The grand hall of Lady Marcelline's estate was steeped in the weight of history, the high vaulted ceilings and dark wooden beams exuding the kind of quiet power that came from centuries of manipulation, control, and bloodlines stretching back to nobility. The flickering flames from the chandeliers cast elongated shadows on the polished marble floors, the kind of shadows that seemed to move independently, stretching and writhing, like living things barely restrained.
Lady Marcelline sat at the head of the long, dark oak table, her icy blue eyes focused on the man standing before her, though she allowed the moment to hang in the air for just a beat longer. The room was cold, not in temperature, but in the way her very presence seemed to drain warmth and life from the atmosphere. Nathor stood there, barely upright, his once-imposing wings drooping as if the weight of defeat was too much for them to bear.
He had barely survived the clash in Emberfall. That much was clear. His dark jacket hung loosely on his battered frame, torn and bloodied from his recent fight with Ayla and her pet human, Paola. His obsidian wings, the wings that once carried him with pride, now twitched with a visible tremor, feathers missing, some broken, others singed by Ayla’s flames. His once-proud features were marred by bruises, a swollen cheek, and dried blood clinging to the side of his mouth. But the most telling thing about Nathor wasn’t the physical wounds—though they were plentiful—it was the look in his eyes. Fear.
“You’re late,” Lady Marcelline said, her voice a smooth, practiced calm, yet with an edge so sharp it could cut through the air itself. She hadn’t risen from her seat, hadn’t even shifted her posture. She simply watched him, those cold, calculating eyes betraying nothing.
Nathor’s lips curled in a sneer, but it was weaker than it should have been. “I didn’t exactly have an easy time getting here,” he spat, his voice thick with pain and exhaustion. “Your daughter nearly killed me.”
A glimmer of amusement crossed Lady Marcelline’s face, but it was so fleeting that Nathor might have imagined it. “Ayla is... relentless, as she was raised to be. She follows orders. A pity you don’t.”
Nathor’s wings flared slightly, despite the clear strain it caused him. “I did everything you asked. Everything. I fought, I bled, I killed. And now you expect me to—”
“Enough.”
Her voice cut through his words like a blade. The calm veneer she maintained was absolute, but the air grew heavier with the weight of her command. Nathor’s mouth snapped shut, almost involuntarily. He blinked, as if unsure why he had done it, but there was no mistaking the shift in power. Lady Marcelline let the silence stretch, enjoying the brief moment of his confusion before continuing.
“You seem to have forgotten something, Nathor,” she said, her fingers idly tracing the edge of the silver goblet before her. “When you came to me, you were nothing but a wandering shadow. A broken thing. I gave you purpose. I gave you power.”
“You gave me a leash,” Nathor growled, though the defiance in his tone was weakened by the weariness in his stance. “I didn’t sign up to be your dog, Marcelline.”
Her eyes flashed dangerously at the familiarity, and a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “No, not a dog. Something far more useful. But it seems the full extent of our contract escaped your notice.” She said the word contract like it was a hook sinking deeper into flesh, a word that carried far more weight than Nathor had anticipated.
Nathor’s wings twitched again, this time less in defiance and more in nervous anticipation. “What are you talking about?”
Lady Marcelline finally rose from her seat, the smooth silk of her dark gown whispering against the marble floor as she moved toward him. She was unhurried, her steps precise, the very air around her seeming to bow to her presence. “You truly believed that you could walk away, Nathor?” she asked softly, her voice smooth as velvet. “After all this time, after all I’ve given you?”
He tensed, his instincts screaming at him to step back, to move away from her, but his legs didn’t obey. Lady Marcelline’s eyes gleamed with something cold and predatory as she slowly circled him, her hand brushing ever so slightly against his bruised wing. The faintest touch sent a jolt of pain through his body.
“The contract you signed was more than just an agreement for power in exchange for loyalty,” she whispered, leaning in close, her breath cold against his ear. “It was your soul you bargained with.”
Nathor’s heart pounded in his chest. He had always suspected that there was more to Lady Marcelline’s contracts, but he had never pressed her on the details. The promise of power, of strength, had been too great a temptation, and he had been desperate. But now, as her words settled in, he realized the depth of his mistake.
“Don’t look so surprised,” she purred, stepping back in front of him, her gaze piercing. “I did nothing without your consent. You agreed to this, Nathor. Every word of the contract binds you. Even if you were to die at the hands of my daughter, your fate is still sealed.”
Nathor’s breath caught, his mind reeling. His body trembled as he struggled to summon the anger he needed to fight back, to protest, but the oppressive weight of her power seemed to crush it before it could surface.
