Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Grian was, by all means, bored. It was a slow day, slower than usual, and the only tables open were in his coworker’s sections. Honestly, how annoying. Grian was impatient, anyone close to him knew that, and he also needed every bill and tip he could get. At this point he assumed the teenage boy at the host stand hated him. Hermes and his suck up attitude, he thought irately to himself. The teen boy had the ego of a god and thought everyone would bow down if he gave a big smile.

So, with nothing to do, Grian headed to the break room. He’d completed every task that was required by his manager and had nothing better to do than scroll on his phone. The “brick of bad luck”, as his twin Gem called it, lit up. His screen was filled with notifications of friends' posts on Kelp and a few messages to Grian himself. Ignoring everything, Grian found himself looking in his photo album, specifically at old photos from high school that were still saved. Nostalgia was dangerous but Grian was willing to risk his emotions to feel something.

Hermit Hill High School had been many things; chaotic being the best word to describe it, dreadful being the worst. Most of Grian’s photos were of him and his friends goofing off, videos of drama within the friend group, and the occasional screenshot of old messages between now distant friends. The key being they were all with friends. Pearl smiling in the background of most, Jimmy and Joel photobombing, and the occasional Lizzie or Scar smiling calmly.

All of it hit Grian in the heart. He missed high school; when things were easy, keeping friends was simple, and he didn’t have a pile of bills to pay. His social life now was limited to his twin and Pearl with whom he was roommates, and his colleagues who he avoided about as much as a bird avoids a snake. Adulting was hard and keeping up with everyone was even harder.

After a flood of sadness rushed through his veins, Grian decided to check his messages; something he was terrible at most of the time.

Gem was first on his list:

13:04 PM
Pearl’s working late so it’ll just be us tonight. What do you want for dinner?

Grian replied with a spaghetti image and went onto his next texts. Gem had always been the responsible twin. She was the kid who organized all of their homework in neat folders and had perfect grades. Grian on the other hand hadn’t been as good in either category.

Scar was the next person he needed to text back.

09:36 AM
Hey Grain!!! I know Lilies is busy but do you want to get cofee? Its been a while

10:07 AM
Griannnnn im a busy man you no

11:50 AM
Grain?
You like cofee rigt?

13:45 PM
Nevermind.

A sigh escaped Grian’s mouth before he could register it. Scar was… a handful; energetic and childish in a way that Grian could only admire for so long. Scar’s eyes were always wide and he had a sense of joy only a child on Christmas morning could hold. As they’d grown older Scar had never lost that, even if he had matured a bit. Grian loved Scar, he truly did, but it was so hard to keep up with a man who seemed to be constantly sugar high.

No, Grian wasn’t going to put his friend down. He really needed to work on that. The screen seemed to taunt him the longer he stared at the obviously rushed messages. Grian did have the time to go, he just wasn’t sure if he could handle another awkward and fidgety conversation as he downed multiple mugs of coffee that Scar would evidently pay for before Grian could even blink.

It was a mess. He couldn’t look Scar in the eyes without a little knot of guilt inching its way into his brain. Holding a conversation where Scar was clearly in love with him was even harder.

Scar had always been in love with Grian, and that made him hurt just a little bit more everyday. Every second he couldn’t speak up and just tell Scar how he felt, every tense moment where they avoided a certain mustache man like the plague, it was all so agonizing. They had so many good moments together, but also had so many secrets, or at least Grian did. He doubted Scar could keep more than one secret at a time from everybody.

His thoughts were interrupted with a new notification from Mumbo, probably the one person he texted back on the regular. Grian clicked on it, not bothering to reply to Scar yet.

14:00 PM
Hey Mate, Lizzie said it’s a slow day today so I was wondering if you had some free time? Just checking, I’m free pretty much all week so it applies to whenever.

Void, Grian hated this. He hated Mumbo and Scar for being so close. He hated Lizzie and Mumbo being siblings so Grian could never lie about his job. He hated how the people who wanted to talk to him were some of the last people on his list.

Grian needed rest, maybe a vacation.

The break room opened and Lizzie, the owner of the restaurant and his friend, stepped in. Her pink hair was tied up in two pink buns and she had a shine in her blue eyes that faded as soon as she and Grian locked eyes. He seemed to have that effect on everyone recently.

“Grian, you good?” Lizzie asked, her voice sounding oddly hesitant. Did he look that frustrated?

“Yeah, why?” He played it off, giving a smile.

Lizzie frowned. Void, this day wasn’t getting any better. “My brother texted me. I was thinking you could take the rest of the day off, maybe hang out with him?”

What? Was Lizzie really planning Grian’s life out? Mumbo was cool, one of his best friends, but… Maybe Grian was just being pathetic; lonely but didn’t want to talk to anyone. What a loser.

“I’m assuming those are my only two options then, hm?” He tried to joke but it didn’t come out all that sarcastically.

“Mumbo really cares…” the pink haired fairy sighed before continuing, “and Grian, we might not be best friends, but Mumbo is your best friend and he’s worried about you. Because he’s my brother, I am automatically worried too. You can’t deny that you aren’t at your best right now…”

His fingers ran through his blond hair as he thought. Lizzie was unfortunately right; he wasn’t at his best and now other people could tell. What kind of illusionist couldn’t mask their emotions?

“Look,” Lizzie resumed, “I don’t want to be nosy but I’ve seen Gem around and she seems pretty good. That means rent probably isn’t the issue, and I know it has been in the past. We’ve known each other longer than most of your other friends and it’s frustrating seeing you so… stressed.”

Grian almost shot back a response that probably wouldn’t have gone well. It was true, Lizzie was one of his first ever friends, even before he’d met the fairy’s brother. It was also true that more recently guilt had been eating at his brain yet again. Maybe a depressive episode, maybe it was how often Mumbo and Scar tried to talk to him, honestly he was avoiding thinking about it as much as possible.

“I’m fine.” Grian lied through his teeth, his voice sharp for the soft avian he looked to be.

“That’s a lie,” a familiar voice murmured.

He spun around on his heel, now face to face with Mumbo. The man was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts. It wasn’t the taller’s usual style, considering he wore suits constantly. That meant Mumbo was probably at the farmer’s market earlier. Meaning he’d probably chatted with Gem. Oh no.

Grian’s voice became small. “I wasn’t talking to you…”

“Grian you need an intervention.” Mumbo droned.

“Did Gem put you up to this?”

“She helped. We’re all worried, even your own twin. That means something.” Lizzie quipped, “I’m going to go check in with Hermes, you two got this.”

Coward, Grian wanted to say, but he kept his mouth closed. With emotions swirling in his body, Grian could feel the magic in his veins shifting around, like it was protecting his very carefully crafted illusion. He didn’t need a new problem of people finding out he wasn’t actually an avian.

“Okay, what do you want then Mumbo? You can’t just poof make me what–better?” Irritation rang in Grian’s voice. His magic was working overtime to keep his wings perfect.

A hand was on his shoulder. It was supposed to be comforting, that much was obvious, but it only made Grian more panicked. He wanted to run away as fast as possible.

“I just want to help Grian.”

“Then you should know that I need space, not interrogation.”

Mumbo’s face scrunched up, his brows furrowed, and his lips turned into a tight line. The fairy sighed as though exhausted while Grian just stared. What could he tell Mumbo to get the worried man to stop worrying. An impossible challenge that Grian didn’t want to face.

“I just want you to be okay,” Mumbo whispered.

