The words that save you most often come from the voice you least expect.
The hospital wing was quieter than usual, the kind of silence that felt unnerving, heavy with unspoken words and the weight of unanswered questions. The faint hum of magical wards layered over the more familiar sounds of beeping monitors and the sterile scent of antiseptic.
Ábel lay in one of the private rooms, pale against the white sheets, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. His usual chaotic energy was gone, replaced by a stillness that felt wrong.
I stood by his bedside, one hand resting lightly on the cold metal of the rail. He looked so fragile like this. My gaze lingered on his face. My fingers flexed against the metal rail as I debated what to do next.
Taking a steadying breath, I straightened, the weight of my power coiling in my chest. I wasn't entirely sure how it worked—only that it demanded obedience. It was instinctual, primal, and utterly conquering. Yet here I was, ready to wield it against my own brother.
"Ábel," I said, my voice steady, resonating with an authority that felt unnatural, "wake up."
The room seemed to hold its breath. The air thickened, charged with the weight of the command. My voice echoed faintly, as if the magic itself was trying to etch my words into existence.
But Ábel didn't move. His breathing remained unchanged, his expression as still and serene as before.
I clenched my jaw, frustration prickling at the edge of my thoughts. Maybe I hadn't done it right. Maybe I hadn't pushed hard enough.
I stepped closer, my hand hovering over his, and tried again, pouring every ounce of force I could muster into my words. "Ábel, wake up."
The magic surged, rippling through the room like a wave, and for a moment, I thought I saw his fingers twitch. My breath caught, hope flaring like a spark. But it was gone just as quickly, the silence returning with a vengeance.
I let out a shaky breath. "Of course, it wouldn't be this easy," I murmured, my tone softer now. I sat down in the chair beside the bed, running a hand through my hair.
Leaning forward, I rested my elbows on my knees, staring at the floor. "I'll figure it out," I said quietly. "I just... need more time."
Ábel didn't respond. Of course, he didn't. But I liked to think he heard me anyway. The steady beep of the monitor mocked me, as if to say, Not today, Shay. Not yet.
I reached for my bag without thinking, my fingers brushing against the worn leather spine of the one thing I always carried with me. I pulled it out—the same book I'd read to Ábel a hundred times before, long before either of us had ever heard of kings or commands or wars.
The Little Prince.
The cover was a little battered now, soft and creased in places from years of use. I flipped it open, the pages worn but still holding that faint scent of paper and memories. I'd read this to Ábel so many times he could probably quote it in his sleep—or at least, he could've before. I wasn't sure anymore.
"Well," I muttered, settling into the chair and opening to the first page, "you always said you liked my terrible narration skills. Guess you're stuck with them again."
The words felt heavier than they should've, like I was dragging them out of my chest. I cleared my throat and started reading, my voice filling the quiet room.
"'Once, when I was six years old, I saw a magnificent picture in a book, called True Stories from Nature, about the primeval forest. It was a picture of a boa constrictor swallowing an animal. Here is a copy of the drawing.'"
I glanced up, half expecting Ábel to roll his eyes like because I tried to mimic voices for effect. But he stayed as he was, motionless and silent.
I swallowed hard, my grip on the book tightening. "Well, I'm still terrible at mimicking French accent, so deal with it."
I kept reading, letting the words carry me, my voice steadying as I found a rhythm. The familiar story unfolded, each line tugging at memories of the first time I read him. As I read aloud, my voice low and steady, the thought crept in unbidden: Can you hear me, Ábel?
The words hung in the back of my mind as I glanced at him. His face was peaceful, his expression almost too calm. The shadows under his eyes had faded, and if it weren't for the machines surrounding us, I could almost convince myself he was just sleeping in.
"I wonder if you can hear me right now," I looked down at the book in my hands, my fingers tightening around its edges. "You're probably cringing at me right now," I said aloud, trying to sound nonchalant, even though my voice wavered. "Sitting there, thinking how ridiculous I must look, reading The Little Prince like it's going to solve anything."
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the bed's edge, the book open in my lap. "If you can hear me..." I murmured, my eyes fixed on his still face.
I let the silence stretch for a moment, the book resting in my lap. My fingers traced the edge of the page absently as I studied his face, searching for some flicker of recognition.
"Come on, Ábel," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "If you're in there, just... give me something. A sign. Anything."
The only answer was the steady rhythm of the machines. I sighed, leaning back in the chair, the book still open in my hands.
"Well, I'm not giving up. You're stuck with me reading this until you wake up—or until I figure out how to drag you back myself." I resumed reading, my voice steady but softer, the words filling the quiet room. If nothing else, I'd keep reading. For him.
