When Eon gave back control, it was not gently.
It was like being ripped out of a nightmare by the spine.
Qaritas slammed back into his body with a scream lodged halfway up his throat, the echo of Ayla's pain still tearing through him—bone snapping, flesh tearing, not begging, never begging—just the awful, rhythmic sounds of someone being taken apart while refusing to give their tormentor the satisfaction of fear.
"No—Ayla—!"
He tried to move.
The darkness inside him surged instead.
He staggered forward in his own mind, running through corridors of shadow that folded and unfolded endlessly, calling her name, chasing the sound—only to feel the dark thicken around his legs, his chest, his throat.
The deeper he ran, the more the void welcomed him.
Not swallowed.
Claimed.
Panic clawed up his ribs.
"Stop—stop—" he gasped, hands tearing through nothing. "I have to—she's—"
Then, unexpectedly—
Eon was there.
Not looming.
Not laughing.
Firm.
"Fight it," Eon said sharply, his presence snapping like a blade drawn from a sheath. "You are not allowed to disappear yet."
Qaritas reeled. "You—why are you—"
Before Eon could answer, another voice cut cleanly through the chaos.
Calm.
Certain.
Female.
"It will be alright," the voice said. "Bring him back. He has gone far enough."
The darkness recoiled.
Not fled—yielded.
The void peeled away from Qaritas like a tide pulling back, and the world slammed into focus.
Stone.
Cold.
Pain.
He was on the floor.
Hands trembling. Chest heaving. Throat burning raw from a scream that had never fully escaped.
Someone was crouched beside him.
She was small—short, compact, her presence dense in a way that bent the air around her. Her skin was black as starless night, but not flat—no, it shimmered, dusted with faint, distant sparks like galaxies seen through smoked glass. Her hair fell in the same impossible shade, cascading down her shoulders in waves of darkness and light.
And she was pregnant.
Not hidden. Not concealed.
Carried openly, power and life coiled together beneath her ribs.
She straightened slowly, meeting Qaritas's stunned gaze with eyes that held neither pity nor judgment—only understanding sharpened by experience.
"You must be one of the new Ascendants," she said pleasantly. "I am Xariathis. Ascendant of Pain."
She inclined her head. "A pleasure to meet you."
Qaritas swallowed hard.
Shanian's daughter.
The one sent to save Xheavaend.
His gaze snapped past her—
And he froze.
Xheavaend lay in the bed.
Not rotting.
Not crawling with insects.
Not dissolving into decay.
She looked… whole.
Ethereal.
Her skin glowed faintly, unmarred, smooth as polished obsidian kissed by starlight. Long black hair spilled across the sheets, threaded with streaks of pinkish violet that shimmered like dawn caught in shadow. Her chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm.
Sleeping.
Peaceful.
Beautiful in a way that hurt to look at.
Rnarah's beauty—refined, softened—echoed unmistakably in her daughter's features.
Tavran stood at the bedside, hands clenched together so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. Rivax and Dheas were there too, both visibly shaken—not by horror this time, but by relief so sharp it bordered on pain.
"She's…" Rivax breathed. "She's really—"
"Alive," Dheas finished hoarsely.
Eon stirred, watching.
"When Xariathis entered," he murmured privately to Qaritas, tone clinical, almost curious, "the decay reversed itself. Fascinating. She does not heal rot. She rewinds it."
Qaritas barely heard him.
Tavran turned suddenly, eyes wet, voice breaking as he bowed deeply—far deeper than protocol demanded.
"Thank you," he said, raw. "Thank you for my sister. For bringing her back from that—"
He faltered.
Xariathis stepped closer and placed a hand gently over his clasped fists.
"There is nothing to forgive," she said softly. "Nothing to thank. This was my duty. And my joy."
She smiled—small, genuine.
"I am happy to report her condition is stable. Her spirit is knitting back into itself. She should wake soon."
Hope snapped through the room like lightning.
"How soon?" Rivax demanded, unable to stop himself.
"Days," Xariathis said. "Perhaps a week."
Tavran exhaled a broken sound that might have been a sob.
Before anyone could speak—
The door burst open.
Rnarah stumbled inside.
She was crying openly, tears streaking down her face as she rushed to the bed, falling to her knees beside it.
"She will," Rnarah choked. "She'll wake up, won't she—?"
Xariathis knelt with her and pulled her into a firm embrace.
"She will," she promised. "She is strong. Stronger than she knows."
Rnarah sobbed into her shoulder, clutching her like an anchor.
Joy—real joy—filled the room.
Tavran's breath hitched.
"Ayla—"
The name slipped out before he could stop it.
Silence snapped tight around him.
He swallowed hard, jaw tightening as if he'd bitten into something sharp. "She shouldn't be there," he muttered, voice low and raw. "Not with him. Not again."
His hand curled slowly into a fist.
"I've seen this cycle before."
No one asked him to explain.
"Pain keeps its promises," Eon murmured. "Mercy does not."
Qaritas felt it brush against him.
And yet—
His eyes drifted back to Xheavaend.