How could Grian explain to his best friend that Grian held so many lies? How his wings weren’t even real but a mirage Grian created. How could he explain that his eyes were supposed to be glowing magenta and he was actually a highly feared creature with as much power as a god. No, Mumbo wouldn’t take that well, nobody ever did.

Instead, he hid. Grian hid behind feathers of an avian species he’d only learned about because of Jimmy when they were young. The blond canary had taught him all about being an avian and what it was like when they’d been playing in elementary school. Grian had wiped those memories from Jimmy’s mind and pretended to have never met the boy a few years later. It worked flawlessly. Now, he was Grian, a pesky bird with a brain full of mischief and whimsy.

“I want to be okay too, Mumbo. I just need time. But, thank you.” Grian replied softly.

Mumbo started to talk again but the shorter blond interrupted him, “And, I’m sorry… For everything.”

“It’s okay… It’s okay.” Mumbo pulled him into a tight hug that he graciously returned.

***

Martyn had the day off, something that he always appreciated, especially when the weather was as nice as it was. The park was lovely; green grass and flowering trees filled the area. Occasionally a small child would run past or a wild duck would fly over him. It was generally really peaceful, the kind of calm that pressed gently on his chest instead of suffocating it.

Martyn leaned back on the bench, legs stretched out, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He was alone, but not lonely. Not really. A paper cup of coffee balanced on the arm of the bench beside him, already half-cold, forgotten the moment his mind began to wander. His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he didn’t check it.

He already knew who it was.

Jimmy.

The man had been blowing up his phone since yesterday with nonsense memes, half-written song lyrics, and a string of voice messages Martyn hadn’t dared open yet. Not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much. Jimmy had always been an open book, and Martyn had always been the lock without a key. The more Jimmy tried, the harder Martyn had to push him away.

The canary avian had always been a light to Martyn’s shadow. They were practically siblings though they were only cousins, and Martyn would die for the bright blond.

Even now, a piece of Martyn itched to check, to respond. He didn’t.

Instead, he watched the wind ripple through the trees, rustling their leaves like quiet laughter. His hands itched. His magic had been acting up again; sparking in the tips of his fingers without cause, like a warning he didn’t know how to read. He flexed his hand and saw it again: the faint shimmer of green just beneath his skin.

“Void,” he muttered to himself. “Not again.”

A duck landed in front of him with a loud quack and Martyn jumped, just slightly, like the world was testing him. He hated this; being on edge, never knowing when the next crack would show. He already had magenta cracks that glowed faintly on his forearms, he didn’t need his magic making it worse. He was glad that the park was rather empty.

Martyn had spent years keeping himself together with spit and secrets. He was the “funny one,” the “loud one,” the one who didn’t take things seriously. But behind all that charm and sharpness was something more ancient, more dangerous. His magic wasn’t illusion like Grian’s. No, Martyn had been cursed with prophecies.

And right now, it was whispering again. A voice in the wind. A countdown in the roots of the earth. A warning in the water. The whispers surrounded, clouded his brain, and blinded him of all things in the physical world.

Three times broken, one time bound. The song repeats. The lives run out.

Martyn ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it until it stood like a golden halo. He hated the whispers. They weren’t constant, but they were insistent, and worst of all, they were never wrong. He’d felt the shift two nights ago. The moon had blinked out. The stars had rearranged into a pattern he didn’t recognize. Something was coming. And it always started with Grian.

Of course it does, he thought bitterly. It always starts with him.

Martyn didn’t hate Grian. Not really. But he was angry with him; bone-deep, soul-sore angry. Grian had the capabilities behind bold face lies and never got caught. Most illusionists were manipulative by nature, but Martyn had higher hopes after meeting Grian’s kind twin Gem. But, Grian hadn’t been as welcoming as Gem had.

He remembered the look on Grian’s face when Jimmy nearly died from a terrible illness, the emptiness in his eyes that wasn’t sorrow but simply nothing. He remembered the glow of that illusionist’s eyes in the dark, the way the boy had been so close to ripping Martyn apart. Grian was a loose cannon that could not be trusted. The dirty-blond never liked Martyn, and Martyn returned that hatred just as equally. Especially in high school. In the years after high school, they avoided each other as much as possible, glaring at each other in passing.

Martyn took a shaky breath and let it out slowly. He wasn’t ready to see him again. But he’d have to be.

The magic in the air was getting restless. The whispers were getting louder. And Martyn, whether he liked it or not, was being called to act.

The prophecy had started to unravel. And Grian was at the center of it. Again.

Chapter Text

Mumbo knew something was wrong when Grian pulled away a little too quickly. He was even more concerned when Grian’s wing pulled right to his back and he squeezed his eyes closed. His breaking point was when Grian wouldn’t respond, his moth clamped shut.

“Grian? What’s wrong?” Mumbo stepped closer, big mistake.

The avian shook his head violently and stepped back, his wings hitting the wall. Grian flinched and his wings clenched even tighter. It looked like it would hurt the avian. Mumbo didn’t know what to do, was Grian having a panic attack? Should he call somebody? Questions torpedoed around Mumbo’s head, practically breaking his skull as he panicked for far longer than necessary.

Then, he had an idea.

He raced out of the break room and found Lizzie standing at the host stand, talking to the teenage boy that Mumbo wasn’t the hugest fan of. Mumbo ignored that thought and grabbed his older sister by the arm urgently. Lizzie turned around swiftly, confusion evident in her expression.

A question almost escaped her lips but Mumbo spoke faster, “Grian.” The single word laced with more panic than when Mumbo had been running blindly through the woods from people who held flaming torches and pitchforks as though it was still medieval times.

They both walked back to the break room, though it was more of a clumsy run than anything. By the time the door came flying open, the avian was nowhere to be seen. No greyish purple feathers or messy blond hair, just an empty room.

In Mumbo’s dazed state, he didn’t notice anything ajar, not that he spent all that much time in the break room of his sister’s restaurant anyway. However, Lizzie walked around the room, her eyes scanning every surface as though she was a detective.

Lizzie made it to the end of the room before pulling the curtain back from the wall to see the smaller window that was always covered. Mumbo had never seen it before and certainly hadn’t known it was there. The window was… unsurprisingly, open.

Why Grian had left, Mumbo had no clue. But, like most other situations, Lizzie was already on top of it; pacing around the room with her phone in hand.

“Hey Lizzie.” Gem’s voice cut through the speaker, filling the tense room.

“I need you to call Grian, like right now.” Lizzie stated matter-of-factly.

Gem immediately started asking questions, “why? What’s wrong? Isn’t he with you?”

“He ran off, Mumbo looked startled enough that something must have happened, and he is your brother.” Lizzie explained, her voice even.

Maybe this just didn’t affect her as much as it did him. Well of course not, he thought to himself in a distasteful manner. Mumbo knew Grian since they were young, and practically needed the little avian in his life for him to breathe. At one point in time Mumbo would have said he loved Grian more than even a friend, but after he and Scar discovered they both knew Grian quite well, Mumbo tried to bury his feelings deep where they would never escape.

Mumbo had never disliked Scar before, they both bonded over the discrimination they faced, even shared meals at Scar’s house, but Grian changed everything. It hadn’t been Grian’s fault, the blond was allowed to have as many friends as he wanted, but Mumbo and Scar had gossiped about a boy they liked… One that turned about to be the same boy. That’s when their relationship broke. It wasn’t immediate, they still hung out, but over time things got worse, Grian became a topic that led to arguments. Just like that, they became strangers once again, avoiding the other’s gaze when in passing.

