Minutes pass as we all lie resting, hardly able to move, before Bonfire's painful groans turn into something far, far worse. Snarling growls come from the man's throat as if ripping its way out forcibly. I twist over to gaze at him in concern, and I am appalled by what I see.

 

Curling motes of darkness, infested with light, break out from his skin. Embers rage alongside the flesh, silently burning, but they are quickly batted aside by the Darklight. My body moves instantly, dragging my ailing form as I call out to my friend. Beside him, too, is a headless corpse, only worsening the drearyness.

 

"Bonfire! Bonfire! Hang in there buddy!"

 

"Careful! That's a load of Darklight! Was he suppressing all that!? Shit! Don't get close! Rapturous can't stop that! WYATT STOP!"

 

Blodwyn warns me before I even get close, my feeble left arm hauling me over. He's not the only one, either, as the fingernails of my new arm chip from the force set upon them.

 

"Stop, Wyatt. I know he's your friend, but it appears today will be a disaster for many. Nothing comes without sacrifice, after all. Say goodbye."

 

A blueish-purpleish blade, ornately and perfectly designed, slides into the earth before me as Lennon holds it without arms. It is made of his Dominion, real but not. The edge lines up identically with my eyes, letting me see both sides of it and Bonfire's contorting form all at once.

 

Gritting my teeth, I compel my body to stand. Blodwyn, looking out for me but not for my friend, takes back his aid. Without the healing blood and energizing Ether, my world becomes fuzzy again. Regardless, I don't let myself fall.

 

My hand slices itself open Lennon's sword as I stand low, my back hunched and bowed. Deep gasps come from my lungs, and I stare at Lennon.

 

"Get out of my way. He saved us. Multiple times. We can't just let him—"

 

Lennon smacks me in the chest with the side of the sword, and I can't counter the force. So, I stumble back, nearly collapsing onto my ask. The older man's voice rises, and his tone drops simultaneously as he points the tip of his blade backward at Bonfire.

 

"And?! So did Kwakiteh. So did Mie. Now look at them. Dead. People die. People change. People corrupt. There is nothing you can do for him. He has held on longer than even I believe I could. It is praiseworthy. He has earned my respect. But, he has not earned my life. Only one man has, and he lost his saving yours long ago. Be very careful who you give your life to. Many will take it without care."

 

I meet the Bladeless Monster's gaze and double down. He speaks the truth. We must be careful of who we owe. It is a dangerous thing to owe debts to those who would not repay you in the same situation. But Bonfire?

 

I already owe him my life and more.

 

"Emmet Knox has already earned my life, Lennon. I have to at least try, okay? Let me try. Please. Please. I know you care, even if you hate to show it. Like that with Ka—"

 

Lennon's head twists, and he dismisses me, stomping away to a burrowed rock. Then, he slides down it, keeping his pupils ordained right upon me while his own blood stains the surface of the boulder.

 

"Don't. She is dead. Fewer and fewer of us remain, Wyatt, those who can do something. Go ahead. Try and save him. I'll remove his head if he loses it all."

 

I nod to the swordsman in thanks, but as I wobble over to Bonfire, I relay to Lennon something important. He must not know how artifacts work all that well. Even still, my eyes shift to Kate as that idea of Sacrifice comes back. Fuck... I need to choose, don't I? I don't want to. I can't help both. Neither is a guarantee, though. Only... Bonfire... Emmet... he's done it for before. He's entered the unknown on a slim chance he'd find me in the storm. At least...

 

"Mie isn't dead, by the way. She just can't do anything without a... a body or someone to hold her. She's like any other Arca now, only one with a fully awakened mind."

 

The swordsman's eyes droop, their focus falling onto the body of Kwakiteh—no, Kate Summers. She wanted to be called that more. Despite hating it at first, she grew to love her adopted father and the life he gave her. I... I choose Bonfire. He's... he means too much to me. I... I am sorry, Kate. If it were Mie or me, I wouldn't judge your choice even if it hurt.

 

I bite my lip and shift my focus to Bonfire. Mie can wait. She's patient, though... I'm sure she's losing it right now. I want to help, but Bonfire's situation is way, way more urgent. Like... I think he might not make it back from this. My lack of confidence isn't making any of this better.

 

Saliva builds in my mouth as Blodwyn finally slides his Ether back toward me, helping my steps stabilize and my mind focus.

