When I woke, I could tell it was daylight only because of the pale stripe across the floorboards—not because the air felt like morning. Mornings usually carried a kind of… looseness, like the world stretching and yawning before the noise began. But the cottage walls were holding their breath. Even the wood-smoke smell from the hearth seemed… trapped.
I pushed the blanket off my bare legs and slid off the low cot. My toes curled against the cool wood. Somewhere in the kitchen, Dolly's porcelain heels clicked a brisk, impatient rhythm against the floor.
"…hurry… up… kettle…" Grin's voice, slow and deep, drifted in like fog through a window. "…some… of us… have… feelings… to… warm…"
I padded into the main room. Antic was already there, leaning against the table like he'd been waiting for me. No shirt—of course. His overall straps hung loose on one side, exposing the curve of a tan shoulder. He tossed me a grin that was more trouble than warmth.
"Mornin', No Eyes," he drawled. "Sleep alright? Or were you up dreamin' about me?"
"I don't dream about you," I said automatically, even though the tips of my ears betrayed me.
"Mmh. Shame."
Dolly stood at the counter with her arms crossed, eyeing the kettle like it had personally offended her. "If this water doesn't boil in the next thirty seconds, I'm going to pour it over its own spout out of spite."
"…don't… be… cruel… to… the… kettle…" Grin murmured from his chair in the corner. His long fingers curled around a mug. "…it's… trying… its… best…"
Dolly didn't turn. "Your bleeding heart for inanimate objects is exhausting, darling."
I poured myself a mug once the water finally sang, curling my fingers around the heat. The steam rose soft against my face, but the warmth did nothing to chase away the knot in my stomach. Antic must have noticed—he always noticed. His hand brushed my lower back lightly, just enough to be felt.
Before I could speak, the air in the cottage shifted. Heavy. Sweet. Like frost touched with starlight.
The front door didn't open—it simply… existed open. And in the doorway stood Queen Sentient.
Her arrival was silent but impossible to ignore. Threads of pale silver and violet trailed behind her like stardust, catching the morning light in a way that made the air itself glitter. Her gaze swept the room once—sharp and soft all at once—and even Dolly stopped tapping her foot.
Antic straightened slightly, though his arm stayed draped casually against my back. Grin leaned forward in his chair, his grin somehow both welcoming and… sad.
The Queen stepped inside, and for the first time since I'd met her, her regal poise seemed… dimmed. A shadow in the edges of her light.
The Soul Keeper emerged from the hallway just then, his twilight eyes softening when they met hers. No one spoke, but something passed between them. A silent conversation none of us were invited into.
The Queen's gaze slid to me briefly before sweeping over the others.
When she finally spoke, her voice was like glass breaking in the distance—beautiful, delicate, but edged.
"The Shadow Blight is moving faster than we anticipated."
It wasn't shouted, but the words carried weight, landing in the center of the room like a dropped stone.
Grin's fingers tapped his mug in slow, deliberate beats. "…not… good…" he murmured, eyes hooded.
Dolly arched one painted brow. "So, Your Sparkly Highness, is this the part where we panic? Or do we still have time for tea?"
The Soul Keeper stepped closer to her side, though his attention stayed on the Queen. "It's already pressing against the protected borders. The wards are… fraying."
The Queen's silver-threaded gaze fell on the table between us.
"We've been buying time, but that time is spent. If we do not act now, the Blight will reach the Breaths."
Antic's hand found my hip this time—more protective than playful—and stayed there, his thumb grazing the side of my ribs.
I didn't pull away.
Grin's voice rolled low and slow, like a drumbeat under water. "…if… the Breaths… fall… the rest… follows…"
The Queen inclined her head toward him. "Yes. And to stop it, we require… a sacrifice."
Dolly leaned forward, lips twisting. "What kind of sacrifice are we talking here? Blood? Tears? My impressive collection of unflattering portraits of Antic?"
Antic gave her a look without taking his hand off me. "Your jokes are terrible."
Her painted smirk deepened. "And yet, I'm still funnier than you."
The Soul Keeper's tone was heavier now. "Not death. Essence."
My chest tightened. "Essence?"