Lizzie wasn’t on the phone anymore, Gem had probably called Grian and everything would be okay, but Mumbo hated it all the same. He knew Grian well, better than Scar for sure, but he had no answer for Grian’s sudden leave.

“Gem couldn’t get a hold of him…” Lizzie murmured slowly as though if she spoke too fast Mumbo would break, honestly he wouldn’t be surprised if he did.

Mumbo knew that Grian could disappear if he wanted to. The thought played his mind like a sour chord. Grian had talked about it before, off handedly, but now it was a real possibility that Mumbo couldn’t help but fear.

The blond laughed, his head tilting back as he grinned. Mumbo didn’t think his joke was particularly funny but he was glad Grian thought it was. They sat side by side, leaning against an alleyway wall. Grian had convinced Mumbo to skip the last two hours of school to hang out, and Mumbo barely had to think before saying yes, even if he knew his parents wouldn’t be too happy to hear about it from the school in a few hours.

Mumbo looked over to Grian who was scrolling on his phone. He stopped at a particular post with would you rather questions. They were definitely going to do them, knowing Grian.

“Would you rather be a hero or villain?” Grian asked, his head tilted slightly.

Mumbo thought for a bit, they both had their perks, though Mumbo wasn’t the highest fan of running from authorities constantly. “Hero,” he answered pretty easily.

“I think I’d be a villain,” Grian hummed.

“Why’s that?” Grian was chaotic, yes, but he didn’t seem like a villain per se. Mumbo had seen Grian risk a lot to save others and seemed much more like a hero than a villain, even if he did have his troublesome moments.

After a while, Grian answered, “there’s no laws to being a villain, no limits to what they can do. I wouldn’t have to follow the rules or pretend anything.”

Grian’s tone startled Mumbo. It didn’t sound like the blond was joking, in fact there was almost a longing note. Mumbo shoved the thought away; it was just a game. Just a silly little game.

“What’s the next question?”

“Always tell the truth, or have your emotions broadcasted to everyone around you?”

Mumbo chuckled, “I feel like that’s a lot deeper of a question.”

“Yeah, no kidding… This is hard…” Grian agreed. Though the underlying statement was that Grian didn’t tell the truth all the time. Mumbo needed to stop hyper analyzing Grian’s words.

Mumbo himself had secrets he’d never willingly tell anyone. Secrets that very few knew and even then, he hardly talked to those people anymore. No one needed to know about his eating habits or what kind of fairy he was, no he’d let everyone assume he and Lizzie had the same fairy powers considering they were siblings.

“Probably have my emotions broadcasted, I mean it sounds a bit invasive but at least then I wouldn’t have to stress my friends out by telling them how much sleep I actually got.” Mumbo explained, twisting his answer to sound no more than playful and innocent.

Grian laughed at that, then answered with a small ‘same’. This was going pretty well and was definitely helping push down Mumbo’s fear of getting in trouble. Hopefully Lizzie would cover for him later when his parents eventually found out about skipping.

They were quiet for a bit, sitting side by side just thinking. Mumbo at least assumed Grian was thinking, though the blond’s bird brain could just be filled with Void and Mumbo wouldn’t know the difference. It was peaceful like that; no one giving them a hard time, nobody to tell them what to do. Being a villain was starting to sound more appealing.

Grian’s wings sprawled out behind him like a cape, laying on the ground. Mumbo admired them for a moment, seeking comfort in the colors. Greys, whites, browns, and purples mixed together into some beautiful bouquet that was Grian. Mumbo smiled to himself; it was just him and Grian, not Scar who was sharing this experience, but Mumbo.

“I think I could disappear if I wanted,” Grian stated suddenly, “I mean, nobody would think weirdly of it at first considering I skip a lot. Gem would know eventually when I didn’t come home, and maybe a bit later things would get out of hand… But when I’m an adult? No one would know for a while.”

Mumbo nodded along, though the implication was a bit scary.

“You wouldn’t leave me though right?” Mumbo puzzled, something inside him tightened like a dead animal shriveling up.

“Of course not.” Grian smiled, it was a bright smile, but also the kind of smile Grian had given Martyn in the halls. It wasn’t laced with hatred like it had with Martyn, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Good.”

***

Grian hurried across the park, his eyes darting around at every shadow, everywhere They could be. His legs were moving faster than his brain, his magic was pulsing under his skin, beating along with his heart. It was only a matter of time before his facade fell.

He followed his heart, sensing the magic around him that guided him to whatever was sparking such a disruption. Whatever it was, it was powerful, and likely wasn’t affecting just him either. He was glad to have left the awkward confrontation with Mumbo, but now his mind was far more scrambled than avoiding high school guilt.

The park was pretty empty even though it was a perfect day to go out. Maybe because school had just started and work was likely a main priority for most people weren’t likely to be lurking about. The sun was high in the sky, which made sense since it was probably close to three-thirty.

He stopped and let his eyes close. He opened his Vision, magic that transferred himself to the soul plane where trails of magic could be seen and people’s souls couldn’t hide what they were, only illusionists and a few others had such ability to see like that.

A trail of bright green magic that follows along a less traveled path stood about the most. Grian followed, opening his physical eyes while Seeing with his magical ones. The path turned a few times, curved around larger rocks, and made it to another open space with a paved walkway and benches.

Through his physical eyes he looked for the source of his pain. He expected an undercover Warlock, or perhaps an unstable object in the area that was creating some sort of rift in planes. All of which he could, and had, handle.

What he didn’t expect to see was Martyn.

The other blond whose hair was more yellow and eyes were more blue than black stared at him. A range of motions flickered upon Martyn’s face, all of which being negative.

“I knew it was you, Grian…” Martyn muttered, his name sounding sour in the other blond’s mouth.

“What could you possibly be doing that’s affecting my magic so much?” Grian confronted, cutting right to the chase.

Martyn squinted, for the first time seeming actually confused instead of some sort of annoyed or mocking expression towards Grian. It wasn’t reassuring the slightest.

Martyn frowned, “it’s your bloody Warlocks, not me.”

Warlocks? Grian knew that his superiors could never really be trusted, after all they were the gods of illusion, bending anything to their will if they so desired. Grian looked up to them; they taught him all he knew and trained every feather on his back, the same ones that were currently clenched tight. Absently Grian knew Jimmy would usually be in pain if he clenched his wings too tight, Grian didn’t bother replicating that in front of Martyn. While Grian did hate Martyn, he at least didn’t have to pretend in front of him.

“What did they do?” It was all Grian could think of, the only simple question that wouldn’t make either of them spiral.

“I got another prophecy,” Martyn admitted, “‘Three times broken, one time bound. The song repeats. The lives run out.’”

Grian blinked slowly. The words did sound like the work of the Warlocks but Grian had no clue what they meant. He’d never been good at deciphering literature.

“I think the prophecy is going to affect some people. That’s why your magic is going crazy, mine is too.” Martyn inquired.

Grian only nodded not knowing what else to do. They were calm, at least for now, but what would that do for them, what did the prophecy mean?

Before Grian could ask another question the world started to shift. Shadows crawled up trees, drowned out all noise including the light breeze, and filtered out the sun almost entirely.

“You see that right?” Martyn whispered.