Then, a sudden chill crept up my spine. It wasn't unpleasant—it was Simon's unmistakable presence, like winter's first frost brushing the back of my neck. He didn't speak as if respecting the moment he interrupted.
I kept reading. Not because I didn't feel him there, but because stopping felt like admitting something I wasn't ready to. The book in my hands was my shield, my way of holding onto the fragile hope I'd been cradling since I walked into this room.
"'And the stars,'" I continued, my voice softer now, "'are not the same for travelers. For some, they are guides. For others, they are nothing but tiny lights.'"
The air grew colder as Simon's presence settled more firmly at my side, and I could almost imagine his icy gaze fixed on me—or maybe on Ábel. Still, I didn't look up. Not yet. My fingers tightened around the edges of the book, my voice a little less steady as I read the last line of the page.
"'But all these stars are silent. You—you alone will have the stars as no one else has them.'"
I closed the book gently, my hand lingering on the cover for a moment before setting it down on the small table beside Ábel's bed. Only then did I raise my eyes, meeting Simon's translucent form. He stood there, his expression unreadable, the faint shimmer of his presence catching the sterile light of the room.
Simon's gaze lingered on Ábel's still form, his expression unreadable but for the faintest hint of something softer in his icy demeanor. He stood there, silent for a moment longer, before his gaze flicked to the book on the table and then back to me.
"Reading is not futile," Simon said, his voice quiet but unyielding. "He hears you."
I scoffed, leaning back in my chair, arms crossed. "And how exactly do you know that? Is this another one of your 'ghostly insights,' or are you just guessing?"
Simon's dead eyes didn't meet mine. Instead, they remained fixed on Ábel, unblinking, as if he were seeing something I couldn't. It made me uncomfortable—the way he could look at someone and seem to peer beneath the surface, to see truths hidden from the living.
"I'm sure because his soul is shining brightly," Simon finally said, his voice carrying an eerie calm. "He's not close to death, Shay. Not yet."
The room felt colder somehow, like the weight of Simon's words carried a chill that settled over everything. My throat tightened, and I looked back at Ábel, studying his face for any flicker of life, any proof of what Simon claimed to see. But there was nothing—just the still rise and fall of his chest, the rhythmic beeping of the machines.
"What makes you think his 'shining soul' means anything?" I muttered, shaking my head.
Simon turned his head slightly, his lips curling into a faint smile—one that wasn't mocking but somehow knowing. "Because I've seen what it looks like when a soul is dimming. When it's slipping away." His gaze softened, though his voice remained cold. "That isn't Ábel. Not now. He's still here."
I swallowed hard, my fingers gripping the armrest of my chair. I looked at Ábel again, his peaceful face, his stillness. Could he really hear me? Did any of this make a difference?
Simon stepped closer, his presence like a frost spreading across the room. "When he wakes up," he said softly, "he'll be glad you didn't leave him alone."
I looked away, pretending to be unaffected. "I will never leave him alone."
Simon didn't reply, and when I glanced back at him, his gaze was fixed once more on Ábel's sleeping form, as though watching over him with a care that seemed almost... human.
Simon's cold hand brushed against mine—a touch so freezing, it sent a shiver racing up my spine. The world around me faded, and the hospital room dissolved into shadow and memory.
I was standing in a dimly lit space, barely able to make out the details, but the atmosphere was suffocating. The air smelled of copper and despair, heavy with the weight of something terrible. I heard the shallow, uneven breathing of someone waking from pain.
Elsie.
She lay on the floor, her body battered, her face bruised, and her hands trembling as she pushed herself upright. Every movement seemed to take everything she had. Her eyes darted around the room—wide with fear, scanning every corner for threats. Her breath hitched, her muscles tense as though she were ready to run or fight, despite the clear impossibility of either.
That's when her gaze landed on the envelope. It rested just within reach, its edges slightly crumpled as though it had been carefully placed. Suspicion flickered across her face, followed by hesitation. Slowly, she dragged herself toward it, her hands shaking as she picked it up. She turned it over, inspecting it for any sign of danger, her fingers ghosting over the paper as though it might explode at her touch.
After what felt like an eternity, she tore it open. Her hands stilled as glitter poured out, scattering across her lap and the floor, catching the dim light like tiny stars. Nestled within was a single piece of paper with a poem scrawled across it in handwriting she clearly recognized.
Her breath hitched audibly as she read. Tears welled in her eyes, sliding down her cheeks in silent streaks. Her lips trembled as she mouthed the words, her fingers clutching the paper like it was the only thing keeping her anchored to this world.
At the bottom of the envelope, she found another scrap of paper—smaller, messier, but no less deliberate. She unfolded it cautiously, and her tears fell harder as her eyes scanned the short message:
[Survive. Or he will be sad.]