The Queen met my eyes, and there was no comfort in her stillness.
"A deliberate unraveling of one's own energy. Selfless. Pure."
Grin's slow blink was almost mournful. "…that… is… close… to… dying…"
"Yes," the Queen said, unflinching. "Close enough to hurt. Far enough to live—if the person is strong enough."
I realized Antic's fingers had tightened against my side. When I looked at him, his eyes were already on me.
Not smiling now.
The Queen's voice dipped lower, heavy enough to bow the room's air.
"I will be the one to do it."
For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to shrink back.
My pulse stuttered. "No—"
She raised one hand, silencing me with the smallest motion.
Her touch wasn't cold when she rested it lightly on my arm—warm, almost maternal.
"Your empathy is admirable, No Eyes," she said softly, and my stomach twisted at the nickname rolling so gently off her tongue. "But your essence would not reach far enough. Mine will."
Antic stepped forward so fast the chair behind him tipped.
"Then I'll do it."
The Soul Keeper's tone was iron. "You can't. You wouldn't survive it."
Antic's jaw tightened. "You don't know that—"
"I do," the Soul Keeper interrupted. "You are not her equal in strength."
The Queen didn't look at either of them—her gaze stayed on me, like she was memorizing the shape of my face.
"The Blight is at the gates. If I don't act now, it will take the Breaths. This is the only way forward."
Grin's voice rumbled, slow and sorrowful. "…and… you… will… fade…"
"Yes," she said simply.
Dolly, who had been leaning in the doorway with arms crossed, straightened abruptly. "Oh, fabulous. We just got here, and we're already down a monarch. Anyone else want to throw themselves into the cosmic meat grinder while we're at it?"
Her sarcasm landed like a spark in the quiet, but it didn't break it.
The Queen simply stepped into the center of the room.
Threads of silver and gold began to spill from her chest—thin at first, then brighter, thicker, spilling like captured sunlight into the air. The walls themselves seemed to lean toward her, drinking in the glow.
The Soul Keeper moved to her side and dropped to one knee, his palm lifting to her cheek with a reverence I hadn't seen before. His voice broke on the edges.
"I will carry your fire."
Her smile was small.
"Then it will never go out."
I felt Antic's hand slide to my waist again, but this time there was no teasing touch. His palm pressed in—solid, steady—like he was making sure I was still there.
I leaned into him without thinking.
The Queen's light swelled until it was almost impossible to look at her. The air heated, curling the edges of my hair. My breath caught, and I swore I could feel something inside me shift—like my very bones remembered a song they'd forgotten.
Then, with one final pulse, she began to fade. The glow folded inward, retreating into a single, trembling thread that drifted down into the Soul Keeper's waiting palm.
The room went dim. The fire flickered low.
He clutched that thread to his chest like a dying star.
No one spoke
The silence after the Queen vanished felt wrong—like the cottage had swallowed its own heartbeat.
Even Dolly didn't speak. She stood with her arms still crossed, but her painted knuckles had gone pale, and her mouth was pressed into a line sharp enough to cut glass.
Grin was the first to move. His scythe scraped against the floorboards as he stepped toward the Soul Keeper, his deep voice barely more than a murmur.
"…she… was… the… only… one… who… made… this… place… feel… like… home…"
The Soul Keeper didn't answer. He only held that glowing thread tighter, as if letting it go would mean the Queen's sacrifice meant nothing.
Antic's fingers flexed against my waist, then slid down to catch my hand.
"Come on, No Eyes," he muttered, voice low, almost gentle—like he didn't want to wake something that was sleeping in the walls.
I followed him without a word, the two of us slipping into the narrow back corridor. The light here was dimmer, filtered through stained glass that washed the stone floor in pale red and green.
We walked in near silence, our steps echoing just enough to remind me how empty the castle felt now.
Every so often, our hands brushed. He didn't make a joke about it.
We turned into a small alcove at the end of the hall. The curtains here were thick velvet, dark enough to swallow the dying light. Dust hung in the air, each mote spinning lazily in the narrow beam that leaked through a crack in the drapes.
A small chest sat in the corner. Its brass lock was tarnished, edges dulled by age.