Lady Marcelline’s smile widened slightly, sensing his internal turmoil. “You see,” she said, almost gently, “when I enforce a contract, it’s not just an agreement—it’s a binding covenant. One you cannot break. Not with death, not with rebellion. It’s tied to the very breath of the Leviathan itself.”
The name struck him like a physical blow, and his wings shuddered involuntarily. The Leviathan. A myth, a force of nature tied to the deepest voids of Udanara. Nathor had heard the stories, the whispers of its power, but he hadn’t realized—hadn’t understood—that Lady Marcelline wielded it.
His voice was a strangled whisper. “You... You can’t do this.”
“Oh, but I can.” Her voice was soft, but her eyes burned with the cold light of certainty. “The Leviathan’s Covenant binds all who enter into a contract with me, Nathor. You, like so many before you, are now part of that covenant.”
She stepped closer, her presence suffocating as she loomed over him. “And I think you’ve forgotten the terms of your agreement. I don’t need you to survive, Nathor. I don’t care if Paola kills you. Or if Ayla does. You will continue to fight, to hunt, to destroy—your very soul will be sent to finish the job.”
“No!” Nathor’s voice cracked, but there was a desperation to it now, a realization that he was trapped. “You don’t control me! I can—”
Before Nathor could even finish his plea, Lady Marcelline raised a hand, and a wave of dark, suffocating energy crashed over him. The oppressive weight of it forced him to his knees, his body folding under the invisible grip of her power. He gasped for air, but it was as though the very breath in his lungs was being drained from him, siphoned away by the presence of the Leviathan’s essence that hung thick in the air.
“I control everything,” she whispered, her voice deceptively gentle as she looked down at him. Her icy blue eyes shimmered with amusement. “Your body, your will, your very soul. You are mine, Nathor. Don’t forget it.”
His wings twitched helplessly against the floor, the obsidian feathers dragging across the polished stone like dead weight. Every inch of him felt crushed under the pressure of her command, as though invisible chains were coiling tighter around his chest, squeezing the last remnants of resistance out of him.
Lady Marcelline crouched beside him, her delicate hand resting lightly on his cheek. The gesture felt cold, almost intimate, though it carried the weight of pure control. Her gaze bore into his, devoid of any warmth.
“You will heal,” she said softly, her voice laced with malice. “Heal in the shadows like the good little dog you are. And when Ayla returns from her little adventure, I expect you to be ready. You’ll come out to play at the Festival of Breath.” She let the words hang in the air for a moment, each syllable twisting tighter around his mind.
Nathor’s breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling as he tried to summon any shred of defiance. His wings, once symbols of his pride and freedom, now felt like a curse, as though they were bound to the ground by invisible strings that Lady Marcelline controlled with a mere flick of her wrist.
“You can’t... do this,” he rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper, but the weakness in his words betrayed the truth.
Lady Marcelline’s lips curled into a cruel smile. She tilted her head, almost as if she found his defiance amusing. “Oh, Nathor,” she murmured, her tone mockingly sweet. “I already have. You will be at the festival, and you will carry out the job I give you—whether you like it or not.”
Nathor’s vision blurred as the shadows around him thickened, wrapping tighter like chains binding his very soul. His limbs felt heavy, his body unresponsive as the full weight of the contract—the invisible threads of Leviathan’s Covenant—took hold. Every attempt to move, to resist, only made the pressure worse, suffocating his will to the point where he could barely think.
“I’ve given you a gift, after all,” she said, standing to her full height, her hand sliding away from his face. “A second chance. So, heal in those shadows you love so much. And when the time comes, you’ll know exactly what I expect of you.”
She turned, her back to him now, as though he were nothing more than a broken toy she no longer needed to deal with. “Remember, Nathor,” her voice lingered like poison in the air. “If you fail me this time, the shadows won’t be so kind to you.”
His body, though still wracked with pain, began to yield to her command. The shadows pulled him back, cradling him in their cold embrace as his mind started to fade. There was no choice, no will of his own. Only obedience. Only the darkness that awaited him in the shadows.
He wanted to scream, to resist, but his voice had been stolen from him, just as his will had.
As the black tentacles swallowed him once more, Nathor knew that he was no longer in control. His fate had been sealed the moment he had signed that contract, and now, there was no escape. He was Lady Marcelline’s puppet, bound to her will, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
In the end, it was all part of the game, and Nathor had always been destined to lose.
