Fifteen

The estate was silent.

Too silent.

Not the kind of silence that comforted, but the kind that watched—breathing behind the walls, listening through the floorboards. It wasn’t absence. It was attention.

Autumn descended the grand staircase, her bare feet cool against the stone. Each step echoed louder than the last, until even her breath felt like a trespass. The pendant at her throat no longer glowed. The Book—keystone of all things hidden—sat unmoving on its pedestal, closed and unreadable. Somewhere beyond the garden wall, a wind howled once and died mid-cry.

The world held its breath.

Tristan met her in the parlor, a shadow amid lamplight. He wore no shirt, only a dark pair of linen pants that clung to his hips like silk. His chest was bare but not unmarked—etched with ancient sigils drawn in salt and ash, a protective rite older than the bones beneath the house. He hadn't needed it in centuries.

But tonight was different.

“You feel it,” she said, her voice barely more than a breath.

He nodded once. “She’s waiting.”

Autumn swallowed the knot in her throat. “I’m ready.”

Tristan stepped forward, brushing his fingers down the curve of her cheek. His touch was reverent, aching, a prayer wrapped in skin. “You’re not alone.”

But Autumn stepped back, her breath catching. “This… I have to do alone.”

His eyes searched hers. Pain flickered there, but he didn’t argue. He only bowed his head, and that hurt more than anything he could’ve said.

---

The veil didn’t resist her this time.

It welcomed her.

She didn’t need the Book. No ritual circle, no incantation, no candlelit summons. Just blood and will. Just knowing.

She stepped between realms with the surety of a queen reclaiming her throne.

The Hollow yawned open like a mouth long sealed. It was darker now, deeper—no longer a place between, but a thing itself. A hunger. The wind here was cold and sharp, tinged with sorrow. It howled through the trees, but there were no leaves to rattle. Only bone-white branches clawing at the sky like broken fingers.

And there, beneath a tree long dead, stood Mara.

She looked unchanged and utterly ruined all at once—barefoot in ash, eyes aglow with old grief, arms open like a ghost welcoming a daughter home.

“So brave,” Mara cooed, her voice syrupy and wrong. “So late.”

Autumn walked forward, slow and steady. “This ends tonight.”

“Are you going to kill me?” Mara tilted her head, eyes shimmering with mock sorrow. “You’d be killing yourself.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Autumn said flatly.

“Oh, but you are.” Mara drifted closer, each step echoing with whispered memories. “You’ve tasted the dark. You’ve wielded it. Let it curl beneath your skin. You know what it feels like to burn—not for destruction, but for balance. The difference is—” she leaned close, her breath cold on Autumn’s lips, “—you still think you can keep your soul intact.”

Autumn didn’t flinch. She closed her eyes.

Not to shut Mara out, but to reach in.

Thread, she thought. Not fire. Not vengeance. Not rage. She reached for the thread. It shimmered in her chest, vibrating with life: the soulbond with Tristan, glowing steady. The echo of her ancestors—strong, defiant, loving—woven through her bloodline like starlight through water. Her grandmother’s lullabies. Her mother’s last hug. Jade’s laughter. Her own voice, singing to herself as a girl in the dark.

She was not alone.

“I don’t need to kill you,” Autumn said, her eyes opening. “You’ve already lost.”

She raised her hand and placed it gently over Mara’s heart.

The Book appeared between them—not summoned, not forced. Just there. Golden light spilled from its spine, and the pages fluttered open in the wind.

Mara gasped.

The light didn’t come from Autumn.

It came from inside Mara.

It clawed up through her like a forgotten melody. Her scream broke the Hollow’s silence, raw and piercing, then faltered into something smaller.

A sob.

“Please,” Mara whispered, her voice breaking, her body folding. “I didn’t mean to become this. I… I just wanted to stop the pain.”

Autumn held her hand steady. “I see you now,” she said softly. “And I forgive you.”

Mara collapsed, dissolving into ash and moonlight. The Hollow groaned and shuddered. The trees bent inward as if bowing. The light dimmed, and silence returned—this time gentle, not watching. Resting.

The Book shut with a soft click.

Autumn woke in her bed.

The sheets were tangled with ivy. Morning light filtered through the curtains in soft gold stripes. Her breath came slow, her body warm and aching like she’d run a thousand miles in her sleep.

Tristan sat at the foot of the mattress, his hands clenched, his eyes red-rimmed.

“You came back,” he said, voice hoarse.

“I never left,” she whispered.

He reached for her slowly, almost like he thought she might disappear. She met him halfway.

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her—slow and deep, like a man tasting sunlight for the first time in centuries.

When they parted, she smiled.

“It’s morning,” she said, blinking against the brightness.

Tristan turned his gaze toward the window. And for the first time in weeks, the sky was no longer bruised or blood-colored.

It was clear.

Blue.

Alive.