Antic kicked it lightly with his bare toe. "You think it's cursed?"
"Probably," I said. "Only one way to find out."
He grinned at that—crooked, sharp—and knelt to pop it open. The lid groaned on its hinges, revealing a neat stack of letters tied together with faded silk ribbon.
The parchment was soft at the edges, gold ink curling across each page in a hand so elegant it felt wrong to touch.
We read them together, shoulders brushing.
The letters told a story—not in neat, orderly chapters, but in desperate fragments. Moments of longing, power shared, nights spent in the kind of intimacy that wasn't about touch so much as surrender. The man in the letters had never believed he could be loved; the woman had undone him without force, only gentleness.
By the last page, my breath felt heavy in my chest. "He loved her," I whispered.
Antic leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms loosely. "Duh. He was obsessed. The quiet kind. The dangerous kind."
I looked up at him. "You think love's like that?"
"I think it's worse," he said, and it didn't sound like a joke.
When I frowned, he pushed off the wall, his voice lowering as he stepped closer. "It wrecks you. Makes you soft and stupid. And I think it's already happening to me."
My throat went dry. I didn't move back.
He reached up and brushed a curl from my face, his fingers grazing my cheek.
"You don't have to love me back. Not yet."
The air between us tightened. His lips brushed just under my jaw—not quite a kiss, but warm enough to make my pulse stumble.
"I'd wait for you," he murmured. "Even if you never come. Even if you don't know what you're walking toward."
I swallowed hard.
His eyes dropped to my mouth, then lifted again. He smiled—slow.
"Not gonna kiss you. Yet."
"Why not?"
"Because when I do, I want you to ask me to."
The words lodged somewhere deep inside me, hot and unwelcome.
The air in the alcove still felt charged, like it was holding its breath for us.
But somewhere down the hall, a sound broke it—soft, sharp, the click of porcelain heels against stone.
Antic and I both turned our heads.
Dolly stood in the archway, half-hidden in shadow. Her posture was wrong—too still, arms hanging at her sides instead of folded or flaring like she usually did.
Her painted mouth didn't move at first, but her glass eyes were fixed on the far window, where the moonlight silvered the courtyard.
Grin shuffled in behind her, silent except for the faint drag of his scythe.
"…you've… been… quiet… Dolly…" His voice was deep and slow, the syllables carrying a strange, aching warmth. "...that's… not… like… you…"
She didn't look at him. Didn't look at either of us.
And then—without any warning—she spoke.
Her voice wasn't the sharp, perfumed dagger I was used to. It was thin. Brittle.
"It's… empty."
Antic frowned. I stayed still.
"I thought," she continued, "if I saved her—if I was useful—the feeling would stay. That… connection. But now it's gone. And I can't breathe without it."
One iridescent tear rolled down her porcelain cheek. It caught the moonlight like it was made of glass.
Grin stepped closer, his movements slow and careful. His skeletal hand hovered before resting feather-light on her shoulder.
"…you… mattered… before… this… Dolly… you'll… matter… after… it… too…"
His voice was so low I almost didn't hear it.
"…but… I… know… that… ache… the… not… enough… feeling…"
Her laugh was short and bitter. "I'm tired of pretending I'm invincible. I want something that isn't hollow. I want to feel full. Like I belong."
The words hung there, sharp as glass.
And then something in her expression changed.
The stillness broke. The dull glaze in her eyes snapped into alarm.
"It's not just emptiness," she said. "It's fear. Of vanishing. Of going back to being dust and glue."
She moved so suddenly I barely saw it happen—one moment rooted in place, the next a blur of moonlit porcelain darting down the corridor.
"Dolly!" Grin's voice bellowed after her, the sound rolling like distant thunder. He took off at once, all long limbs and uneven steps, his scythe clattering behind him.
The castle twisted against him, hallways bending, doors opening into nothing.
Her silhouette flickered at the far end, quick and strange, until it vanished completely—like she'd been cut out of the air.
Grin stopped, one hand on the wall, breath ragged even though he didn't need it.
The scythe rested against the stone beside him, the sharp tip dark against the silvered floor.
The silence after she was gone felt heavier than before.