Eon leaned closer inside him.
"Take me to her," he said quietly.
Qaritas stiffened.
"What?"
"I want to see her," Eon repeated. "Healed."
Cold crept down Qaritas's spine.
"You don't feel bad," Qaritas whispered. "About any of this."
"No," Eon agreed easily. "But I am… interested."
Qaritas backed away from the bed.
That was when Nez appeared.
The dark feline padded silently to his side, violet eyes glowing softly as it pressed against his leg, tail flicking once before settling—protective, unyielding.
The darkness around Qaritas bent.
Not violently.
Obediently.
The cat stiffened.
The feline's ears flattened, violet eyes flaring as the shadows around Qaritas thickened a fraction too fast—too eager. The darkness curled inward, brushing too close, and hissed sharply as his back paws skidded across the stone, claws scraping for purchase.
For one sickening heartbeat, the dark tried to take him.
Qaritas reacted without thinking.
Not command.
Not rage.
"Hey—no," he whispered, breath breaking.
The shadows recoiled instantly, peeling back like ashamed limbs. The cat landed hard against Qaritas's shin, pressing close, vibrating with a low growl as Qaritas dropped a hand to his fur, grounding himself just as much as the creature.
The dark stilled.
Waiting.
Qaritas kept his hand there, fingers sunk into warm fur, feeling the tremor ease beneath his palm.
The cat's breathing slowed.
The shadows hovered, restless—too close for comfort, like they were waiting for permission to try again.
Qaritas swallowed and leaned down slightly, forehead almost touching dark ears.
"You're not going anywhere," he murmured, voice rough. "I've got you."
His thumb brushed behind one ear.
The word slipped out with the breath.
"Nez."
The darkness went still.
Not frozen.
Listening.
The cat lifted its head, violet eyes catching the low light, then pressed closer to Qaritas's leg as if the sound fit where it had always belonged.
Inside Qaritas, something ancient paused.
"…Huh," Eon said quietly.
Qaritas didn't ask why.
Qaritas shifted his weight—and a breath later, his shadow followed.
Not much. Barely noticeable.
He hated it instantly.
Shadows shifted to accommodate his breath.
Xariathis glanced at him sharply.
"…You are close," she murmured.
Eon stirred, closer than he had been before.
"Do you feel it?" he murmured, almost contemplative. "The dark answers you faster now. You barely think, and it listens."
For a moment—just one—it almost sounded like approval.
Then his tone shifted.
"Soon," Eon continued calmly, "you won't need me to show you where the doors are."
A pause.
"Soon," he added, softer, "you'll stop pretending you're asking."
Qaritas didn't ask to what.
He already knew.
He heard Ayla screaming again.
It hit him like a hammer.
He stumbled back, breath hitching, then turned and ran.
Out of the chamber. Down the hall. Through the stairwells.
"Komus!" Qaritas shouted, bursting into motion. "She's in danger!"
Komus didn't ask questions.
They ran for the ferry—
And found Zcain waiting.
"It won't return until tomorrow," Zcain said grimly. "It has already begun the cycle back to Mrajeareim."
Something in Qaritas snapped.
He slammed Zcain into the wall, forearm pressed hard against his throat, shadows writhing around his limbs.
"Don't you care?" Qaritas roared. "The woman who raised you is being torn apart—"
"Of course I care!" Zcain shouted back, eyes blazing. "Do you think I didn't try to stop her?! There is nothing we can do!"
Qaritas punched the wall beside his head.
Stone exploded.
Qaritas staggered back a step.
His chest was rising too fast—but his pulse wasn't keeping pace. It stuttered, lagged, then lurched forward again, uneven and wrong.
Worse—
His shadow moved half a heartbeat late.
He turned sharply.
It followed.
Too slow.
Cold crept into his gut.
A crater the size of a door yawned open.
Silence fell.
Qaritas stepped back, shaking.
"After dinner," he said coldly, turning away. "I'm fighting you in the Develdion."
"If you go any further," Komus said quietly, "I don't know how to pull you back."
Zcain didn't stop him.
Dinner shattered something else entirely.
Xariathis entered—with a man who looked like Komus's reflection refracted through the stars.
Silver hair.
One golden eye.
The other a swirling galaxy of purple and mercury-silver.
Skin like deep space.
Komus froze.
Niraí screamed.
"AZRHOTH!"
She ran to him, sobbing, as he laughed and lifted her effortlessly into his arms.
"Mother!"
Komus stared.
"…Who is that?"
Niraí went pale.
"One of our children," she said quietly. "One of many."
Komus walked out.
Qaritas followed.
Komus laughed bitterly as they walked.
"She didn't tell me," he said. "Wouldn't have changed anything. I just wish I'd known."
Qaritas said nothing.
They reached the Develdion.
Zcain was waiting.
The match began.
And the darkness leaned in—
listening for the moment Qaritas would finally wake.
The dark was no longer listening.
It was waiting for him to stop holding it back.
The Develdion did not stay still for them.
