Pain, so much pain.
It was nothing new; she couldn't remember a single day untainted by the terrible pain since she was infected by the Spell.
And yet, it was so overbearing, so tyrannical, that she was barely able to form a coherent thought. Quite troublesome, considering the high-stakes duel she was facing.
In front of her was Sunny, covered in so much blood—though most of it wasn't his own, she thought, proud of her first student—and dust, so much that he could barely be recognized as human. She didn't know how he did it, but he had seemingly gotten a second wind. She appreciated it; it would make it easier to fake her defeat.
At their side lay the gate that would free them from this terrible nightmare. And yet only one of them could use it, only one would escape from the living hell they had been inhabiting for a year. It vexed her to no end—so much time and effort to plan a way out, only for it all to come crashing down right at the finish line. Feeling another tremor beneath her feet, she decided it was time to end it.
The pain—an old and terrible friend by now—was steadily getting worse, and she still needed to get out of the Spire after he escaped. And so she intensified her flames—pain, so much pain—until the white radiance illuminated the vast balcony.
"Are you ready, Sunny?" she asked, her voice cold and firm despite only wanting to lie down and cry. She would do almost anything to stop the pain coursing through every fiber of her being.
He looked at her, a million thoughts crossing his mind in the time it took her to blink. Finally, he exhaled softly—and painfully, given the grimace it caused—and answered.
"I'm not. What about you?" he said, an attempt at a smile plastered on his face.
"I am." She wasn't.
She took a step forward—pain—firmly, ready to dash at Sunny to engage in what would be their last clash. He did the same, his face set in a grimace of both pain and determination. She aimed low, showcasing only the smallest of hints about her intentions. She hoped he would catch on.
He did. His tachi met her sword in a deafening clash of steel, and then—too fast for her to react, or at least that's what she hoped he would think—he took one of his hands off the weapon and aimed a punch at her side, right at one of her worst wounds.
She moved fast, but not fast enough to avoid it completely. It was just a grazing hit, and yet her mind exploded in pain—so terrible that she blacked out for a fraction of a second. That fraction of a second… that fraction of a second was the turning point.
His tachi was already striking again, too fast for her to react even if she could. Given the direction, it would be a debilitating wound—maybe even enough to conclude the duel—yet not lethal even if she was unable to heal herself. He had to know how durable she was. He could surely escape before she died.
It warmed her dulled heart more than she thought possible; by this point, only a sliver of her humanity remained under the tyranny of her Flaw.
To think he didn't want to kill her even under such stakes… she never thought she would one day have to chastise him for being too soft on his greatest enemy. For what else was she? She knew it—his darkest secret, the one that would irreparably destroy their relationship (and why did it hurt so much to think such a thing?) and turn them into bitter foes if she ever used it. She knew him—maybe even better than she knew herself—and she knew that if she ever used it, he would never stop until he was free.
Whether it was through her death or his.
It was then, as she was looking at him, that the world ground to a halt in a perfect moment of stillness. In that instant she was able to appreciate the scene in front of her: the black edge of his weapon reflecting the light of her flames in the most sinister of ways, the firm line of his jaw, the pools of darkness that were his eyes—full of determination, of his unbreakable will to live, something she quietly admired—and… was that fear? Fear not for himself, but for her.
She could see it: the way his hands trembled, the crease of his brows as if asking himself why she hadn't started to dodge or parry the blow, the growing horror in his eyes as he realized she wasn't going to avoid it. It was as if it would hurt Sunny even more than it would hurt her.
The moment advanced slowly, almost glacially, as she saw his muscles strain in a futile attempt to stop himself. It was too late; they both knew it.
It was then, as she braced for the pain the strike would bring, that her will faltered. Only for a fraction of a second—nothing but the human instinct of avoiding pain—and yet that was all it took.
"Lost from Light, stop!"
Those were the words that started it all.
She couldn't see them, couldn't touch them—nobody but the gods themselves could perceive them in any appreciable form—but her heart, her very soul, felt it. Countless golden chains erupted from her body—some small enough to start and end in practically the same place, others so big, so unfathomably massive that their purpose might as well have been to bind the sun itself. They slithered in the air like serpents, swaying as if searching for prey. All too soon—not even a fraction of a second after she uttered the dreadful words—they stood still, like a predator who had finally found its mark.
