31. “Now, we will see how you fare against the chains of Death.”

Chapter 31

"Now, we will see how you fare against the chains of Death."

MORPHEUS

"God Must Hate Me" by Catie Walker

"Last One Standing" by Skylar Gray

"Numb" by Linkin Park

E motions surge through me as I sense Zenya, taking in her raw fury and the pain from the visit. I wonder how long it's been since she remembered this cruel day. Perhaps she has always carried it with her. My sight is growing dimmer, but I see my brother most.

Nyxion must know her thoughts from where she is standing, her head lowered. Her dark anger is palpable—a storm brewing in her blood.

Hecate has vanished, leaving but a glittery trail of her magical essence. The Goddess must have a good reason for fleeing.

I listen as my brother confronts her, knowing his tense body language, and how his eyes never leave Zenya's form. Concern and intensity flicker in his gaze, his chest lifting with pride. He fully believes she will make the right choice. He's appealing to the better angels of her nature—no matter how dark and fallen.

Weaving my shadows around her, I lean in, fingers trailing up her arm until my hand discovers her shoulder. I remind her, "Every time you took another breath, another step up that mountain, you conquered him."

Zachariah says three words. Three words are her undoing. Every thread of sanity has snapped.

Within seconds, Zenya has shifted into some primal creature of shadows, claws, and teeth. Nyxion reaches for her at the same moment that she cuts her father's throat. I smell his blood in the air.

But when the slow formation of unmistakable needle ice creeps into the room, branching out in familiar vein patterns like the roots of a tree, Nyxion and I freeze. The room's energy has turned from hot and bloodthirsty to ominous and cold.

We don't need to see the figure. We sense him as we have sensed him from the beginning of our fucked up family.

Zenya is caught between these worlds, her hands still poised at her father's throat. She turns to the sinister figure in his mysterious long black robe.

At noticing the face beyond the robe or the lack thereof—one even I may see since none can hide from Death—I bite back a groan, but Nyxion snorts.

Clearly, we know where you inherited your penchant for theatrics, Nyxion. Drama runs in our family.

Shut up, Morpheus.

Thanatos bares his gleaming teeth, each as long and sharp as fangs. He twists and twirls the sickle in his hand.

He is a bitter reminder of the laws that bind us all.

"Zenya," Death addresses her in his deep, reverent tone that commands respect and fear. "You are not permitted to kill your father. If you do, I will take your soul with his."

My brother snaps. Eyes flashing with fury, he launches himself at Thanatos, tackling the God of Death and driving him against the nearest wall with a force that shakes the very foundation of the prison. A storm of ice spirals around Zenya, threatening, preparing to spear her and take her soul.

Nyxion's intent is clear: he will risk everything to stop Thanatos from touching Zenya. Cold and mocking laughter spills from Thanatos's lips, echoing through the narrow corridor.

"Oh, did I touch a nerve there, my dear nephew?" Death taunts Nyxion, his voice dripping with sardonic amusement.

Zenya releases her father and dives to the floor, curled up in the fetal position to protect herself.

Gritting my teeth and raising my hands, I war with my uncle's power, wrapping each sharpened icicle in my shadows. I cannot destroy them, but I may defend Zenya. I save nothing for myself and take the slashes and splinter cuts from Death's force. If one were to draw her blood, then her soul is forfeited. She loses.

Zenya's eyes widen with horror from the effects of the ice—how they slice through the fabric of my skin, shredding it to strips until my muscles and skeletal structure are exposed. Blood drips down my wings from the loss of countless feathers. The pain is of little importance compared to her safety.

"Morpheus!" she cries out.

No, not Zenya. In the midst of the swirling vortex of lethal ice, she rises with a clenched fist and dark eyes—Beastie—prepared to do whatever is necessary to defend her host. How many times has she protected Zenya without Zenya ever knowing?

"Go, Morpheus," Beastie urges me, but I hesitate, concerned for her safety and what could happen if my shadows retreat.

A smile crosses my face a second later as Beastie weaves countless blankets and pillows into being, ones laced with steel threads. I shake my head in disbelief with an airy chuckle.