Lady Marcelline sat behind her desk, her fingers absently tracing the intricate patterns carved into the mahogany. Her mind, sharp and calculating as ever, was elsewhere—far beyond the confines of her office, far beyond the city of Valarian. The room was quiet, save for the faint crackling of the fireplace and the occasional flutter of parchment as a soft breeze stirred the documents strewn across her desk. Yet, beneath the serene facade, a storm of thoughts raged.
She was angry, of course. How could she not be? Emotions, she mused, were what made her human, after all. Her lips twitched, and a small chuckle escaped her. Human. The word felt hollow on her tongue, almost like a joke she had heard too many times. It was something she allowed herself to say, to believe, even if deep down, she knew better. And yet, she indulged in the pretense. Just as she indulged in the lives of those beneath her, moving them like pawns on a board. Humans were so predictable, after all. So easy to control.
Her icy blue eyes flicked toward the corner of her desk, where her most prized possession lay. The Leviathan’s Ledger, bound in dark leather and threaded with shimmering veins of void energy, pulsed faintly, as though it had a heartbeat of its own. It was nearly full now, the pages thick with plans, contingencies, and the threads of fate she had woven over the years. She sighed softly, a rare sound from someone so accustomed to control.
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"What is written," she whispered to herself, her voice barely a breath, "cannot be undone." Her fingers traced the spine of the Ledger, feeling the hum of its power beneath her skin. It was almost full, and that was no small matter. But soon... soon, it would be finished.
She leaned back in her chair, letting her thoughts drift to the events of Emberfall. The chaos that had ensued after Ayla and Paola’s involvement was a mess, but one that had unfolded exactly as she had intended. She hadn’t been in control of the Festival of Breath, not in the way Rohez Genovete believed, but she hadn’t needed to be. The Duke and Duchess might have thought they had seized control, but every action they had taken had been accounted for, written in the Ledger months ago.
Even their petty attempts to humble her had played into her hands. They had no idea that by shifting the power structure of the Festival, they had only made her position stronger. It was a perfect example of how little others truly understood the nature of control. The illusion of power was far more potent than power itself, and Lady Marcelline had mastered the art of weaving illusions.
Her fingers drummed on the desk as her mind wandered to Cassian and Ashekin. They had failed to bring back the other fallen star, of course, but failure was not something she hadn’t prepared for. That was the beauty of her Leviathan’s Ledger. No plan ever truly failed—there were only adjustments, reroutings, and layers upon layers of contingencies that ensured the outcome she desired would always come to pass.
They will return soon enough, she thought with quiet certainty. And when they do, they will deliver exactly what I need. She had already seen it unfold in the Ledger’s pages. Ashekin would return broken, as she expected, and Cassian? Well, Cassian would do as he always did—struggle, fight, and eventually succumb to the pull of her contracts. He had signed his fate the moment he had agreed to her terms, and like Nathor, he would find there was no escape.
A brief flicker of amusement crossed her face at the thought of Nathor. Poor Nathor, she mused. He had underestimated her, like so many others before him. She had taken away his will, reminded him of the contract he had signed without ever truly understanding its depth. Now, he was hers, bound by the Leviathan’s Covenant, forced to hide in the shadows until she called upon him.
And Ayla... ah, Ayla.
Her daughter was strong. Fierce. A warrior beyond compare. But Lady Marcelline knew the fire that burned within Ayla, knew the temper that simmered beneath the surface. When she returned from Emberfall, it would not be as the loyal soldier she had raised, but as something more volatile. Ayla had always been her greatest weapon, but now, with Paola at her side, the dynamic had shifted. The little fallen star, Paola, had awakened something in Ayla that could no longer be ignored.
How bad of a temper would Ayla have when she returned? That depended on Paola, of course. The girl was unpredictable, a wildcard, but Marcelline had her eye on her. The threads of fate were still tangled around the fallen star’s future, and while Paola remained a potential threat, she also remained a potential asset. Lady Marcelline hadn’t yet decided which outcome would be more beneficial, but she had no doubt that the Ledger would guide her to the right choice in time.
For now, she let Ayla play her part. She could be controlled, after all—manipulated as easily as any other piece on the board. When the time came, Lady Marcelline would deal with her. It wasn’t a matter of if, but when.
She rose from her chair, her long gown flowing behind her like a shadow as she moved toward the window. The city of Valarian stretched out before her, bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun. From this vantage point, she could see the preparations for the Festival of Breath in full swing. The banners, the stages, the people bustling about in anticipation. It was all going exactly as she had planned.
The Duke and Duchess might think they held the reins, but they were merely actors in a play she had written long ago. The Festival would unfold as she intended, and when the time was right, she would pull the strings to ensure her victory.
