The Cost of Obession

Ciaran's POV

The air outside the cabin was heavy, laced with the weight of shadow and magic. Ciaran stood at the edge of the treeline, arms folded behind his back as he regarded the veiled figure across from him. The Mistress had not moved in minutes, but her presence was suffocating—as always.

"You're quiet," he said, voice low, restrained. "That's never a good thing."

"I was watching you with her," the Mistress replied, her voice like smoke and silk. "You've gotten… sloppy."

Ciaran didn't react, though his jaw tensed.

"She's still drawn to the light. She still wants to believe she has a choice," she added. "But there is no choice, Ciaran. Not anymore."

He turned his head slightly, enough to let his black eyes lock with hers. "You forget, I was once hers long before you ever laid your claim."

"And yet she died," the Mistress murmured. "All your power, all your devotion, and still she slipped through your fingers like sand. What you want now—what you're willing to break for her—it'll come at a price. You know that."

His silence was answer enough. The wind stirred his long hair, revealing the faint scar along his collarbone—the mark Therrin had left in their first life when she died in his arms. A piece of her soul had torn into him. And it had never healed.

"You've been feeding her shadows," the Mistress noted. "Guiding her hand when she casts, whispering into her dreams, touching her body like it still belongs to you."

"It does belong to me," he growled.

"She's still split," the Mistress reminded him, stepping closer. "That wall she's put between herself and the other soul… that was clever. But dangerous. You made it happen, didn't you?"

"She asked for silence. I gave it to her." His eyes darkened further. "It was tearing her apart. I only… made it easier."

The Mistress tilted her head. "And what of Dion?"

Ciaran scoffed. "He's barely holding onto her as it is. Every touch, every kiss, weakens the bond she thought she needed. She's remembering. Her body does first. Her mind will follow."

"And what if she chooses him anyway?"

Ciaran stepped forward then—fluid, lethal, beautiful in the moonlight. "Then I'll make sure she never forgets who I am."

A long silence followed.

The Mistress traced her finger through the air, etching glowing lines only Ciaran could see. "You still haven't told her who you really are."

His voice was a whisper. "She'll remember… eventually. The name won't matter. It never did."

The Mistress laughed, low and cold. "You say that now. But when she finds out the truth—that you're not just some long-lost lover, but Erebus himself… the darkness incarnate… Will she still touch you like she does? Still moan your name in dreams?"

Ciaran's eyes gleamed. "She already does."

The Mistress gave a small, approving smile. "Then prepare her, Ciaran. Because the shadows are coming. The true ones. Not these puppets you've played with. The kind that devour. And she—she will either lead them… or be consumed."

He didn't answer. Instead, he turned his gaze back toward the cabin, where Therrin slept—her chest rising slowly, unaware of what stirred beneath the surface of her reality.

"I'll protect her," he murmured.

"You'll bind her," the Mistress corrected. "And in doing so, you'll set the prophecy in motion. Whether you want to or not."

Then, softly, she spoke again. "You could share her, you know."

Ciaran stiffened, barely turning his head. "I don't share."

"You already are," she said pointedly. "Dion touches her. He kisses her. She still responds." Her smile was razor-edged. "But what if you could feel it when he does?"

Ciaran's brow lowered, but he didn't speak. That was all the permission she needed.

"I could bind you to him," the Mistress offered, stepping into the space between stars and shadows. "Nothing physical. Just… awareness. A connection between rivals. You'd know when he reaches for her. When she reaches back. Every flicker of want. Every betrayal."

The thought dug under his skin like a splinter.

"You want that," she whispered. "Don't pretend you don't."

He stared at the ground a moment. "And what's the cost?"

"Oh, nothing immediate," she purred. "You've already paid more than most. I simply ask that when the time comes, you don't stop her… when she chooses darkness. When she chooses us."

Ciaran's fists clenched at his sides. "You think she'll let herself fall?"

The Mistress's voice was a breath behind him. "She already is."

Silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring.

Then, Ciaran nodded once. "Do it."

With a delighted smile, she reached out, pressing two fingers to the center of his chest. Her touch burned through skin, muscle, magic—reaching into the space where shadows lived. And far away—unaware of what was happening—Dion stirred from sleep, his body tensing for reasons he couldn't yet explain.

The bind was subtle, ancient, and cruel.

"You'll feel him," she whispered. "Every touch. Every heartbeat that isn't yours. Until she's yours alone again."

Dion's POV

Dion jolted awake, heart hammering in his chest. A sudden sharp pulse rippled through his skin—like a whisper he couldn't place, a presence pressing close, watching, waiting.

He sat up, eyes wide in the dark, searching the shadows around his bed.

The connection between him and Therrin—always there, always fragile—felt different. He could almost sense another heartbeat overlaying his own, a rival pulse threading through the bond.

His fists clenched. Who else could touch her?