Beyond these walls, the sound of my brother's battle is evident. His snarls and howls prove how unmatched he is compared to Death.

"Morpheus…" Beastie narrows her eyes on me from a gap in her fort. "Help your brother. And tell him thank you for the inspiration."

Trusting her, placing all my assurance within Zenya's dark protector, I retreat, shadow-traveling until I reach the prison's main yard where my brother has felt the sting of Thanatos' ice far too many times.

Even as more frost grows along his bones, Nyxion tightens his grip around Thanatos, his teeth bared in a snarl.

"If you take her,"—my brother seethes,—"I will crawl into the Underworld on my knees and plunge into the vast inferno of Tartarus to retrieve her soul—even if it damns mine."

It would damn him. While we cannot be killed, we can be…regenerated. We are the embodiment of dreams and nightmares. If this cycle of Nyxion and his nightmares should perish, a new one will arise—with no memories of this era. Only the essence remains.

Before Thanatos can respond, I surge my shadows around the Death God, shackling him. I click my tongue. "What a pity, Uncle, that I wasn't invited to the party."

Nyxion straightens, squaring his shoulders, relief lowering his tattered wings, but he still maintains an unchecked resolve. Our eyes burn with dark intensity, a mutual need to protect the woman we love. The first time we have fought together.

"Ahh, Morpheus, the maestro of dreams," Thanatos lilts in his mocking tone even as the shadows bind him. "It seems I've blind sided you, though I believe your brother did far more."

We growl in unison, our combined rage like a threatening sword poised in the air. A low, dangerous rumble resonates from Nyxion's chest. Never liked your humor, Death.

Thanatos chuckles, a sinister sound that could freeze the blood in the most hardened of criminals. "Touchy, touchy."

When he thrusts off his hood to reveal the impregnable black skull but with a strange new perma-frost etched into the bone, I tilt my head, my curiosity piqued. "Color me intrigued, Thanatos. Love the icy update. You had dark flames not just a year ago, I believe." Black crystals grow from his neck like skeletal tree branches. I even notice a couple of dead rose petals on his robe.

He tips his head back with a laugh. "So I did. I traded them. When they say ‘Cold as Death', I thought it was time for a change. I see my adoring nephew is still copying me. Imitation is such a form of flattery, isn't it?"

Nyxion shrugs. You call it imitation. I call it evolution. Eldritch symbols aren't your style, after all, Death.

"True, and I appreciate yours." Thanatos frees his hand, a hand with skin as silky and nearly as dark as my shadows. Donning a pair of leather gloves, Thanatos cracks his neck to one side. "I suppose we should get down to business, eh?"

" She is none of your business, Thanatos," I retort, my voice cold and authoritative—not as authoritative as Death but far more determined. We have more to lose.

"Au contraire," Thanatos replies with a smirk. "I'd say she is my first order of business. Death shall have his order. And if I must, I will give you your marching orders."

"You can try." I smirk, too, my voice steady and unyielding.

Tension thickens the air as we face off in a flawless stalemate of God vs Daemons, our auras clashing in a crazed tide of dark energy. Nyxion's eyes gleam with fierce protectiveness as he steps closer to Thanatos, his muscles coiled and ready to strike again.

Thanatos's grin widens as he meets Nyxion's gaze, his eyes gleaming with malevolent glee. "Oh, I will more than try, dear nephews. The order of Death is inevitable, and Zenya's fate is sealed. It's not the first time I've stalked her. If you desired to stalk her, I would have pointed you in the right direction years ago."

With a roar, Nyxion lunges at Thanatos again, his fists connecting with the God of Death's skull. Thanatos staggers but quickly regains his footing, his laughter turning into a battle cry as he retaliates with a swift, bone-chilling blow to my brother's jaw. The clash of their powers reverberates through the prison, shaking the very walls. Nyxion is thrown back, and I blanket him with my shadows.

Writhing and twisting my dark force, I form chains to snake around Thanatos's limbs. "You won't have her," I growl, my voice pulsing with every dark and powerful dream.

Thanatos struggles with my shadows, his eyes blazing with dark fire. "You think your dreams can bind me, Morpheus? Death is a reality you cannot escape."