Elsie pressed the poem to her chest, curling over it as though it were a shield, her sobs quiet but unrelenting. She rocked slightly, clutching those fragile words, and for a moment, the raw emotion in her was overwhelming. It was as though that tiny, glitter-drenched reminder of hope had reached into her.
The memory faded, and I found myself back in the hospital room, Simon's hand still cold against mine. I didn't even look at him—my eyes were fixed somewhere in the middle distance, caught between disbelief and something heavier.
"She's alive," Simon murmured, his voice quieter than the hum of the machines around us. "Because you gave her a reason to be."
I turned my head toward him, my lips pressed into a thin line. "She's alive because she's stubborn," I muttered, though the words lacked their usual bite. "I just... nudged her."
Simon smiled faintly, his dead eyes carrying that same unnerving weight as before. I looked away.
I stood abruptly, the chair screeching against the floor as I pushed it back. For a moment, I hovered beside Ábel's bed, staring down at him.
I strode to the door, but just as I reached it, I hesitated. My hand rested on the frame as I glanced over my shoulder. Ábel lay there, completely oblivious, his face untouched by the turmoil raging inside me.
I didn't say anything. What was the point? Instead, I forced my legs to move, stepping out into the hallway and letting the door close behind me with a soft click.
The hospital was quiet, save for the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional murmur of voices in the distance. My boots echoed against the tile as I walked, each step heavy and deliberate.
By the time I pushed through the main doors, the cold night air hit me like a slap. It was sharp, biting, but in a way, it was exactly what I needed. I paused at the top of the steps, tilting my head back and letting the icy wind sting my face. The city lights sprawled out in front of me, their flickering glow scattered like dying embers against the dark sky.
I took a deep breath, the cold air burning in my lungs, and pulled up my hood. Without looking back, I descended the steps, my feet carrying me away from the hospital and into the shadows of the city.
(...)
Gironde Mehisto glanced down into the palm of his hand, silently admiring the tiny golden ball of smoke that only he could see. It hovered there like a marble-sized fragment of something far greater—an ethereal, glowing orb. It beckoned him with a warmth that seemed to pulsate from its core, tempting creatures like him with its beauty and its power. To anyone else, it might have appeared like nothing more than a fleeting spark, but to a necromancer, it was a piece of a soul—more valuable than a thousand years of life willingly offered.
Yet instead of clutching it with the reverence it deserved, Gironde swallowed it in a single, almost absent motion. It vanished into him as though it had never existed, leaving behind a warmth that flooded through his body. The warmth of life—the kind he'd long since forgotten. He gasped, almost in disbelief, as it spread through him. It was fleeting, yet it made him feel... alive again.
For a moment, his eyes widened, his chest tight. The heart that had been still for centuries seemed to flutter, as though it had skipped a beat. He cupped his cheeks, still in shock, and when he withdrew his hand, he felt something damp. He stared at his fingers, his breath hitching in his throat. Tears. After so long, after centuries, how long had it been since he'd shed them?
A bitter, wistful smile crept across his lips as he lingered on the strange rush of emotions. The pain in his chest—though hollow, though empty—was familiar. It was a reminder of everything he had lost, and for the briefest of moments, Gironde Mehisto seemed more human than ever.
But then the moment passed, and the cold, death-like stillness of the necromancer returned. The warmth ebbed, leaving only the eerie quiet in its wake. His smile froze, leaving behind only the damp track of tears on his face. He wiped them away mechanically, feeling once again the familiar emptiness where his heart should be. There should have been agony. There should have been something. But there was nothing.
With a deep, steadying breath, he drew his lips into a small, almost imperceptible smile. He reached for the skull resting beside him on the armchair.
"Time to get to work, my dear," he murmured softly, a trace of melancholy in his voice. "We must fulfill our own curse."
Minutes later, Gironde moved soundlessly through the sterile, deserted corridors of the hospital. His footsteps barely made a sound as he walked past the flickering lights, his presence an eerie shadow against the dim walls. He stopped abruptly in front of a door. With a practiced motion, he grasped the handle, twisted it, and pushed the door open.
Inside the room, there was a figure lying motionless, as if frozen in time. The boy had been in a coma for months. Gironde walked toward the bed, his cold fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from the boy's forehead. He stood there for a moment, watching the expressionless face.
"Time to wake up," Gironde said, his voice quiet but final.
Ábel's fingers twitched. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he gripped the blanket beneath him. His eyelids fluttered, and for the briefest of moments, his gaze met a strange figure in the room. But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him disoriented, confused. Perhaps it had been a dream.
He blinked, trying to clear the remnants of sleep from his mind, and in a daze, sat up. His eyes darted around the room, wide with shock.