Impossibly fast, they pounced upon their objective. Her lips had barely stopped moving; he didn't even have time to process her words, and yet it was done.
The chains latched around him—ferociously, voraciously, possessively. A shadow was not meant to be without a master. Not now, not ever. Time could pass, the waking world could turn to dust, the sun itself could burn out, and yet their bond would still exist as long as they were both alive—just as strong as the first day, just as domineering, just as tyrannical. That, she knew.
She should have been horrified. It should have felt as painful as using her Aspect for hours on end—perhaps more. She had betrayed him, enslaved him. And yet… she didn't feel horror.
For it was a wondrous feeling. Their bond was so reassuring; in such close proximity she could almost feel it—a stalwart presence in a world consumed by pain and by the bleak idea of the many tribulations yet to come. It was like a warm blanket on a cold day, like being embraced by her father, like hearing a bedtime story from her grandmother. The knowledge that no matter what, there was someone in the world who would always be by her side—and wasn't that a comforting thought?—no matter the difficulty or peril to be faced.
Then the glorious moment of stillness ended, and reality reasserted itself.
His arms stopped abruptly—so abruptly that she heard something snap in them—and just in time. The distance between the tachi and her chest was so thin that a strand of hair wouldn't have passed. It was then that her words registered.
She could see it in real time as she took a step back, just out of reach. Shock, confusion, doubt, denial—all of them and more passed through Sunny's eyes, all overshadowed by the pure, primordial horror that finally encompassed them and did not go away. His body lay as unmoving as a statue—no, even a statue could be considered lively in comparison to the pure stillness forced upon him. Such was the power of her command.
It was that horror that finally snapped her out of the bliss induced by the bond. She had just committed the greatest of sins—how dare she be happy?
The look in his eyes—just as unmoving as the rest of his body, yet expressing so much—was forever etched in her memory. She didn't think she had ever felt as much pain, as much betrayal, as much hatred—not even toward the ghouls who had taken everything from her—as she felt in that gaze.
"You can…" She started to speak but had to stop; she knew what would happen if she released the command. "You can move, but cannot leave your position nor… attack or harm me in any way." The last part—oh, the last part—filled her with shame, even more than before, impossible as that felt. And yet she still said it.
Like a puppet whose strings—or were they chains?—had finally been put to use, Sunny came back to life. He took a deep and desperate breath—she belatedly realized he hadn't even been able to breathe under her command—and then started coughing violently. Globs of blood erupted from his mouth in a harrowing fashion.
"Ho… how?" he asked amidst coughs, sounding desperate, as if he wanted to delude himself into thinking it hadn't happened. That she hadn't violated him in a way that couldn't be undone. That she had achieved it through a secret Memory or a hidden part of her Aspect.
Reality, as far too often, was far too cruel to allow such a possibility.
"Cassie told me. A year ago she had a vision in which you revealed your true name."
Why was she speaking so coldly? So indifferently?
She had to apologize, to promise never to abuse her power—but she couldn't. She had already done it; momentary weakness or not, she had done it. Once done, it could not be taken back. And so she said nothing, her face composed as ever.
She expected many reactions—rage, insults, even denial, though she doubted he would act that way. But what he did instead surprised her. She certainly did not expect him to start laughing.
A laugh, as she had investigated thoroughly when one of her caretakers told her it would help her connect better with those around her, should be considered beautiful, heartwarming, comforting even. This wasn't such a laugh. It was hoarse, painful, full of sorrow and hatred.
For what felt like eternity he laughed. When he stopped, a bitter smile was already present on his pale face.
"Congratulations, Neph. You got me."
The bitterness was clear in his voice, tinged with resignation. It didn't take her long to realize what kind of resignation it was—the murder in his eyes made it clear enough.
"I…" Whatever she was going to say was interrupted by another tremor. The Spire didn't have much time left.
He glanced around, then shrugged, as if it was no longer his problem.
"What are you waiting for? Go on. Leave. I still have to escape this place once you're gone." He was already looking around, planning the way to descend the Spire and hopefully survive its crumbling. His shadow detached itself, exploring in advance—but… was it just her imagination, or did the usually friendly creature—friendly to her, at least, despite all of Sunny's complaints—throw a hateful stare at her?
