The forest whispered behind them, thick with heat and unseen eyes.
Amarachi walked with purpose, her copper staff tapping rhythmically against the earth. Alaric followed, one hand on his satchel, the other subconsciously tracing the burned spiral still etched into his palm.
Ahead, the river bent like a serpent guarding its heart.
"This is the place?" Alaric asked, his voice low.
Amarachi didn't answer right away. She knelt at the river's edge and touched the water. It shimmered beneath her fingers, turning golden, humming softly in response.
"My mother used to sing here," she murmured. "She said the river was older than the gods. It remembers pain… and blood."
Alaric knelt beside her, entranced by the sudden warmth of the water and the way the surface parted gently under her touch—not splashing, but folding inward like it had been waiting for her.
Then the water split. A stairway of slick, ancient stone revealed itself beneath, curving into the earth.
"The shrine lies below," she said, rising. "Only the blood-bound may walk the river's bones."
Unseen, far beyond the clearing, a creature watched.
Its limbs were long, sinuous, its body marked with scars and sigils. Eyes—too many to count—blinked in unison from its head. The witches' sentinel.
It skittered forward silently—but as it neared the water's edge, its body convulsed.
A pulse emanated from the riverbank—ancient, protective.
The creature screamed silently as its limbs blistered. The soil beneath it smoked. It retreated swiftly into the brush, eyes never leaving Amarachi's silhouette.
Though she didn't see it, her body paused—tense. She felt something. A breath that didn't belong. But the river called louder.
She descended first. Alaric followed.
Below the river, the shrine yawned open like a womb carved into the roots of the earth.
The walls glistened with fire sigils—some carved, some floating like gold mist in the air. Vines grew in symmetrical patterns. The air smelled of burning wood and myrrh.
"This place…" Alaric whispered. "It's alive."
Amarachi approached the altar in the shrine's heart. An obsidian slab. Symbols burned softly into its surface, rearranging as she neared.
She drew a knife from her waist wrap and cut her palm.
When her blood touched the central spiral, the altar groaned. A compartment slid open, and from it rose a glowing orb—amber with a core of fire.
It hovered between them.
Alaric stepped closer. The orb flickered.
Two threads of light—one to Amarachi's chest, the other to his—stretched out. When the beam touched him, the world shattered.
He saw Amarachi burning. Crying. Fighting. Loving.
He saw himself holding her—then losing her again and again.
He saw sigils turning into stars. Language folding into time. A scroll of fire unraveling across dimensions.
And then he heard a voice:
"The Codex remembers you. The Codex waits."
He gasped and fell to his knees.
The orb dimmed and slowly sank back into the altar.
Amarachi was at his side in an instant, her hands gripping his face, searching his eyes. "Alaric! What did it show you?"
He looked up at her, eyes wide, breathing hard.
"You," he whispered. "Always you."
Their faces were close—too close. The heat of the shrine enveloped them, thick and sacred. Her breath mingled with his. For a moment, nothing existed but the tension between their lips, the soft tremble of possibility.
She didn't pull away.
Instead, her fingers brushed the edge of his jaw, and he leaned into it—helpless. Her other hand was still bleeding, her blood smearing across his shirt.
He didn't care.
Amarachi whispered, "The Codex binds us, Alaric. Through time. Through fire."
His voice was hoarse. "And in this life… are we allowed to choose it?"
She didn't answer—not with words.
Their lips met, gently at first. Then deeper. She tasted like honey and smoke. He tasted like wind before the rain.
For a moment, the world gave them mercy.
Above, in the forest beyond the river, the creature writhed with fury, its path barred by a power older than its master. It watched, burning.
It would wait.