Grian didn’t answer, he didn’t need to. Martyn knew him and Grian shared a lot in common, especially sight. Grian’s magic was screaming at him, scratching at his skin trying to get out. He let the illusion fall; the wings, the eyes, the everything. Martyn wasn’t looking at him now, not that it mattered. He let his magic release, flowing across his body, magenta rippling over his skin before sinking back in and taking the form of “Grian” once again.

He shut his Vision and the world snapped back to normal colors, but the feeling didn’t fade. If anything, losing sight of the soul plane made it worse; like being blindfolded in a room full of snakes.

Martyn was watching him now, Grian could faintly see Martyn’s fingers glowing green. Something was definitely very wrong. They held eye contact for a while, momentarily all hate was forgotten and fear took hold of both.

“We need to find out what this—“ Martyn started to speak.

The world went black.

Grian was floating.

Void.

Grian had been to the Void before, there was nothing nice about it. It always felt like falling, like waiting, like dying. Once he’d talked to Gem about it, she had agreed it was the worst of training.

Stars sparkled in the void, not like they glowed, they didn’t really produce any light, they just sat there like a dream in the distance that could never be reached.

When he looked down he noticed his clothes, they kept changing. His classic sweater and pants, an outfit that looked like someone who was about to go through a sand storm, armor and weapons that clung to tattered clothes, and finally a green hood placed over leather pads and a basic red shirt. It kept switching, like a slot machine. It started to slow down, finally landing on the outfit with the green hat. Green hadn’t really been Grian’s color but he figured if the Warlocks wanted it, the Warlocks would get it.

He kept floating, his stomach churning with no food in it. There was simply darkness. Nobody, no magic, just nothingness that stretched over a long expanse that likely went on forever. Thousands of souls could be trapped for all Grian knew.

Hours went by.

Time seemed to stop altogether.

He wondered if it would be like this forever, if his family would miss him, if his family was already dead and he had been there for years compared to the mortal plane. There were too many things he didn’t know and it hurt his brain a bit to think about.

Faintly he thought he could feel a small pulse of magic. He looked at his hands and couldn’t hold in a small gasp, not that anyone could hear anyway. His veins glowed purple, gently pulsing. He could barely feel the magic, even though it was definitely there. Unlike the tedious Warlock training, he needed to find a way out, a way to break the Void’s over him.

Slowly, he sent pulses of magic out. It glowed in trails that faded into the darkness. He focused all his energy in picking up fragments of his magic, grabbing them and sticking them together like a puzzle. Each fragment made the puzzle more powerful until he had enough to get an accurate spell in the works.

Chanting was a tricky skill. It required the most focus and was the easiest to go very wrong. Grian pronounced every word with a fear in the back of his mind. The Warlock language was tricky and concentrating while magic swelled with every word wasn’t exactly helpful.

He finished chanting, the words bouncing around on the puzzle of magic and willing it to do as he wanted.

Purple flashed and blinded him.

Either he did the spell right or he was about to die. Either was an escape of sorts, Grian thought blankly.

Blind.

It was an odd thing; illusions required sight, otherwise they were nothing. Illusionists magic was so sight centric that they could see in multiple planes, being blinded by one’s own magic was pretty ironic.

There were a lot of odd things in the world. Like how Grian had been born with magic in his veins that led him down a long path that was clouded in hurt. It was mostly his fault, he knew that, but we wanted to blame the Warlocks at least partially for what he had become. Without them he would have been normal, maybe a bit out of control power wise, but he would have been himself. No wings needed to disguise, no lies about his parents, or having to explain the confusion of how Gem and him were twins yet different species. It all could have been avoided if the Warlocks hadn’t stepped in.

He crumbled to the ground. It was hard against his feet. It was weird considering he still couldn’t see a thing.

His hands found grass and his fingers clawed into the damp dirt.

His wings, wings he had to remember existed, touched the ground as well. He folded them against his back, silently hoping that they didn’t look off after his time in the void.

Then, he opened his eyes.

Chapter Text

Tango was serving coffee to a customer, walking back to the counter joking with Impulse about something, the next moment… Nothing.

Tango had never seen darkness so… dark. His hair was literally fire and always produced light so he’d never been somewhere he couldn’t see, it just wasn’t possible. At least, that’s what he used to think.

The flames atop his head flared instinctively, but the light went nowhere; swallowed whole by the shadows around him. No glow on his hands, no flicker on the ground. Just gone.

He spun, searching for… well, anything. A wall. A floor. Even the counter he’d just been loosely leaning against. But there was no Impulse, no café, no sound except the faint hiss of his own breathing.

Then something shifted. Not in the space around him, but in him, like a hook catching behind his ribs, pulling. His stomach dropped, the pull growing sharper, harder, until his knees buckled. The darkness rippled. He couldn’t see it, not really, but he could feel it.

A whisper brushed his ear, too close and too quiet to make out the words, and suddenly the ground was there again, hard, cold stone under his palms. His flames finally cast light, lighting up a landscape unfamiliar to his eyes.

Wherever this was, it wasn’t home.

***

One moment, Jimmy was leaning against the pasture fence, explaining to a group of wide-eyed kids why goats weren’t just “funny-looking sheep.” The next, the air went still, and the chatter faded into nothing.

He turned, feathers along his arms prickling, but the ranch was gone. The grass. The animals. Even the sky.

Darkness pressed in on him from every side, so absolute it felt like a weight on his chest. He tried to stretch his wings, searching for a draft of air, but there was nothing to catch. His canary-keen eyes, usually sharp in low light, saw no more than human ones would.

A pulse of dread went through him. He hated not knowing where he was, hated the emptiness swallowing every sound but his own heartbeat. He also hated confined spaces, it was a little too similar to smoke filling his lungs, a little too similar to an accident that left him scarred for life.

He curled in on himself. His wings pressed into his back to the point where they hurt but the pain grounded him ever so slightly. Suddenly he was back in the flames, wood surrounding him, he gasped for breath. The air was too far away. Everything was too far away.

He didn’t have his inhaler.

Heat pressed against his skin. He squeezed his eyes shut and hoped it would end. That’s all he could ever do, hope.

Then, like something unseen had been waiting for him to notice, a gust of wind slammed into his back. His wings unfolded to try and keep him balanced, not that balance was necessary in a world of nothing.

It didn’t push him forward though, it pulled.

The darkness peeled away like old paint, and Jimmy stumbled into a world unknown. His breathing became slightly better though raspy and thin. Each inhale like a gasp for life itself.

But, he wasn’t dead.

***

Cleo was halfway through counting a stack of bills, not because she needed to, but because she liked the power she had over other people’s money, when the world gave out.

No warning. No flicker of light or sound. Just absence.

Maybe the end of the world.

She’d been in darkness before. Basements. Graves. Places where the air was thick and foul and people stopped breathing if they weren’t like her. But this… this was different. The air here was nothing, the kind of nothing that didn’t just settle in your lungs but seemed to crawl under your skin.

Cleo waited. She’d learned long ago that rushing in blind was a good way to lose a limb. But the darkness didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t even exist in the way darkness usually did. It was much like her in a way, alive but not really, dead but still waiting.

A faint glow appeared ahead; not enough to light her face, but enough to reveal a jagged archway that hadn’t been there before. Stone, ancient and cracked, with faint carvings that looked almost like teeth.

Cleo grinned. She’d been dragged into worse.

Probably.

She’d survive an apocalypse, she could survive anything now.

She stepped forward, and the darkness peeled away like wet cloth, revealing a world that looked like it’d never been touched before. Cleo had seen many like these, many worlds with no humans, just life, the real question was how she had gotten there.