Her fingers brushed the windowpane, her eyes distant as she thought about her own past. There was a time, long ago, when she had been like Paola—young, naive, full of untapped potential. But that was a lifetime ago. Back when she had walked the streets of a place far removed from Udanara. A place where the sun never seemed to shine quite as brightly, where the air was thick with soot, and where the people were as cold and calculated as she had become.
England, she thought, though she never referred to it by name. That place—a distant, fog-choked memory—had shaped her into what she was today, though it felt like another life. It was there, in the damp, smoke-filled alleys of her youth, where she had learned the value of control. Where she had died, a mere girl on the cusp of womanhood, and awakened to something far greater in Udanara. England had taught her power, but here, in this world, she had learned how to wield it. She had learned of the Leviathan. The Void. The breath that could reshape the very fabric of reality itself.
Lady Marcelline let her fingers trail across the worn leather cover of the Leviathan’s Ledger, its pages nearly full, the ink within brimming with promises yet to be fulfilled. A soft, almost nostalgic smile played at the corners of her lips. She still had time. Time to weave the last threads of her grand design, to decide Paola’s fate, and to ensure the Festival of Breath unfolded precisely as she had written.
But beneath the calm exterior, beneath the careful calculations, there was more. The Harbinger of the Abyss, they had called her. A title granted to her when she first stepped into the void, a mere child who had drowned in the shallow pools of mortality, only to awaken in the depths of the Leviathan's will. She had been chosen then, reborn not just as a Void Borne, but as something far more dangerous—a conduit for the Leviathan’s Awakening.
Her hand tightened on the Ledger as she thought of it. The power that thrummed through her veins, the whisper of the abyss in her ear, had been with her ever since she was ripped from the streets of that dreary, forgotten place. The moment she had died, a preteen in the gutters of that cursed land, she had been given the chance to rise. She hadn’t just survived Udanara—she had become its master. Slowly, quietly, she had shaped the world to her will, carving out her empire one contract at a time, one soul after another. The Harbinger of the Abyss wasn’t a title—it was a destiny, one that she alone carried.
The Festival would go as planned. It always had. But this time, it would serve as more than a mere display of her influence. It would be the stage upon which she would claim her rightful place. And Paola, whether she realized it or not, was the final piece. A fallen star... a Void Borne with untapped potential.
She knew all too well what such power could become. After all, she is one herself.
With a final glance at the Ledger, she turned from the window, her steps measured and deliberate. The abyss awaited, and she was ready to pull the world down into it, piece by piece.
The Leviathan always did.
***
Paola sat in the wooden confines of the wagon, the rhythmic creak of its wheels and the steady plod of the horses a calming backdrop to her thoughts. The air around them was warm, touched with the faint salty scent of the sea as they neared Windmere. She leaned into Ayla’s solid frame, drawing comfort from the gentle rise and fall of her girlfriend’s chest. Ayla's arm, strong and scarred from countless battles, rested protectively across Paola’s shoulders. Paola exhaled softly, her body sinking deeper into the embrace. The physical contact grounded her in a way nothing else could right now.
Windmere was still a day's journey ahead, but on certain crests, Paola could see the city’s towering spires rising against the blue expanse of the ocean. The sight filled her with a strange mix of anticipation and unease. Windmere was close—closer than she was ready for, perhaps—but it wasn't home. Not yet. Maybe never.
Home.
That word lodged itself into her mind and refused to leave. Home wasn’t Windmere, and it wasn’t even Valarian, though that was where they’d have to return eventually. No, home had always been something else. It had been Albuquerque, the place where she’d grown up, surrounded by family and the warm familiarity of everyday life. Her parents' house, the scent of her mother's cooking, the lazy afternoons with her siblings under the New Mexican sun. Her chest tightened at the thought. There was no going back to that, not ever. Udanara had taken that from her the moment she’d been pulled into this world. And now?
Now she had to figure out why she was here.
She glanced up at Ayla, who stared forward, her red and blue eyes focused on the road ahead. A fierce warrior, a protector, someone who had been with Paola through so much already. Ayla and Poca—her other girlfriend, that still strange reality—were the only constants she had now. Poca, with her endless patience and gentle touch, was riding in the wagon behind them, no doubt tending to Selene, who had barely survived the last battle. Paola still wasn’t sure how to feel about Selene’s presence. It was complicated. But then again, so was everything else in this world.
Paola’s eyes flicked to the wagon beside them, where Edwin, the man who had helped save Selene, sat with a patch over his eye. He had lost it in the battle but had remained in good spirits, cracking quiet jokes about how lucky he was to still have one good eye. Despite everything, there was something resilient about him, something Paola admired. He had fought alongside Selene as a guard, but the bond they had formed had been deeper than she expected. He had saved her life when everything seemed lost, and now, despite the losses he had endured, he was still moving forward.