 

"Sorry. I just—be careful. Together, we might be able to push it back, but it won't be easy."

 

I nod, accepting his apology but returning my own as I kneel at Bonfire's side.

 

"It's alright. We're in this together. I should listen more, but this..."

 

Blodwyn mentally nods, understanding the unsaid words entirely. This is a friend. Someone who gave their all to save us. He's awfully selfish, but in such a way, he sacrifices anything and everything for those close to him.

 

On his coat pocket hangs a sewn-in, weathered, and burnt card. It's a seven of clubs. But... each of the clubs, all possessing initials, has been crossed out with a knife until only one remains. All are for each of his original groups of friends, and the final one has a single letter, a B. Yet, on the card, there are two clubs that have been drawn in, making it an unofficial nine of clubs.

 

The two initials for them are AU and WG.

 

To the nines, huh, Bonfire? To the nines. I reach forward as my vision blurs, this time from emotion and not pain or injury. My hands touch the terrible Darklight, and I receive an awful sensation of both profound cold and scorching heat.

 

This again... Ether saturation. He pushed right past it without care, likely when he broke through the minor plane, on top of taking in all that Darklight. The Mother Below's influence must be the only thing keeping him from turning to sludge.

 

"It's bad. Really bad, Wyatt."

 

I don't have it in me to nod, so I can only extend Living Manacles toward my friend. I yank his chains, releasing the pressure they place upon him, but it does almost nothing. He continues to spasm, twitch, and cry out in pain. I could try my skill from Martyr, Sacrifice, but that'd just kill me, too.

 

Bonfire would beat my ass if I did that.

 

"Any ideas?"

 

Blodwyn doesn't have an answer for me. I scratch my head, trying to think of anything, but there really isn't much. I can't—No. I have to try something.

 

Rapturous is an old skill. I made it at what, 3rd Sigil? 2nd? I don't honestly remember. Surely, I can improve it now. But how?

 

Living Strand won't help it at all. It's not something that will work like that. Too few of my old skills are. Willful might give it some more oomph, but against a Dominion or possibly something more irregular, it won't do shit. Fuck! I am too behind in Ether! I've been practicing like crazy, but there... there just hasn't been enough time.

 

"What comes after Living Strand, Virgil?"

 

Some shifting dirt is my only response for a second before the eldest Boone gathers his mind. He answers me slowly, his voice tinged with pain as he tries to recover. His unbroken hand carries the other while he sits against another shattered rock.

 

"Plasmic Ether. Fire, Dust, Lightning, that kind of thing. Mine, though, is Light. The effect depends on the type. Fire is burst-strength, but my Light is invasive, capable of sinking deeply and consolidating easily. I would imagine yours would be Fire or Lightning for the speed."

 

I nod to him slowly, but that's not what I need to know. I already knew all that.

 

"How do I do it?"

 

Virgil coughs from the broken ribs that are affecting his breathing. Still, he gets out what I need. Meanwhile, Bonfire only deteriorates.

 

"It's like... Gaseous Ether, only far more difficult. Compressing the Ether to a higher state is the first part, but you need time to—"

 

I ignore the rest of his words, already following the directions. I've heard all this before, but I needed to listen again. I've failed again and again doing so, but I can't fail now. I'm an 8th Sigil, a Virtue, and I still don't even know Plasmic Ether. I need to do better and put more focus on Ether. Otherwise...

 

My Ether coalesces within the palm of my hand, the one that used to be the Bloody Palm. What was I doing wrong before? I'm not sure, but Blodwyn moves without me even asking, manipulating his own Ether in cohesion with mine. Together, our minds work in tandem to shuffle Ether through our broken and injured body. It hurts. It hurts a hell of a lot, but I don't let it halt the attempt.

 

I condense Gaseous Ether just using my mind and soul, but Plasmic has to be a whole different kind of beast. Merely brute forcing it won't work. I'll have to do something else... some sort of technique. But what? What will help me condense the Ether?

 

Scraping my mind for any idea as the Ether builds up rapidly, I settle on a crazy idea, one that might help Bonfire. A vortex. Or a whirlpool, something that drags more of itself into a center, increasing the pressure and density. The thought comes from remembering Lawless Lake during that God's death. How it caved in and sucked us all down into the depths with nothing but water. It... latches onto me, the idea. It feels... natural. So very natural.