"No, I—" She was getting desperate. There was little time left. She had to order him to escape before it was too late.
"No, what? You won't abandon me here?" His voice was mocking, as if daring her to deny his words. "Or is it that you didn't want to enslave me at such an inconvenient moment? How pitiful. The perfect slave, and you'll have to waste him in this spell-forsaken piece of trash of a tower."
He wasn't even looking at her anymore, his face turned as he charted the safest way down with his shadow. He couldn't, however, hide the way his body trembled uncontrollably—overcome by an emotion too strong to be hidden.
"I didn't—"
"YOU DIDN'T WHAT?" he screamed, unable to hold back anymore as he whipped around, his face contorted into a visage of fury. He visibly held himself back from continuing, then took a long breath. "You didn't want to steal my freedom? The only thing I have left in this cursed world? You didn't want to betray every single moment we spent together?"
His eyes were glassy—like… like there was something wet in them. She was so shamefully slow to realize he was holding back tears.
"I was going to—" She started to speak, but then, at the worst possible moment, the pain of her Aspect combined with her wounds made her stop, overtaken by a fit of coughs just as violent as Sunny's.
"Spare me, Neph." He wasn't even angry anymore. The way his shoulders sagged, the way his fists—so painfully clenched until that moment—slowly opened, painted a vivid, pitiful picture. "Justify it to yourself however you want. I don't want to hear it. Go. Just… go already."
She had so much to say, to explain—and yet what she thought was a momentary lapse of her treacherous will proved her wrong. For as much as she wanted to deny it, she was tempted to leave. Oh, so tempted. The Forgotten Shores were dangerous, with or without the dark sea. She had no clue where to even go, and she still had so much to do: avenging her clan, the downfall of the Spell, even reuniting with her mother.
And Sunny was strong—strong enough to almost catch up to her with just a year of training. If anyone besides her could do it, it was him.
In a different world—a better world—she would have steeled her will and carried on with her initial plan. She would have ordered him to leave, then braved the Gateway alone, finding a way out that would not compromise her ideals nor commit such a betrayal toward one of the people she valued most. This, she found, was not such a world.
She stood frozen, undecided for an eternally long yet paradoxically short amount of time. Then she took a step toward the circle of runes that would cast her out of the nightmare. One step became two, and before she even realized it, she was already in front of the Gateway.
When she turned around to give him a last look, she saw only a stony visage, his eyes projecting a clear message: he would not beg; he would not plead. She could take his freedom, she could take possession of his body, but his mind and will were his own.
She took a deep breath as she entered the circle of runes, and as it started glowing, she turned and looked firmly into his eyes.
Her third betrayal, it turned out, was no less harrowing than the first two.
"Survive. Until you come back to me… you must survive."
Whatever his response was going to be, she did not see, for the very moment she finished speaking, the light blinded her, and she was gone.
[Congratulations Sleeper Nephis! Your nightmare is over...]
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Impossibly far and impossibly close from them, in a space that was and yet wasn't, lay the grand Weave of Fate. A perfect machine comprised of an unfathomable number of strings. The Weave flowed like a violent river, ever-moving and unstoppable, carrying within it all that ever was and ever would be.
However, the impossible happened. The strings of fate—the very ones that neither gods nor daemons could presume to truly control—halted. The pause was small, so pitifully small in comparison to the grand machine that not even the grand and terrible Weaver, firstborn of the daemons, could have noticed before its machinations resumed.
The consequences, however… the consequences were a completely different matter. It would start slowly, impossible to perceive for all but the most perceptive and powerful of seers. But the ripple would be felt—a ripple that would start small, then become a wave, a wave that would become a tsunami, a tsunami that would become a terrifying beast, a beast poised to tear apart the very world in its ravenous jaws.
If the grand Weaver—the one and only who could presume to have the faintest idea of the inner workings of the Weave of Fate—were to witness it; if the terrible daemon who had created the Spell, whose machinations spelled the end for both gods and daemons, the one who heralded a new age—if they were to witness it, they would be horrified by the sight.
The grand Weave of Fate did not have a mind. It could not be considered sentient or cognizant in any way or form. And yet… if the Weave were to have a face…
…it would be impossible to miss the delighted smile on it.