As her gaze drifted back to the horizon, the spires of Windmere clearer now, her thoughts returned to the gnawing uncertainty that had been plaguing her since they left Emberfall. Who am I? The question echoed in her mind. She had been chosen, she knew that much. There was a purpose to her being here, a reason she had been pulled from Earth and dropped into this dangerous, chaotic world. But what that purpose was… she still had no idea. Was she the only one from Earth? The only one thrown into this madness, or were there others like her, struggling to survive in an unfamiliar world?
She didn’t feel special. A fallen star, sure, but nothing about her life here made her feel like some chosen hero. If anything, she felt like a target, like someone everyone wanted to get their hands on or take down. Special? No. She had lost nearly every fight she’d been in since arriving. If it weren’t for Ayla, Poca, and the others, she’d have died more than once already. Twice over, really. The reality of her own inadequacy settled heavily on her chest. She was either all in, pushing herself beyond her limits, or not good enough. There was no in-between, no balance. And she needed balance. Desperately.
Paola shifted slightly, snuggling closer into Ayla, seeking comfort from the woman she trusted more than anyone else in this world. Ayla’s presence was steady, reassuring, but Paola couldn’t shake the feeling of inadequacy, the constant pressure to be more than she was. She glanced briefly at Yasmin, who walked beside the wagon with her head bowed, lost in her own thoughts. Even Yasmin, usually so lively and full of energy, seemed weighed down by something today.
"Windmere’s just ahead," Ayla murmured softly, her voice breaking the silence. Paola glanced up at her, nodding, though she couldn’t muster much enthusiasm.
"Yeah," Paola replied, her voice quiet, "we’ll be there soon."
The idea of reaching the city should have been a relief, a reprieve from the dangers of the road. But instead, it felt like just another stop in a life that had lost its direction. From inn to inn, battle to battle, Paola had been drifting, trying to survive without any real sense of purpose. The road ahead stretched endlessly, and all she could do was follow it, even if she had no idea where it would take her.
Ayla’s arm tightened around her shoulders, pulling her closer. "We’ll figure it out," she said quietly, as if sensing Paola’s turmoil. "One step at a time."
Paola nodded again, though she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep stumbling through the dark, searching for answers that refused to come. The weight of everything—her past, her present, and the uncertain future that loomed before her—was crushing. But here, in this moment, nestled against Ayla’s warmth with the steady creak of the wagon beneath her, she could almost forget it. Almost.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a golden light over the hills and the distant spires of Windmere, Paola let her thoughts drift back to Earth, to her family, to the home she would never see again. Albuquerque, she whispered in her mind, the word like a distant echo from another life. It wasn’t the apartment she had lived in before all of this—no, it was the house she had grown up in, with her parents and siblings. That was home. But home was gone. And now, she had to make peace with that.
She sighed softly, leaning her head against Ayla’s shoulder, trying to quiet the storm inside her. Maybe, for now, that was enough. Ayla and Poca—they were her home for now. For however long that lasted.
Paola glanced back at Yasmin once more, her friend’s silence heavy in the air. "Yasmin, you’ve been quiet today," Paola called out, her voice teasing but laced with concern. "You’re not plotting something, are you?"
Yasmin looked up, her amber eyes flickering with a spark of amusement before she shook her head. "Nah," she replied, her voice light despite her earlier silence. "Just thinking. You know how it is."
Paola smiled softly. She did know. All too well. "Well, stop thinking so hard. We’re almost there," she said, trying to lighten the mood, though her own thoughts weighed heavily on her.
Paola sighed, letting herself sink deeper into Ayla’s embrace as the wagon rocked gently beneath them. The spires of Windmere loomed ever closer on the horizon, their gleaming tips brushing the darkening sky. She let her thoughts wander for a moment, the weight of everything she had been through settling like a stone in her chest. Home was a distant memory, something she had no hope of reclaiming. But here—Ayla and Poca, this strange new life—was what she had now.
Windmere. The name echoed in her mind, carrying both promise and uncertainty. Maybe there, she could start to figure things out, find some balance between who she had been on Earth and who she was becoming here. It wasn’t like she had to deal with any of that Void Borne or Fallen Star nonsense anytime soon. Right?
She almost smiled at the thought, leaning her head back against Ayla’s shoulder. But deep down, a small part of her knew better. The kind of peace she was searching for was always fleeting. The shadows were never far behind.
And neither was the storm.