Cleo was a world hopper. She could leave pretty much whenever she wanted, usually earning scars with every world she visited, but she’d never accidentally teleported before. Especially not with darkness around her like it’d just been.

The worst that could happen was likely over though. In one world she’d been turned to a zombie, she doubted there was worse things that could happen than that.

***

Gem could sense the change before she could see it. Instinctively she reached out to Grian’s magic, already worrying about him and Mumbo, and felt an absence of magic. Gem had never had an issue with reaching Grian except for the few times during training when the Warlocks somehow severed their connection.

Gem knew Grian could handle himself, that’s why she hadn’t called Grian when Lizzie asked her too, she just knew Grian needed space, felt in her own soul in some twin-linked way.

The market stall was bustling with people, all attempting to grab sales before others snatched the items they wanted. It was quite a madhouse. But, the noise was all in the distance.

One man with tusks and long pink hair waved a hand in the air, looking perplexed. The man sighed and walked away, not before glaring at a small child. It was like watching television, she couldn’t move or interact, just Watch.

The world slowly faded out.

This was the Void.

Gem had never liked training in the Void; she couldn’t reach out to Grian, she had no sense of time, her magic always felt suppressed, and she couldn’t see a thing.

A flash of purple darter through the void, seemingly coming from worlds away. It sped through the air, striking out in the distance at different places, until it rushed towards Gem. She braced herself for impact, holding up her hands, as though that would do anything. Gem shit her eyes as the magic grabbed her.

To her surprise, it felt oddly familiar.

Grian.

***

The world around was calm. Trees gently swayed in the light wind, birds sang, and the sun shined brightly. Grian stood up, his nails cracked with damp dirt. One big thing caught his attention above all else.

He wasn’t alone.

Tango stood to his left, flames flickering uneasily, casting warped shadows across the space. Jimmy was there too, hunched slightly, still pulling for air like the world had been choking him moments before. Cleo leaned on one hip, assessing their surroundings with that unsettling calm she always carried. And Gem, Gem’s eyes locked onto his instantly, the thread of twin-magic snapping taut between them like it had been waiting for this moment.

In total; Grian, Gem, Pearl, Martyn, Ren, Lizzie, Joel, Mumbo, Scar Tango, Jimmy, Scott, Cleo, Bdubs, Etho, BigB.

They were standing in a rough circle, as if someone had placed them there deliberately. All different, all pulled from different corners of their lives, and all looking just as lost.

Grian’s feathers bristled. Whatever this place was, it wasn’t chance. And if the Warlocks had anything to do with it…

Well. Then they were already in trouble.

Questions began spilling into the quiet.

“Where even are we?” Joel’s voice cracked as he gestured to the tree line. “Because that—” he pointed to a patch of sky that seemed to ripple faintly, “—is not normal.”

“Feels like magic,” Pearl muttered, her antennae twitching ever so slightly. “But… wrong.” Her moth wings fluttered slightly as a crisp breeze swept through.

Ren took a cautious step forward, sniffing the air like he could scent the truth on the wind. “It smells weird, like plastic...”

Mumbo’s eyes flickered toward Grian. “Are you okay?” His tone was neutral, but the weight behind it made Gem’s gaze snap to her brother.

“Do you know something?” she asked, her voice quiet where only the two of them could hear.

Grian didn’t answer her. Instead, he bent slightly, brushing dirt from his knees as if that was suddenly the most important task in the world. Gem couldn’t be asking things so close to other people, he hoped she would get the message.

Scar took a step toward him, but Grian shifted away without looking up. He didn’t even spare Mumbo a glance. This was not the time for high school drama.

The murmuring grew louder; people started to cluster together. Jimmy drifted to Tango’s side, the flicker of firelight steadying him. Cleo moved toward Bdubs and Scar with that lazy swagger that made it seem like she already knew the rules of this place. Scott gravitated toward Jimmy, keeping his voice low, Tango glanced his way but kept a hold on Jimmy. Etho stayed near the edge, eyes narrowed, silent. Everyone found their people slowly becoming constalations amongst the dark sky.

And then there were three.

Grian, Gem, and Martyn remained in the center, an island amid forming alliances.

Martyn’s eyes slid toward Grian, something knowing and bitter in his look. He didn’t speak, but Grian caught the message; don’t dare say a word.

Gem’s magic hummed between them, her illusion tugging faintly at the edges of her form. “If you’re keeping something from me,” she murmured so only he could hear, “I’ll find out.”

“You always do,” Grian replied, he couldn’t tell Gem now, not with so many people nearby.

The wind picked up. Grian’s feathers lay flat. “We should move before whatever brought us here decides to introduce itself.”

“We’re going to see if there’s somewhere a bit more sheltered.” Grian called out to the others, all of whom nodded and gave quiet thanks.

The three wandered through the woods silently, all glancing around. The forest was quiet, like a drowned out version of the real thing. Ren had been right, it didn’t seem real, and probably wasn’t. Biomes shifted quicker than anything Grian had seen before and almost no animals made noise as they wandered.

Martyn sighed, “I don’t know why the Warlocks decided to bring my boyfriend here, or any of the others really. It doesn’t make sense…” He glanced over at Ren for a moment before continuing walking.

Gem stepped in, “this is the Warlocks doing?”

“Obviously…” Martyn muttered. Fair enough, Grian thought.

“I don’t get it either… Right now we focus on shelter, later we can figure out how to leave,” Grian recommended.

A long while later they found a cave with a good opening. Martyn decided to stay there while Gem and Grian would get the others. Night was fast approaching and no one wanted to be out at night in case the Warlocks had a plan for them.

Walking back, Gem and Grian stood in uncomfortable silence. Grian knew Gem was confused, probably on multiple levels, but it was odd just how quiet she was.

“Gem? You okay?” He nudged her with his wing.

She spoke her thoughts aloud, something they did with only each other. “Think about all the people here. We all know each other, we all have complex relationships with one another, and we all are hiding secrets from each other. Especially you.”

Gem was completely right. Grian hated it. Not because of Gem but because it was true, meaning the Warlocks wanted something from them, likely from Grian himself. That was not good.

“If Scar comes up to you, you should talk to him.” Gem suggested unprompted.

“What?” Grian’s voice was closer to a shriek than a question.

Gem chuckled before turning more serious again, “yeah, he cares about you and you’ve been pushing him away. You have the time to amend things, you should use it.”

“We have to find a way out, not finish drama from high school.” He argued.

“Grian, I love you, but you can’t hide constantly, eventually bad things will come your way.”

“They already have.”

***

The world had quieted, but Jimmy couldn’t settle.

He sat apart from the others, huddled against a tree trunk just outside the cave’s mouth. The shadows felt thicker here, the cold seeping into his feathers like icy fingers. His chest tightened again, the familiar, unwelcome pressure building beneath his ribs.

Not now, he thought desperately. Not when we’re already this far from everything familiar. It wasn’t constantly painful like this but it tended to flare up after an episode.

He tried to slow his breathing, willing the pain to ease. The scars in his lungs itched like old wounds reopening, reminding him of that fire, the accident that almost took him away from everything.

He pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders, then glanced up as a flicker of movement caught his eye. Grian. His brother in spirit, even if not by blood. His closest friend.

They had drifted apart over the years; life pulling them in different directions, but in this strange new place, Jimmy felt that old connection stir again. Like a lifeline.

