears twitch, like it’s amused.
The thread in my chest hums louder, matching the rhythm of the light trailing from the fox’s tail.
Oh.
Oh god.
A flutter interrupts the silence.
I look up and a raven descends from nowhere—because there’s no sky here, no ceiling, just endless black.
Wings made of shadow and night, feathers that seem to drink light rather than reflect it. It lands on the fox’s back, then hops down to the ground, studying me with the same curious intensity.
It cocks its head and lets out a single sharp cry.
The hum in my chest answers.
I clutch at my sternum, gasping. “What are you?”
The fox and bird exchange a glance—too deliberate, too coordinated to be random.
Then they both turn to look at something in the distance.
I follow their gaze.
There—faint, barely visible—mirror-like surfaces glinting in the darkness. Lined up like doorways. Like a path.
The Void has never had direction before.
“No,” I whisper. “No, this isn’t—”
Movement at my wrist.
Cold. Smooth. Deliberate.
I look down just as a small serpent materializes from shadow, sleek and impossible. It coils around my wrist—not tight, but firm.
Like a bracelet. Like a claim.
I freeze, expecting the bite. Expecting pain.
Instead, it settles and hums.
The same rhythm as the thread in my chest.
Warmth floods through the contact—not heat, but energy. Recognition. The same surge I felt when she reached for me, when something snapped into place.
The snake lifts its head, tongue flicking, eyes silver-bright.
All three creatures hum together. The air vibrates softly around us, synchronized and purposeful.
“You’re hers,” I breathe. “You’re hers, aren’t you?”
The fox’s tail swishes once.
The raven lets out another sharp cry.
The snake tightens slightly, just enough to confirm.
They’re Void creatures. Born from this darkness.
But they’re hers too.
Shadow and silver merged into something new.
And now they’re here for me.
Protecting me. Guiding me.
The fox stands, shakes itself once, and begins walking toward the distant mirrors.
The bird takes flight, circling above in lazy loops that leave silver trails across the darkness.
The snake’s hum pulses against my wrist like a heartbeat.
The darkness parts under their feet. Silver ripples radiate outward with each step, like they’re walking on water that reflects light that shouldn’t exist.
“Where are you taking me?” I whisper.
The fox looks back once, expression almost impatient.
Come on. We don’t have time for this.
I get to my feet. Legs unsteady but obeying.
Each step I take, the Void responds. Bends slightly. Shifts.
It’s alive.
It’s listening.
And for the first time since I was lost, the Void isn’t empty.
It’s waiting.
The fox leads.
The bird calls.
The snake hums against my pulse.
And I follow.