 

So, I twist the Ether, spinning it in the palm of my hand faster and faster. Quickly, it becomes too much for me to control on my own, but Blodwyn picks up where I'm lacking. I focus on the deeper section of the Ether, pushing it outward and spinning it while he does the opposite, mirroring my actions.

 

Sharp agony stabs out of my hand as I witness a ball of torrential Ether appear in my hand, already obliterating the palm and leaving me fingerless, too.

 

This isn't it. I try shoving more Ether inside, yet it only grows more dangerous. It's about to explode. Hmm. It's strong, but it's nothing impossib—

 

The Ether slips as Blodwyn slides in some of his mind to it, a piece of himself, like I do for Living Manacles, the act allowing Living Strand to occur. As he does so, the color of the ball shifts from rainbow and translucent to deep, dark ebony with hints of crimson.

 

As my surprise climbs, the ball of Ether crashes in on itself, and I feel everything gets pulled to it. Ether, my flesh attached to me, my blood in the air, and even my soul.

 

A laughing jeer from my side attracts none of my attention, but it does land within my mind. Lennon sighs as he cradles Kate's head with eyes on me.

 

"Of course. An Accretion. Lucky fucking bastard. I can't even do Living Strand."

 

Despite Lennon's jealousy, I don't know what to do with this... ball. It's not dangerous... yet, but it isn't doing anything helpful. I look over at Bonfire, though, and notice that some of the Darklight is also being pulled into it.

 

An idea blooms before being put down. Then, it reemerges anew with some slight modifications.

 

"Hold on tight, buddy. It's gonna get real fucking bumpy."

 

Blodwyn groans but doesn't complain or dissuade me otherwise, already knowing what I am to do. Instead, he threads his tendrils of flesh throughout my whole body like another set of veins, latching on and holding onto all that he can.

 

Only when he is done do I tug on the newest muscle given to me by my Sigil. At the same time, I force some of my soul into the ball of dark Ether as well, lightening it up and multiplying the passion it hauls with. I see why Living Strand comes first. It's needed to condense Ether any further without it just backfiring.

 

"Give me it all, Bonfire. I'll take your pain as you would for me. I never said thank you. So I'll say it now. Thank you for what you did in those sands. You, Frozen, and Clumsy."

 

The man doesn't reply, but Lennon's eyebrow raises in curiosity. My eyes see nothing else as the world becomes a kaleidoscope of only two colors. Silver and black. I spin in these colors for what seems like an eternity, but I latch onto something.

 

The bit of me I put inside the construct of Ether calls for me like a siren. I heed the call, wading through the colors as the voices begin to emerge. Slowly, gradually, more pain comes as I reopen my eyes.

 

Veins crawl across my vision, each a different shade of sickly gray. Worse than that, every inch of my body feels... infected, like the worst possible sickness. Everywhere aches, groans, and curdles, but there is little I can do at the moment.

 

Legions of whispers cut into my ears, impossible to ignore, but there is one that is familiar. I stay keen for what he has to say, knowing it is the difference between life and death.

 

"More! More Ether into the Accretion! MORE! There is so much Darklight! We'll be drained for days of... everything, but more! This is an endurance game, Wyatt! Either we croak as our souls fall into it, or the Darklight runs out! And... no one is as tough as you! Please! Hold on! I'll do my best to help!"

 

As the relentless pull of the abyss drags me deeper into its unfathomable depths, I struggle against the irresistible force with all the strength of my being. Voices, seductive and beguiling, whisper sweet promises of power and enlightenment, their allure growing stronger with each passing moment. Yet, they are more than mere voices. The sounds turn into near-physical sensations as I'm torn apart from the inside out.

 

But I refuse to succumb to their siren song as I know what they speak of is only lies. Clinging desperately to the promises I've made, I steel myself against the encroaching darkness. Though the voices grow louder, their words weaving a tangled web of temptation and deceit, I don't let myself falter even as everything disassembles.

 

Though... it is the second time in an hour I'm high-fiving Death. Things aren't so easy. My mind wobbles beneath the lunacy as things are near-impossible to hold onto. My Tomb might let me come back to life after a death that doesn't end in annihilation, but it is not without cost. My soul must be damaged from it, adding to the damage I've already received. I know mine is special, but that doesn't mean it recovers quicker than usual.