Grian’s silhouette was sharp against the cave entrance’s fading light. Jimmy’s throat tightened, not just from the cold, or the asthma, but from something deeper. He wanted to reach out, to say something, but the weight in his chest squeezed tighter still.

So instead, he just watched.

And waited.

He knew in time he would talk to his avian brother. Maybe then Tango and Grian would become closer friends, maybe things would all be okay and they’d all go back home closer than before.

Whispers interrupted his dreaming. They crawled through his feathers and scratched at his skin. He shivered, trying to ignore the noises that had plagued him for years.

He needed to find Martyn.

The whispers grew louder, words becoming clearer.

Canary, they screamed into his mind.

Chapter Text

Grian didn’t sleep.

It didn’t sound like anyone else did either, judging from how much people were moving around at night. Sleeping somewhere when you don’t know where you are is quite difficult, especially in the middle of the wilderness.

Jimmy sat at the opening of the cave, staring off into the unfamiliar landscape. Gem sat by Pearl, both talking in hushed voices, Martyn stayed by Ren’s side, and everyone else seemed to just enjoy each other’s company. Only Etho seemed a bit lonely, watching his sons laugh next to Cleo from a distance. Grian supposed they had that in common; watching people they care about live without them.

Not the time to be depressed Grian, he scolded himself. There were more pressing matters.

He decided that Jimmy was the safest person to talk to. They had no drama, just brothers from another mother. It helped that people mistook them for siblings more often than not, especially since they were both avians. He silently thanked Jimmy for being his friends so long ago and teaching him all he knew now about the avian culture. Of course Jimmy didn’t remember that; Grian had cleared Jimmy’s memory of himself when they were young children. Nobody had paid enough attention to realize what Grian had done or who Jimmy was and wasn’t friends with. At least no one said anything, and that was enough.

“Hey,” Grian greeted, sitting down next to Jimmy.

The taller man looked over, clearly startled for a moment, then smiled with his full face. “Hi!”

For a few moments they sat in silence. Grian picking at the dirt under his nails, Jimmy watching the sunrise. A breeze swept towards the cave for a few seconds, making both avian’s feathers shift uncomfortably.

The silence felt heavy. Heavy in the sense that they hadn’t talked in quite a while. Heavy because Jimmy knew Grian wasn’t really an avian yet treated him like one anyway. Heavy because Grian had used Jimmy. Heavy because of everything else between them since they met on the playground in second grade.

Jimmy broke the silence first, his voice not even a whisper, “I thought about telling Martyn, but I knew he’d be… well I don’t think any good would come of it, he’s always been really protective,” Jimmy paused, as if to make sure Grian was still listening, he was, “the whispers are louder now. They scream into my ears when no one’s around…”

That was certainly a revelation that Grian wasn’t expecting. Grian did know that Jimmy and Martyn were both descendants of prophets, which was part of the reason Martyn disliked Grian so much, and he also knew that Jimmy didn’t really gain anything from the genetics other than being able to sense magic, and hear the Warlocks. Surprisingly, the true avian heard the Warlocks better than most.

It was incredible just how different Jimmy and Martyn were. Jimmy who had gone through hell and came back, Jimmy who could hear but couldn’t do anything, Jimmy who taught kids about animals as a way to spread love and kindness. Then there was Martyn, a quick tempered person with actual powers and magic pulsing under his skin, Martyn who was quicker to attack than talk, Martyn who blamed Grian for something completely unrelated to him. They may have been cousins, raised by mothers who called themselves sisters, but they were very different.

“What do they say Tim?” Grian asked gently, throwing in his silly nickname for Jimmy, one he’d made when Jimmy had spelt his own name wrong for almost half the year in second grade, not that Jimmy remembered.

“Canary.”

Grian didn’t know what that meant, not in whole at least. Jimmy was a canary avian; feathers the color of gold and fingernails that were practically claws. But, he doubted that was truly what the Warlocks were thinking when saying that.

Grian hugged Jimmy with one arm, his wings wrapping around the canary. “I’m sorry Tim…” His words filled in for things he would never tell Jimmy, apologizing for something Jimmy had no idea had even happened.

“It’s not your fault. Thank you though, Grian, I needed that,” Jimmy replied easily. Grian wanted to tell Jimmy it was in fact his fault, at least a lot of things were, he wanted to say that his half apology was not nearly enough to cover whatever the Warlocks wanted from him. Instead, he kept his mouth shut and hugged Jimmy.

They stayed like that for longer than either of them would ever admit. The warmth between Grian’s feathers dulled the morning chill, but not the unease curling in his gut.

Jimmy’s breathing evened out, though Grian could feel the tension still coiled in his shoulders. He could almost hear the thoughts running through the canary’s head; questions, fears, that stubborn hope Jimmy always clung to like a lifeline.

“You think it means something bad, don’t you?” Jimmy asked suddenly.

Grian hesitated. “It’s… not usually good, when they get fixated on a word like that, or really anything…”

Jimmy gave a short, humorless laugh. “Figures. But hey, at least they’re not saying my name.”

Grian didn’t correct him. He didn’t tell Jimmy that when the Warlocks called someone by anything other than their name, it was usually worse. Names could be replaced. Erased. Grian knew that first hand.

Instead, Grian released him from the hug and stood, brushing dirt from his new clothes that looked old. “Come on. Let’s get you something to eat before Martyn finds out you’ve been up all night.”

Jimmy raised an eyebrow. “And you haven’t?”

“Difference is, I look fine on no sleep,” Grian said with a grin. He needed to be a little more like “Grian” and joking helped.

Jimmy rolled his eyes but followed, wings ruffling as if to shake off the conversation. Grian noticed the way his gaze kept flicking to the treeline, as if the whispers might step into the sunlight at any second. Grian’s own wings twitched. He didn’t need to hear them to know they were still out there.

Waiting.

Watching.

They always were, always had, always would.

An hour or so later Martyn found him alone, leaning against the splintered remains of a burned tree, eyes fixed on the horizon.

“You’re quiet,” Martyn said. Not an observation, more like an accusation. Grian was used to it by now.

He didn’t look at Martyn. “You’re loud.”

Martyn huffed a dry laugh, stepping closer until his shadow cut into Grian’s sunlight. “You think I haven’t noticed? You think I can’t see it, whatever’s rotting you from the inside?”

Grian’s jaw tightened. “You’re not exactly a saint yourself, Martyn.”

“That’s true, but there’s a difference between us,” Martyn started, lowering his voice, “I know who I’m working for. I know what I’ve signed up for. You—” He broke off, eyes flicking briefly to the treeline, as if something out there might overhear. Joke’s on him; they could hear everything. “You keep pretending you’re just along for the ride, but you’re steering, Grian. You always have been.”

Before Grian could answer, the air shifted. The birds went silent, they were already quiet. A faint shimmer rolled across the field like heat off stone, and then—

“Boogeyman,” a voice hissed, not from any throat, but from the ground, the sky, the marrow in their bones.

It was a word Grian knew too well. A prototype Grian himself had helped create. At the time it was for training illusionists like himself. They were all put in an arena with a number of lives and some would be cursed to kill others; the boogeyman.

Grian realized then that he knew where they were. An arena. The same type of arena he and Gem had trained in, practiced their powers, avoided being killed by boogeymen.

Around them, voices rose in confusion and panic. People were already backing away from each other, scanning faces like they might see the infection in someone’s eyes. Grian wasn’t sure if the boogeyman was a common term, but everyone seemed to understand anyway.

