BLEEDING VELVET

"I didn't survive the fire to be soft. I walked out with teeth."—Almond

The crypt still smoked.

Ash curled into the air like ghosts too stubborn to leave. Almond stood barefoot on broken stone, her dress torn at the hem, the dagger still warm in her palm. The Prophet was gone—but only in body.

His breath clung to the room.

His echo buzzed behind her eyes.

She wasn't sure what victory felt like.

But it didn't feel like this.

Velda sat slumped against a half-collapsed pillar, pressing a cloth to her temple. The blood had slowed, but not stopped. She watched Almond like a soldier watches the battlefield even after the war ends—tight, unreadable.

"Is it over?" she asked.

Almond didn't answer.

Because the truth was: she didn't know.

Kairo stumbled out from the far corridor, arms blackened with soot. He looked thinner than he had this morning. Like something had drained more than just his strength.

"He's not dead," Kairo said quietly.

Almond turned.

He nodded toward the air. "I didn't feel a soul release. Only displacement."

"So where is he?" Velda rasped.

Kairo's mouth trembled.

"Inside the veil. Between our world and what's left of the Dark Fold. We pushed him through a crack."

Almond swallowed.

"Then we sealed it wrong."

They carried Aren up the ruined stairwell, out into what little was left of the church's main hall. Rain dripped through the cracks in the roof. Lightning flashed like a camera capturing the bones of the world.

He was still silent.

Still breathing.

But when Almond laid him down, something flickered behind his eyes.

She leaned in close.

And for a split second—she heard him laugh.

Not out loud.

In her head.

"Bride of flame," the voice whispered. "You tasted him. Now you taste me."

She jolted back.

Aren's eyes fluttered open.

"What happened?"

But the voice was gone.

And he was just… Aren.

They camped near the edge of the village ruins, beneath what used to be a bell tower. Almond didn't sleep. She sat beside the dying fire, her hands black with dried blood, her thoughts sharp and scattered.

Velda returned from scouting just before dawn.

"There's movement in the north woods," she said. "Shadows. But they weren't feeding. Just watching."

"Sentinels?" Almond asked.

"Or something older."

Kairo opened the Book of Flesh. It had survived the blast—barely. Its cover was scorched, but the pages still whispered.

"I found a name written beside yours," he said. "It's been scratched out. Rewritten."

He turned the book to face her.

And Almond saw it:

Mira.

Her mother's name.

The vision hit before she could scream.

Heat. A cradle on fire. Hands pulling her away.

Mira's voice—screaming, chanting, cursing.

The Prophet laughing.

Then darkness.

Almond opened her eyes with a gasp.

Kairo looked shaken.

Velda backed away slowly.

"What did you see?" Almond demanded.

Velda whispered, "She didn't just give birth to you. She bargained for you."

They headed north that morning.

No one argued.

The wind shifted, and every tree seemed to lean toward them like they were watching history repeat.

Almond didn't hold Aren's hand. But he stayed close. Too close.

Sometimes, when he blinked, his eyes shimmered gold for just a second too long.

Sometimes, he'd say things like, "You're glowing, bride."

And he wouldn't remember saying them.

Almond started sleeping with her dagger unsheathed.

The ruins at the forest's edge weren't ruins anymore.

They were clean.

New.

And at the center stood a woman in a red cloak.

Face hidden.

Body draped in smoke.

She turned when they stepped into the clearing.

And when she spoke—

It was Almond's mother's voice.