BLEEDING VELVET

Almond didn't dream.

Not that night.

She remembered.

Except the memories weren't hers.

The fire, the screaming, the twin with his stitched mouth undone. A veil of red mist, heavy like breath before a scream.

Then silence.

Her body woke up before her mind did—numb fingers curled around a blade that hadn't been there when she fell asleep.

Not hers.

Aren's.

And it had his name carved into the hilt: *Almond*.

She sat up. No light. No warmth. Only the sound of breathing—three separate rhythms. Hers. Velda's. And someone else's.

Aren wasn't in the room.

But something that wore his shape was.

It crouched by the doorway like it was guarding her. Or watching her die slowly.

Almond stood without a word. Stepped lightly. Blade in hand.

When she got close enough, it turned its head—too far. Too slow.

Its mouth moved.

But Aren's voice didn't come out.

"Your heart is a haunted house," it said. "I only want to decorate."

She didn't stab it.

She let it speak.

Because somewhere inside that warped silhouette, her Aren was fighting.

Velda woke with a gasp, gun raised. Kairo had his spells halfway built by the time Almond spoke.

"Don't attack."

"It's him," Kairo said.

"No," Almond replied. "It's both."

The creature turned toward the fireless hearth and began carving symbols into the ash.

It drew a doorway.

Then it crawled through it.

And vanished.

The next morning, Aren returned.

Bloody. Barefoot. Human.

"I walked through all my own deaths," he said. "I met the Prophet's twin again. He called me groom."

Almond didn't ask questions.

She kissed him. Hard. Not sweet.

And said, "If he's planning another altar, we need to build our own first."

Kairo didn't like the plan.

Velda nearly slapped her.

"You want to build a fake altar and bait him?" Velda hissed. "You think that'll work?"

Almond's eyes were black from no sleep.

"No," she said. "I think it'll hurt him."

Kairo finally sighed. "We'll need blood. Candles. Something personal."

Almond didn't flinch.

"I'll give it blood. I'll give it mine."

They built the altar in a ruined chapel on the edge of a ghost town.

Almond bled into the cracks of the stone.

She burned her old wedding dress.

She whispered a vow to no one:

"I will not be prey. I will not be saved. I will be the fire in every nightmare you dream."

The altar pulsed.

Once.

Then again.

Then a voice answered:

"Then be mine, properly."

He came that night.

Not the Prophet.

The Twin.

His stitches were gone.

His voice was smooth.

"I don't want your soul, Almond," he said. "I want your permission."

"To do what?"

"To finish what he started. But this time—with your love."

She didn't move.

Didn't blink.

She only said:

"Then take me to the final altar."

He smiled.

And the sky split.