"Nothing…" Desan said.
Velcrith saw through his eyes.
Desan was staring out the window, maybe hoping to glimpse something—anything other than the damned and the dead. Velcrith understood. He wanted the same. Something different. Something to help him forget the echo of his own pain.
It had been so long since that happened, but the memory still clung like rot. Clear as yesterday.
Velcrith felt Desan slipping toward sleep.
Hmmm…
He pushed deeper into Desan's skull. Where he currently resided was cramped, unpleasant, and unbearably uncomfortable.
Velcrith drifted deeper, pressing into the marrow of Desan's mind—not out of malice, but out of need. A compulsion. A quiet desperation to find something he'd lost. Something once tethered to him. Something that still ached in his absence.
A memory. A name. A feeling that used to mean home.
It felt… wrong.
Like crawling through the mind of a newborn. Empty, but not innocent. Formless, but not pure.
Just… vacant.
Whatever had been there was gone. Torn out, scrubbed clean with fire and time.
Velcrith let out a breath he didn't need.
His consciousness started to slip, thin and slow, like air leaving a dead man's lungs.
But it was fine.
It happened before—back when he was still bound to the book.
It's said that when the gods who gave their kind life looked away for too long… they just stopped existing.
Snuffed out like a dream, no one remembered.
Then he was back.
Whole.
But something was wrong. He could feel Desan's mind panicking. Pumping him full of adrenaline and raw chemical fire like he was in the middle of a warzone. Sweat poured. Muscles twitched like his body was screaming at ghosts.
Then silence.
With that, Desan opened his eyes.
"Velcrith…" he croaked.
It came out broken. Small. Like a kid whispering after waking from a nightmare. Velcrith nearly gagged on the sentiment.
"Oh, what now?" he said, flat. "You die in your dream and need me to kiss your forehead?"
Desan swallowed, breath shaky. "What just happened?"
"You closed your eyes. Then you screamed like you were being skinned alive. Real soothing ambiance. Thanks for that."
Desan didn't answer. Just stared at the ceiling, the weight of something still pressing on his chest. Velcrith could feel the chemical cocktail flooding his system, the whole dying-animal routine.
Desan blinked. His jaw clenched. "It felt real."
"Sure it did," Velcrith muttered. "Just like that, Dukin lunatic thinks his bottle speaks the truth of gods."
"…You're such an asshole."
"Better than being whatever this is," Velcrith snapped back. "Curled up like a kicked dog over something that isn't even real."
Desan pushed himself up, wincing, then glared at the wall like it had wronged him. "You ever shut the fuck up?"
There was a pause. Tension thick in the silence.
Then
"Fun fact," Velcrith said, too casually, "Did you know, people used Vowbound for pleasure."
Desan blinked. "What the fuck did you just say?"
"Perfect for perverts with no standards."
"Why would you tell me that?" Desan snapped. "Why the hell would I want to know that?"
"You looked like you were about to cry again. I figured, if you're going to be miserable, might as well make it educational."
Desan barked a sharp laugh—dry, bitter. "Right. Thanks for the trauma. Have you ever thought maybe you're the real curse here?"
Velcrith chuckled, low and cruel. "Maybe. But at least I don't fall apart from a bad dream."
Desan turned his head, finally locking eyes with nothing. "Dream or not, I felt every second of it. The hits. The pain. The fear."
Velcrith didn't respond.
Desan leaned forward, fire in his voice now. "You know what, you act like you're better than me. Smarter. Stronger. But the truth? You're just a coward hiding under my flesh."
Desan collapsed back, chest rising and falling like thunder under his skin.
Velcrith was quiet.
Unusually quiet.
Desan's breath hitched, chest rising and falling like a furnace.
"So go ahead. Stay quiet. Coward. Just remember—if I die… you die with me."
Velcrith didn't answer immediately. When he finally spoke, the voice in Desan's head was softer than usual. Almost... far away.
"You reminded me of him, just now."
Desan blinked. "Who?"
Silence. For a heartbeat, Desan didn't feel like a presence in his head. He felt like someone lost.
Then
Velcrith's voice snapped back to sharp, cold steel.
"You're not special," Velcrith hissed. "You bleed. You break. You think your little tantrums matter, like they might scrape at something in me." His tone darkened, venom curling in the syllables. "But I'm not your savior, and I sure as hell ain't your father."
Desan, to his credit, didn't recoil. He just stared into the flickering dark. "...You almost sounded like you gave a damn."
Velcrith snorted. "I almost did."
Desan held his tongue. He could feel the truth writhing under Velcrith's voice and he wasn't sure if it scared him more than the silence.
Then, a sharp, bitter laugh. "Good thing I'm still me."
"I swear to every dead god… if you say 'fun fact' again, I'll stab myself just to shut you up."
Velcrith smirked behind Desan's eyes.
"…Noted."
Desan stared at the ceiling. No matter what Velcrith said, it still felt too real. The pain. The terror. The cold fingers around his throat.
The rusted sword rested across his lap. He hadn't even realized he'd kept it there. Its presence grounded him—brought him a strange comfort. Why wouldn't it? That thing gave him a chance to fight back.
Desan exhaled. Braced himself. Then stood, letting the weight of the blade settle into his grip. The leather hilt was cracked, the balance ruined—but it fit his hand like it belonged there.
He moved to the door, boots dragging across the dusty floor, and opened it.
The darkness of the never-ending hallways didn't mean shit now. He just needed to find the gate.
"Let's get out of here."