The nights grew longer after the valley.
Not in truth—the fractured sky had long since abandoned any reliable cycle—but in perception. Darkness lingered heavier, pressing down on thought and breath alike. Even the fires Caera conjured seemed reluctant to burn, their light thin and colorless, as if the world itself were rationing illumination.
They traveled without speaking.
The chain no longer hummed as loudly as it once had. It had settled into something constant, a low presence at the edge of awareness—like a pulse, or a scar that ached only when attention drifted toward it. Caera hated that she had begun to recognize its rhythms. Hated that she knew, without looking, when Viehl faltered or steadied himself.
She told herself it was tactical awareness.
Nothing more.
On the fourth night after the valley, they reached the ruins of a watchtower that had once belonged to an order of starwardens—scholars and sentinels who believed knowledge itself could slow the end. The tower had collapsed inward, its upper half caved like a skull struck too hard. Only the lower chambers remained intact, half-buried and choked with dust.
Caera chose it anyway.
Stone was safer than open ground.
She descended first, blade drawn, senses stretched taut. The interior smelled of old parchment, mildew, and something faintly acrid—residual magic gone sour with age. No movement. No whispers clawing at her thoughts.
She signaled once.
Viehl followed.
He moved more carefully now, conserving strength, adjusting his gait to reduce strain on his injuries. The demon blood in him was working, slow and stubborn, knitting what it could—but the damage she had done with light ran deeper than flesh. Some wounds remembered.
They settled in a chamber that might once have been a library. Broken shelves lined the walls, their contents reduced to unreadable fragments. A circular table lay split down the middle, sigils carved into its surface fractured and dead.
Caera set wards.
Viehl watched.
"You don't miss anything," he said quietly.
She did not look at him. "I miss plenty. I just don't dwell on it."
"That's worse."
She paused, then continued etching the final ward.
"I didn't ask."
"No," he agreed. "You don't ask much of anyone."
The silence that followed was sharp.
Caera finished and straightened, turning toward him slowly. "You talk too much for someone who's still alive by accident."
He tilted his head slightly. "Is it still an accident if it keeps happening."
Her eyes narrowed.
"You think surviving me makes you special."
"No," he said. "I think surviving with you changes things."
That was enough.
In one smooth motion, she crossed the room and seized the chain, yanking him forward. He barely had time to brace before she slammed him against the wall, stone cracking faintly beneath the impact.
Her blade was at his throat again.
"You're not changing anything," she said. Her voice was steady, but her breathing was not. "You're not my equal. You're not my ally. You're not even my enemy."
His pulse fluttered visibly beneath the blade.
"Then what am I," he asked softly.
She leaned closer, light from her eyes reflecting off his darkened gaze.
"A mistake," she said.
Something flickered across his expression.
Not anger.
Understanding.
"Then you'll keep trying to correct me," he said.
She pressed the blade harder, enough to draw blood.
"Yes."
"Good."
Her hand stilled.
That word again.
She released him abruptly and stepped back, disgust coiling tight in her chest. "Sleep," she ordered. "We move before the fractures widen."
Viehl slid down the wall, settling onto the floor with a quiet exhale. "As you wish."
She turned away before she could see his face.
Sleep, when it came, was thin and sharp-edged.
Caera dreamed of chains—not the ones binding Viehl, but others, older and heavier. Chains wrapped around burning pillars of light, tightening endlessly, their links etched with symbols that hurt to remember. She walked among them, barefoot, each step echoing through eternity.
Caera.
The voice was distant. Fractured.
She reached toward it—and woke.
Her hand was glowing faintly.
She clenched it into a fist, extinguishing the light with effort. Her breath came fast, her heart pounding hard enough to ache.
Across the chamber, Viehl was awake.
She felt it before she saw it.
"You're dreaming louder," he said quietly.
Her head snapped up. "Do not listen to me."
"I don't think that's a choice anymore," he replied.
She rose to her feet. "Explain."
He hesitated, then shook his head. "Not yet."
Her fingers tightened reflexively around the hilt of her blade.
"You don't get to decide when you speak."
"No," he said. "But I get to decide what survives being said."
She stared at him, searching for mockery, manipulation—anything she could justify crushing.
There was none.
Only caution.
"Whatever you think you know," she said, "keep it to yourself."
"For now," he agreed.
That answer unsettled her more than defiance would have.
The next days blurred together in motion and restraint.
They avoided large battlefields, skirting the edges of conflicts too volatile even for Caera to resolve alone. The war was shifting again—lines bending, powers realigning in response to her movements. She felt it like pressure changes before a storm.
Viehl grew stronger.
Not quickly. Not fully. But steadily. His steps lost some of their careful stiffness. His breathing evened out. His eyes sharpened, tracking threats before she voiced them.
He never acted without her command.
That, too, bothered her.
On the seventh day, they encountered survivors.
A small group—five mortals huddled in the remains of a collapsed waystation, armed with scavenged blades and desperation. They froze when Caera emerged from the haze, recognition flashing across their faces like pain.
"Lionheart," one breathed.
Hope surged.
Caera felt it like a weight settling on her shoulders.
She gave them supplies without ceremony. Directions to a safer route. A warning about fractures to avoid.
They stared at Viehl with open fear.
"A demon," someone whispered. "Why—"
"He's mine," Caera said flatly.
The words landed heavier than she expected.
The survivors nodded quickly, fear overriding curiosity. Gratitude followed—messy, clinging, unwanted. Blessings spoken with shaking voices.
Caera left before they could say more.
When they were out of sight, Viehl spoke.
"You don't deny it."
"Deny what."
"That I belong to you."
She stopped walking.
"That's not something to be proud of."
"I know," he said. "That's why it matters."
She turned on him. "You're enjoying this."
"No," he replied. "I'm enduring it."
Their gazes locked.
"Why," she asked again. "Why endure me."
Viehl's answer came slower this time.
"Because," he said, "you're already what the war makes at the end. And standing beside you is the only way I know to survive what's coming."
A chill slid down her spine.
"You don't know what's coming."
He met her stare without flinching. "Neither do you. But you feel it."
She looked away first.
They resumed walking.
That night, Caera sat awake long after the fire had died, staring at the faint glow of the chain coiled near her wrist. It pulsed gently, synced with a heartbeat that was not entirely her own.
She thought of killing him again.
Not impulsively.
Carefully.
But the thought no longer brought relief.
Only questions.
And somewhere far beyond the ruined land, deep within a prison built from failure and eternity, two sealed gods felt the echo of a new presence walking beside their daughter—
—and did not know whether to be afraid.