Nyxion joins the fray, his energy like a tempest of raw emotion and steely determination. "We won't let you take her," he snarls, his voice echoing with the weight of its gravity, its dark truth.

The battle rages on. We exchange blows and taunts in a deadly dance of power and will. Thanatos's laughter mingles with our growls and roars because we know we could never conquer the God of Death. The most we can do is delay him, divert him, trick him.

With malevolent, gleaming eyes, Thanatos stretches out his arms. From the shadows, deadly black chains with sickles at their ends materialize, writhing like living entities, bound to Death's essence. They dance around him, slicing through the air with lethal precision.

"You fight well. Now, we will see how you fare against the chains of Death. Let the true battle begin," he hisses, leering down at me before turning to Nyxion with a deep chuckle. "If sticks and stones will break your bones, dear nephew, then my chains will crush yours. Come, come, now! They hunger for your nightmares."

We advance.

The chains lash out with blood-curdling precision, the sickles at their ends slicing through the air with deadly intent. We fight back fiercely, dodging the razor-sharp edges and retaliating with shadows and Nyxion's black blood force of the worst of his nightmares. He even summons golems to divert Thanatos's attention.

We counterattack every strike of Death's chains, the clashing forces creating a cacophony of destruction. Sparks fly, and shadows dance as we unite for the first time as brothers—and unleash our fury, our movements perfectly synchronized.

We are a living testament to how we were both formed from the same fabric of Chaos—and our mutual desperation to protect Zenya.

Despite our combined efforts, the chains strike deadly blows, cutting through our defenses and drawing blood, but we still don't surrender. We don't waver. Every time Thanatos tries to smite Nyxion's bones with his sickles, I surge my shadows to defend him, to serve as a…shield. He forms golem after golem to take the greatest attacks from Thanatos to shield me.

We protect one another, defend one another, and delay Death with every fiber of our being.

In a moment suspended in time, I turn to Nyxion, able to see my brother more clearly than Death. We share a look of unspoken understanding, our combined fury and love for Zenya fueling our strength.

One nod—we launch a coordinated assault, shadows and bones, and black blood—our essences intertwining—in a devastating barrage. Death crashes to the ground, snarling in frustration, realizing he cannot easily overcome our united front of the dream and nightmare realms. Until his maniacal laughter rages again, the laughter of one who knows he can never be beat.

In no time, he's on his feet again, deflecting our new attacks and swinging his sickle-tipped chains in a precursor of a smiting strike.

Nyxion and I form ranks, swelling our forces as much as possible. But without our fullest defense, without his hyoid bone and my Eye, we cannot contend with the omnipotent force of our uncle.

Thanatos unleashes his chains. We are thrown apart, crashing against the stone walls, panting and bruised but still rising, unyielding.

Suddenly, the atmosphere shifts. The lethal aggression withers in the air as Thanatos postures, then shakes his head with an airy laugh. "Well played, nephews. It seems she is stronger than I gave her credit for. Till next time."

With a swirl of darkness, Thanatos vanishes, leaving us standing in the wreckage.

Helping one another to our feet, we return to the jail cell—and find Zenya with her knees to her chest and her back to the wall. Blankets and pillows still surround her and smithereens of ice shards lodged within them.

Her father's figure, a mere flashback again, remains on the bed at rest.

Zenya, may we— Nyxion begins, not wishing to barge into her little fortress without permission.

She waves us forward. We approach her trembling figure, kneeling beside her, the tension deflating, softening with our concern.

Next to her is the pouch with the black sand. Before her lies a small box, open and filled with a little collection of bones. Something he must have smuggled in. Small enough not to be of notice, but a powerful symbol of what the Bone Carver treasures most. Not one photograph of her. Not one memento to symbolize her.

Zenya grips one bone to her chest for dear life. It's longer, narrower but with a sharpened edge. Like a bone needle.

Her eyes flicker with determination as she gathers the spilled grains of sand, her hands trembling slightly.

Then, she looks up, the corners of her lips tugging into a fond smile. "You two look terrible."

We sigh, breathing our relief and quiet triumph of her conquering the Second Trial.

The worst is yet to come.