Echos of The Mistress

Dion's POV

The water rushed over the rock face, silver and alive in the moonlight, but Dion's focus was only on her—on Therrin, warm and pressed against him beneath the falls, her mouth parting in a breathless moan.

They were hidden behind the cascading curtain, backs against the slick stone wall, her fingers gripping his shoulders like she might fall apart if she let go. The bond between them thrummed—no longer tentative or fragile, but deep, fused. He felt her need as if it were his own, felt the way Ari arched within her, rising just beneath the surface, a shadow coiled with desire and light.

She was close.

Her breath hitched. "Dion—"

And then it came.

The air snapped cold.

Not from the water—no, this cold came from something else. A silence fell around them like a dropped veil, even the stream losing its voice. Dion's skin prickled. The bond flared—warning, anguish, dread—and his body moved before his mind caught up, shielding Therrin with his own.

A shape emerged beyond the waterfall.

It didn't ripple the water. Didn't disturb the light. It simply appeared, blacker than shadow, wrong in every way. Tall, cloaked in flickers of smoke and void, with a face that shifted between beast and woman and nothing at all.

Therrin clutched his arm. She trembled—not from fear, but from recognition. So did Ari, and the tremor of the twin souls within her sent a sharp spike through Dion's chest. He winced, hearing their twin heartbeats in his skull, thudding in terrified synchronicity.

"Dion," Therrin whispered. "It's her…"

"No," said the creature. Its voice echoed without sound. "Not her. Not yet. Only a messenger. Only a taste."

Dion snarled and stepped in front of Therrin, summoning the ancient magic in his blood, letting it blaze to the surface. "You crossed a warded boundary. You shouldn't be here."

"Should," it echoed. "But we are. Because the threads have frayed. Because the soul has split. Because you invited both into your arms and now… the veil thins."

He felt Therrin flinch behind him. Ari surged beneath her skin, furious, ready to fight—but Dion held steady. "You're not taking her," he said. "Either of them."

The shadow laughed.

The sound wasn't loud—it didn't need to be. It laced the air with poison, with inevitability.

"Foolish Fey," it hissed. "You think you've saved her? Think mating the cursed twin soul will shield her from what she is?" Its form wavered, twisting toward Therrin. "She is ours. Not because we will steal her. But because she will come willingly… when the time is right."

"You're wrong," Therrin said quietly, stepping forward. "I've fought you every step. I will never be yours."

"Yet you dream in shadows. You burn with them. And one day, child, you will command them."

The truth in the words cracked something open in Dion. He didn't know why—maybe it was the calm certainty in the creature's voice, or the unshakable fear it didn't need to shout. Maybe it was the way Therrin didn't deny it again. Her silence scraped him raw.

He reached back and found her hand. "She's not alone."

"No," said the shadow. "She's split."

Ari slammed forward in Therrin's body then, eyes glowing faint violet. "And I'll rip your throat out before you ever lay a finger on either of us."

The shadowspawn smiled—if the stretch of nothing that curled its form could be called a smile.

"Brave little twin. Do you really think the boy can love you both equally?" It cocked its head at Dion.

"You feel their pain, don't you? Their rage. Their guilt. You hear them now. Their voices in your skull. Tell me—how long until it crushes you?"

Dion's heart thundered, and the worst part was… it was true.

He could hear them—both Therrin and Ari. Since the night she gave herself to him, their thoughts sometimes slipped into his, like whispers half-remembered. He could feel what they felt, not always clearly, but enough to know when one was hurting or burning or beginning to spiral.

It was overwhelming.

But it was also… divine.

He looked the creature dead in its roiling, half-formed face.

"I will never let them fall," he said.

The air shimmered, the shape pulling back into the veil of mist.

"But that is not up to you, mate of two," it said. "You have chosen what cannot be split… and what cannot be bound. Your love will either anchor her—or be the weight that drowns her."

And with that, it vanished.

The water roared back to life. The frogs chirped again. The stars blinked without tremor above.

For a long time, they said nothing.

Therrin stood barefoot in the shallows, her body slick with droplets, arms folded across her chest. Ari was still near the surface, her eyes shadowed with fury. But beneath it, Dion could feel something else—a tremble, small and unsure.

"I don't want to become that," Therrin whispered.

"You won't," Dion said. "Not while I'm breathing."

She looked at him then. So did Ari.

And he saw it—just a flicker—in both of them.

Fear. And hope.

He stepped forward, took her face in his hands.

"You don't have to be just light or shadow. You're both. That's why you're stronger than anything they've ever seen."

"You don't understand," Ari said, speaking low. "They think she'll accept them. That she'll… call the shadows. Control them."

"And if she does," Dion said softly, "then I'll stand beside her. Not because I want her to change. But because she'll still be her. Still you. And I love both."

The bond hummed in response, a three-fold pulse that echoed across his skin, across his bones.

Therrin closed her eyes. "Even if I lose control?"

"Especially then," he said. "Because love doesn't wait at the finish line. It stays through every storm."

Ari let out a slow breath, and Dion felt her recede—only a little—but with no malice. Just quiet. Trust.

Therrin leaned into him, burying her face in his chest. "We're not ready."

"Then we prepare."

He held her tightly, as the moon poured down, and the waterfall sang louder than before—like it was trying to drown out the whisper of fate that had just walked through it.