The moment the match was acknowledged, the arena breathed—stone sliding, platforms shearing apart, gravity twisting sideways like a bad thought. Towers rose and collapsed mid-formation. The ground became layered terraces, then a shattered spiral, then nothing at all.
Zcain stood at the center of it.
And behind him—
threads bloomed.
Crimson.
Rippling.
Alive.
They unfurled from his spine in slow, deliberate waves, dozens becoming hundreds, each filament humming with restrained violence. They were not merely blood—no, they were will, compressed and sharpened until reality bent around them.
Qaritas felt them before he understood them.
A pressure behind the eyes.
A ringing in the bones.
A warning written directly into instinct.
Zcain moved.
Not forward.
Everywhere.
His body twisted like thread itself—folding, flexing, never fully occupying one place. Each step was a pivot. Each pivot a feint. His silhouette blurred, split, overlapped.
He didn't just command the blood—
—he danced with it.
The first strike landed before Qaritas realized the fight had begun.
Pain erased his chest.
Threads passed through him like a storm of razors, not slicing but unmaking—muscle unraveling, bone splitting into lines of force, organs torn free and scattered as heat and shadow. His body came apart in midair, reduced to fragments before gravity could decide what to do with him.
There was no time to scream.
Darkness slammed inward, dragging pieces back together with violent urgency. Qaritas hit the ground on one knee, gasping, hands clawing stone that wasn't there a second ago.
Zcain was already gone.
A heartbeat—
—and Qaritas's left arm detonated.
Threads shifted form mid-strike, braiding together, glowing white-hot as nuclear energy screamed through them. The filament collapsed inward instead of exploding outward, erasing space where it touched. His arm didn't fall.
It ceased.
Qaritas howled as the dark rushed to replace what no longer existed, shadows stitching him back together with jagged seams.
"I didn't even see you," Qaritas snarled.
Zcain's voice came from behind him.
"You weren't meant to."
Another impact.
This time the threads reshaped into blades—long, geometric, impossible weapons forged from blood and radiation. Zcain slashed once.
The entire platform vanished.
Stone, air, distance—gone.
Qaritas was thrown through empty space as the arena reassembled around him, crashing into a newly risen wall hard enough to shatter his spine. He felt it snap. Felt his legs disconnect. Felt darkness scramble, panicked, trying to remember the shape of him.
Inside his mind—
Eon leaned forward.
"Oh," the First Evil murmured, interested. "He's good."
Qaritas staggered upright, shadow lagging behind him by a fraction of a second—wrong, wrong, wrong.
Help me, Qaritas thought.
Eon laughed quietly.
"You challenged him," Eon said. "This is the consequence of your actions. Deal with it."
Zcain reappeared in front of him, threads coiling, reshaping again—this time into a warhammer made of braided filaments and collapsing light. Nuclear force screamed inside it, compressed until the air itself cried.
Zcain brought it down.
The Develdion screamed.
Qaritas was crushed into the ground, body folding inward as gravity spiked violently. Ribs imploded. Lungs collapsed. His skull cracked like glass under pressure.
Darkness yanked him back from nothing.
Barely.
Zcain stepped back, assessing—not cruel, not pleased. Professional.
"This," he said evenly, "is what it means to fight something trained by a Fragment."
He vanished again.
Threads erupted from every direction, spearing through Qaritas's torso, pinning him midair like a ruined banner. Nuclear heat cooked what little flesh remained as his body tore itself apart repeatedly—regenerating, failing, regenerating again.
Inside, Eon watched calmly.
"Even if your body is destroyed," Eon said conversationally, "it simply means I will be free."
Rage ignited.
Not clean.
Not controlled.
The dark answered.
Shadows surged outward, not shaped, not commanded—hungry, violent, alive. The arena dimmed as if someone had smothered the stars. Zcain slid backward for the first time, boots carving glowing trenches through stone.
His eyes sharpened.
"Good," Zcain said. "There it is."
Qaritas lunged.
Too slow.
But closer.
Threads lashed again—but the darkness bent around them, warping trajectories, dulling edges. A blade grazed him instead of carving him in half.
Progress.
Zcain noticed.
"You're learning," he said.
Then he raised both hands.
Every thread converged.
They twisted together, collapsing into a single construct—a lance of annihilation, humming with enough compressed force to fracture realms. The air screamed around it, space bowing inward.
Zcain hurled it.
Qaritas threw up his hands.
The dark surged—
—not enough.
The impact obliterated everything between them.
When the light faded, Qaritas was embedded in the far wall, chest caved in, heart stuttering wrong, shadow dragging itself into place too late.
Zcain stood amid the ruin, threads slowly retracting.
"Enough," he said.
The Develdion fell silent.
Qaritas slid down the wall, gasping, vision swimming, darkness pulsing too eagerly beneath his skin.
Inside him—
Eon leaned forward again.
"You survived," Eon murmured. "Barely."
Qaritas tasted blood, shadow, and failure.
But beneath it—
The dark wasn't reacting anymore.
It was remembering.
And the Develdion—
The Develdion had learned his name.