Martyn didn’t move. He just looked at Grian. In his gaze, Grian saw the unspoken question—Is it you?

Grian forced a smile he didn’t feel, “guess we’re about to find out.”

***

Scott wasn’t the kind of person to hate. He didn’t really have it in him, not after Jimmy’s accident. Everyone deserved kindness even if they really messed up.

So, when his mind was clouded with a lust close to his siren hunger, he knew something was wrong. His tail twitched as words were whispered into his mind.

The only thing that he latched onto was: Kill

The command sat there, coiling in his thoughts, tugging at the old instincts he’d buried long ago. It wasn’t just a word; it was a taste. Salt and copper on his tongue. It looked red, like a crimson cloud polluting clear water.

He pressed a hand to the side of his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, no no no nonononono…” The ocean had made him a predator once, but the land had taught him how to be a person. He wouldn’t let some curse, or whatever this was, take that from him.

Somewhere behind him, the others’ voices blurred into an indistinct hum. He didn’t want to look at their faces, not with that urge still whispering under his skin. If the curse was trying to make him a monster, he wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of seeing him choose a target. He ran a hand through his blue hair and tried to ignore the familiar feeling.

Still… his gaze slid, almost against his will, toward the nearest sound of laughter. He caught himself, biting the inside of his cheek until the tang of blood snapped him back.

The boogeyman. That’s what they’d called it.

They were a sensitive topic to those who knew the truth. When he and Jimmy had been together, the avian had mentioned them in passing, but back then the gods had seemed too distant to be threatening. Now, he wished he’d listened.

He missed Jimmy.

It was a small thought, something in the back of his mind that still felt like a bullet through the chest.

Scott knew Jimmy was happy now; Tango held him every morning and cared for him just as Scott once did. He knew that it was a sacrifice he had to make, a gift to Jimmy that the blond would never realize. But, it hurt anyway.

Fire. A simple yet deadly thing. The same thing that almost killed Jimmy. The same thing that made Jimmy forget so many things, forget how important Scott was to the avian.

“It could hurt him more to remember, I’m sorry Sir.” The doctor had told him.

Tango took Scott’s place.

Tango was Scott’s target.

***

Tango busied himself quickly. Everyone decided solo tasks were the way to steer clear of one another without losing progress on actually surviving.

They all knew it was risky; being alone meant it was harder to defend themselves. No one knew what the boogeyman curse was really like. Gem had mentioned she’d read a book about the person being bloodthirsty, usually driven at least in part by true emotions but at the extreme, but that was only speculation.

Either way, Tango continued on with his self proclaimed task; collecting firewood. It made sense, he could light anything on fire, making him the perfect fire starter.

He grabbed smaller sticks for kindling, picking the best ones from the ground. One after another he wandered, slowly further from the campfire. It was a mindless task. Simple. Easy. “Fun” was a bit of a stretch.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tango saw movement. It was swift, likely a bird flying through trees. The birds seemed to be shy of people anyway. However, Tango couldn’t help but worry just a little bit.

Something jumped out at him.

The thing, no, person. Slammed into him, driving him back hard enough to knock the breath from his chest. His mind registered that Scott was the one on top of him.

Pain shot through Tango’s ribs, and the world tilted sideways as Scott’s weight pinned him down. He thrashed on instinct, one hand grabbing for his sword, a cool accessory he added to his outfit for the bakery, now coming in handy. Unfortunately, Scott’s grip on his wrist was iron. His other hand was clamped tight around Tango’s shoulder, claws just barely breaking skin.

“Scott— what the—?!” Tango shrieked at the blue-haired-siren.

Scott’s face was inches from his own, eyes fixed and unblinking. There was nothing warm in them, not the usual teasing glint, not even anger like when he and Jimmy sat side by side. Just hunger.

Tango tried to throw the siren off, shifting his weight and pushing the siren away, but Scott’s tail lashed around his ankle, jerking him back down. The impact knocked Tango’s head against the dirt, sending stars bursting across his vision.

“Get off me!” he barked, fumbling for the hilt of his sword again. Scott shifted his weight, trapping the weapon under his knee.

The claws in his shoulder dug deeper, just enough for the first hot line of blood to slide under his shirt. Scott’s lips curled, not quite a smile, not quite a snarl.

“It’s not personal,” he said, voice low, but the way his pupils dilated made it sound like a lie.

“You’re insane—”

Tango used the accusation as cover to kick upward, catching Scott in the side. The blow staggered him just enough for Tango to scramble halfway free, boots sliding in the leaf litter. He got his sword halfway drawn before a hand shot out, slamming it, and his wrist, against a tree trunk. The jolt made him drop it.

Scott didn’t even look at the fallen blade. His focus was locked on Tango, every movement sharp and efficient, the way a shark moves when it smells blood in the water.

The bogeyman curse, Tango realized well too late.

Tango lit his hand on fire, transferring most of the flames from his head to his hand, hoping it would give him some leverage.

“You think fire scares me?” Scott’s voice was almost amused, but tight, strained. He lunged again, batting Tango’s hand aside like it was nothing. Sparks scattered across Tango’s cheek.

He was really wishing he’d taken those karate courses his parents offered him in high school. Tango was as skinny as a stick and weighted almost the same as Jimmy, that was saying something considering Jimmy’s bones were hollow like a bird’s.

The two grappled, dirt and leaves grinding into Tango’s palms. The leaves lit on fire but neither did anything about it. For a second, he thought he’d broken Scott’s grip, until the siren twisted his arm behind his back, forcing him face-first toward the ground.

Tango gasped for breath, muscles straining, but Scott’s weight pressed him down. There was a heartbeat of stillness, just the sound of their breathing. Then the cold glint of Scott’s blade slid into view, resting against Tango’s throat. Why he had a blade, Tango didn’t bother asking.

“Sorry,” Scott said again. This time, there was nothing human in his tone.

Chapter Text

Scott’s grip didn’t falter as the blade kissed skin. Warmth bloomed instantly under the steel, and for one heartbeat, the sensation was almost satisfying.

The curse purred in the back of his mind, urging him onward, more, more, don’t stop now.

Tango’s scream cut through the air, raw and frantic, his body fidgeting beneath Scott’s weight. His nails scraped at Scott’s arm, leaving shallow crescents, but the resistance only made Scott press down harder. The blade slid in with ease, parting skin like it had been waiting for this moment.

Hot blood surged over his knuckles. It wasn’t just the physical feeling; it was the way the curse seemed to thrum with approval, that invisible tether tightening.

It felt good.

Tango writhed, his free hand clawing desperately for his sword, but Scott kept his wrist pinned, claws digging deep enough to break the skin there too.

His voice came out low, almost gentle, though it shook with the force of the curse’s pull. “Stop fighting,” he said, though part of him wanted the fight to last just a little longer; wanted to see the spark in Tango’s eyes burn down to nothing.

The blade went deeper, and Tango’s scream cracked into a choking gasp. Blood spilled freely now, staining the earth in quick, dark rivers. Scott could feel the heat of it against his skin, and smell the sharp tang in the air.

One sharp shove. That was all it would take. The curse whispered promises in his ear; how quiet it would be when this was over, how right it would feel.

Scott’s hand shot to the back of Tango’s head, claws tangling in his fiery hair. It burned but Scott ignored the feeling, he needed Tango to die. He slammed Tango’s head down into the ground with a sickening crack, the sound echoing through the clearing like the snap of a branch.

Tango went limp.