 

I don't think it would last forever, either. My soul must fade or something without a living body to protect it. I'm tired. Not only physically. It's... deep. So deep. And that was before I even endeavored to save Bonfire. The depths of the darkness only grow more profound as I see a figure in the shadows. A scythe with billowing clothes around a skeletal form hidden by those very robes. One of Death's soul claimers, a Reaper. It stares at me from this darkness. I... For some reason, I know it is not here for me. It is here for Bonfire, yet I have taken his place.

 

Seconds elongate into minutes as we share gazes, simply looking at one another. It seems... confused. The tip of the curved blade in its hands shivers back and forth before it approaches me. I attempt to move, but a deteriorating weakness suffuses me, having whatever form I am in now collapse to the cold floor. Step by silent step, the Reaper nears me. My neck twists upward to face it before the blade comes swinging down, the edge growing within my vision until all I see is red.

 

Amidst the swirling red, fragments of old memories rise to the surface of my mind like specters from the past. My life flashes through my eyes as I approach Death, the closest I ever have before. She sent an actual Reaper. Yet only one memory stays for longer than a fleeting moment. It's a memory I didn't know I had. It's something that none should have, a memory from being a baby.

 

My eyes are blurry, but I can still see. And looking down at me is a weathered, grizzly face despite only being maintained by a thirty-something-year-old. Instinctively, I know it is my father. Killian Graves.

 

His skin is patchy, irregular, and differently toned. Some have the toughness of leather, others the smoothness of butter. His eyes, too, are bizarre. Both are differently colored, one wholly red like an apple, even the whites, and the other has a dozen pupils.

 

My old man doesn't smile or show any joy when facing me. His head simply turns as he addresses a looming shadow within the room. Based on the shadow, the horns, and the general size, it must be Aniwye.

 

"It's up to you now."

 

"You can trust me with this, Killian. I'll do my best!"

 

Aniwye replies immediately, her voice containing a unique charm and eagerness to it. It is the kind she only has when talking about him. Nonetheless, he doesn't seem to care, his gaze focused on some far-off place. It's like his mind isn't even here, his thoughts in a distant land or goal.

 

"Good. I will be gone... a while. When I return, there will be another to care for, though they will be a bit easier to deal with. Beyond that... I don't believe we will ever meet again, demon."

 

Even after bestowing Aniwye the life of his only child, his only son, he doesn't even call her by her name. Still, she fawns over him in a way I simply cannot comprehend.

 

"What? Why? Where are you going?"

 

My father pats the cradle softly, the memory the closest he's ever come to touching me that I can remember. He taps it twice, then thrice. Only at the fifth hit does he finally speak. And when he does, there is genuine worry in his voice, uncertainty in the gruff, obviously abnormal tone.

 

"I need to find someone. An old, very, very old man. Only he can teach me what I need to know. I would hate to put it all on this little guy's shoulders. After all... he might have been born too late. You can tell your Lord if you wish. I'm certain she'll be relieved by my absence and by his survival to this day and age."

 

Aniwye shakes her head vehemently, the shadow being the only part of her I can see. Still, the emotion is conveyed.

 

"Of course not. You helped free me from her grasp and Her's, too. Why would I ever go back? And... something tells me the world will be a little safer with the ghost of the Undying wandering in the shadows. No one will ever know where you are, and so they will leave me and this one alone. Many know Vincent's strength, but they also know you are second only to him."

 

Killian Graves waves her off, lifting his hand off the crib and walking away, heading toward the exit of the house I grew up in. At the door, his footsteps on the creaky floorboards of the porch, he says goodbye while pausing for only a short glance backward.

 

"You flatter me. I am merely hard to kill; it is nothing special. 'Till our next meeting, Aniwye of the Mind Ogres."

 

A closed door marks the only concrete memory I now have of my father. But it's not quite the end. A soft hand touches my tiny fingers, the baby fat so much that I can hardly feel it.

 

"I will make you strong—strong enough that he won't be able to ignore me. He will love me for raising you, surely. Ah... he is so amazing, so smart, so tough. The ideal human. The ideal... man. I just... No. You will be so powerful that even the Lords will fear your name. Wyatt. Wyatt Graves. Son Of The Undying. It sounds so... delightful, huh, little one? Let us start. Lesson one. Never die."