Darkness engulfs us.
Not the passive void we've been standing in, but active consumption. It doesn't surround—itdevours, pulling us through layers of reality like silk scarves being yanked away. Each transition brings new sensation:
Cold that burns. Heat that freezes. Silence that deafens. Light that blinds with its absence.
Through it all, her hand remains solid in mine. An anchor. A guide. A promise that wherever we're going, we go together.
The journey feels eternal and instant simultaneously. Time doesn't flow—it stutters, stops, reverses, accelerates. I experience moments out of order: arriving before we leave, existing in multiple states, being nowhere and everywhere.
Then, with abruptness that makes my shadows scream, we stop.
But where we've arrived isn't a place.
It's a memory.
And in that memory, I finally understand what wickedness has done to what's mine.
The realization comes with the weight of prophecy fulfilled: my mentor was right. I've found not just my match, but someone whose broken pieces fit perfectly against my own jagged edges.
Now I just have to help her remember that broken doesn't mean worthless.
That darkness doesn't mean evil.
That sometimes, in a world of wickedness, finding someone equally damaged is the first step toward healing.
Her small hand tightens in mine as the memory begins to play. And I hold on, ready to witness whatever horrors forged this child of shadows who wears my mark and calls to my darkness like coming home.
"Show me," I whisper into the void. "Show me everything."
And the darkness, eager to please its masters, obeys.
Guardian's Mercy
~ZEKE~
Darkness.
Not the gentle shadow of night or the cool dimness of a cave. This is absolute void—a thickness that presses against every sense like drowning in liquid obsidian.My eyes open to nothing,theblack so complete it makes me question whether I've actually opened them at all.
The weight of it is oppressive.
Each breath requires conscious effort, as if the darkness itself has mass and doesn't want to be displaced by something as trivial as lungs seeking air. It clings to my skin with almost sentient persistence, trying to seep through pores and claim what lies beneath.
I sit up slowly, muscles protesting the movement. Everything feels heavy here—gravity multiplied by some factor that makes even simple actions exhausting. The air (if it can be called that) tastes of burnt copper and frozen starlight, coating my throat with each labored inhalation.
Deep breath in. Hold. Release.
The familiar meditation technique helps center me, pushing back against the oppressive atmosphere. I close my eyes—redundant in this void—and when I open them again, I let my feline nature surface.
My pupils dilate and contract, reshaping from human circles to vertical slits. The transformation is subtle but profound. Cat eyes see differently than human ones, detecting variations in darkness that would be invisible to normal vision. Heat signatures, magical resonance, the faint phosphorescence of living auras—all become visible in graduated shades of gray and silver.
The first thing I see makes my chest tighten with concern.
Mortimer lies perhaps ten feet away, his usually composed form sprawled with unconscious vulnerability. His breathing is shallow, barely visible even to my enhanced sight. The dragon shifter's natural resilience is the only thing keeping him alive—anyone else would have already succumbed.
Nikki is worse. Her Fae nature rebels against this environment with violent rejection. I can see it in the way her aura flickers, guttering like a candle in a hurricane. Each breath is a battle her body is slowly losing. The damage from the guardian fight has compounded with environmental hostility to create a potentially fatal combination.
Atticus sprawls nearest to me, vampire constitution providing marginally better resistance. But even he struggles. His chest rises and falls with irregular rhythm, and the blood that usually flows with supernatural vitality moves sluggishly through his veins.