For a moment, Scott just stayed there, chest heaving, his hand still clutching the dagger as if the fight might spring back to life. The curse finally loosened its grip, and in the heavy, ringing silence that followed.

Scott could hear his own heavy breaths, nothing else.

A sound that was in between a gun shot and thunder filled the air. Scott didn’t want to know what it meant, but he knew it wasn’t good, it didn’t seem like anything was good here.

***

The sound echoed through the forest.

The death cannon.

Grian wasn’t sure if they had three lives, there was no way of knowing when no one died, meaning that person could come back. He needed to find out.

He raced through the forest, following a trail of purple and blue magic with his Vision. The purple was definitely that of a boogeyman, while the blue could be anyone’s magic, though Grian had a feeling he knew the magic belonged to.

The avian crashed through branches in an attempt to find the person who died, or the boogeyman; he wasn’t entirely sure which he’d find first. The forest became thinner, the trees sparser.

A clearing.

Grian noticed Scott first. He watched the purple magic pool around the siren. The tendrils slowly shrunk from their spot around his neck, soaking into the ground as though they’d never existed in the first place.

Then there was Tango. Blood coated both him and the forest floor. It was clear Scott had struggled a bit to kill the fireborn.

As much as Grian hated it, the blood didn’t affect him all that much. He hadn’t known Tango all too well and he’d seen countless bodies in much worse conditions. Grian turned his attention to Scott, not wanting the siren to flee.

“Scott,” Grian coaxed.

The blue-haired siren turned to him quickly, a bloody knife clutched in his hands. His eyes were wide and his hands were shaking. Grian had seen those attributes in some of the weaker trainees in the arena.

“I—I…” Scott didn’t manage to say anything.

“It’s alright. I’m just going to check something, okay? Don’t leave, got it?” Grian informed. Scott nodded slowly, clearly still in shock.

The avian slowly walked up to Tango and bent down. His hand reached up to the fire boy’s forehead, his fingers brushing over the still-warm-skin.

Grian closed his eyes and looked through his Vision. People who had three lives usually had a slightly green glow, people on two had yellow, and people on one had red. It was a bit different than magic that flowed in trails, but more of a life energy that stayed with the person. If Tango was completely dead, he wouldn’t glow at all.

Thankfully, Tango glowed a faint yellow. A second life.

Everyone had three lives.

Grian really wished the Warlocks had mentioned that before throwing them all into the arena. It would’ve made things a little less stressful, in Grian’s opinion at least.

“He’s alive…” Grian finally told Scott, standing back up to look at the other.

“…how?” Scott quizzed. It was a fair question, clearly the curse had lifted from Scott meaning he knew the other was dead.

Grian offered a small smile, “a second life.”

Words that Scott didn’t speak shined in his eyes; how do you know? Grian wasn’t sure how to tell that to Scott. He’d technically already revealed too much, but he didn’t want Scott to drown in complete guilt.

Before answering, whispers erupted. They came from the air, the ground, inside Grian’s mind, everywhere.

“The first life has been taken. From three to two, death is as permanent as we want it to be. The boogeyman has succeeded, re-roll.”

Scott’s eyes widened.

“Three lives… you—you were right.” Scott gasped, somewhere between awestruck and fearful. Grian didn’t have the energy to wipe Scott’s mind of their interaction.

A small sound hit Grian’s ears. With the whisper gone there wasn’t a lot to make noise. He glanced over at Tango’s body, watching it fade, the blood being the only sign of him ever lying there.

A few seconds later, Tango stood in the same spot he’d died. This time his hair was aflame again and his eyes were a bright yellow. The shell of Tango stood there for a moment, his soul not yet placed inside. Finally, he gasped, grabbed at air with his lungs like most did when they returned.

Tango looked around, his eyes landing on Tango. The fire-boy’s hands went to his neck, where Grian knew he found no cut. He was healed, alive.

“What…?” Tango whispered.

Grian gently put a hand on his shoulder, “welcome back…”

“No, I died—Scott,” he looked at Scott with fear, “he killed me.”

“You have three lives, two now. The whispers told us when you were coming back.” Grian explained, leaving out the Warlocks.

Tango frowned. Grian was surprised by how calm he was, then remembered how the Warlocks could manipulate emotions. Especially in an arena, this was their domain for sure.

Grian looked between the two, both looking as though they wanted to be anywhere else, which was fair. But, Grian needed them to get along. He knew the Warlocks were trying to separate people but Grian really needed everyone to work together if they were going to escape.

“I know this will suck for both of you,” Grian stepped away from them, “but you need to work this out… Good luck.”

***

Gem found Grian by a river, sitting cross legged. The boy’s wings were folded neatly behind him and his hair was a mess. For a moment it reminded Gem of when they’d been young, sticking together in their first ever arena, in a similar position.

“Grian,” Gem whispered, looking over at the other illusionist, “I’ve got your back.”

“And I’ve got yours,” Grian replied with a classic Grian grin.

“There’s already been three cannon shots…” Gem commented.

Grian looked at the floor. “I killed someone.”

Gem nudged him gently to tell her what happened. They’d killed people before, together and alone, but Grian always held on. The Warlocks always scolded him but he was still a capable fighter anyway, so they usually let him go as long as it didn’t affect him too much.

Gem didn’t have guilt like Grian did. She knew it was training, the people she killed would come back. Grian had more empathy. She respected it. It reminded her that they were still human.

“A boy, not even a boogeyman, rushed at me. He had an axe, which I took from him and… Well, you know the rest.” Grian murmured, his voice tight.

Gem tried to comfort her twin. “Hey, it’s okay. You did what you had to. You’re alive.”

Grian nodded. Gem rested her head on his shoulder, Grian’s wing wrapped around her in a half hug. The small river rushed past them and they sat in comfortable silence. As far as they knew, no one was red, so they were decently safe. There was possibly still a boogeyman but they were good fighters.

Suddenly, magic shifted around them. Gem and Grian both perked up, sensing the power. Grian’s wings folded behind him again and Gem pulled out a dagger.

A Warlock. It was tall, at least ten feet, standing on the other side of the creek. Its form was closer to shadows than a physical body, its wings were feathered and stretched high in the sky, blocking most of the sunlight. Its eyes, hundreds of them, looked at the twins.

“Xelqua,” the Warlock growled. Gem felt Grian flinch at the name. It wasn’t as though the name was forbidden, but it was rarely used, only uttered by Warlocks and their parents. Neither of which the twins spoke to often.

“Hesitation gets you killed,” the Warlock boomed, circling them like wolves. “You’re illusionists, you should be the hunters, not the prey.”

Gem wanted to point out that everyone in the arena was an illusionist and that everyone was either predator or prey, but she kept her mouth shut.

Grian nodded, “yes, Sir.”

As quick as the Warlock appeared, he disappeared. The ground around was cast in sunlight again. Gem shivered, their presence always gave her the heebie jeebies. She looked over at Grian who had shrunk in on himself, his arms wrapped around his knees.

They were creating a small shelter when Gem heard rustling nearby. She tapped Grian and put a finger over her mouth. They both looked around, grabbing their weapons.

Gem pulled out her dagger and gripped it tightly. She was good with most weapons, especially at close range, so she hoped they weren’t planning on shooting them with arrows.

Someone leaped out of the forest, a girl maybe a couple years older than them. She had two long green blades and a long sword drawn. She leaped at Gem, who barely had time to duck. Gem rolled out of the way in a flash.

Gem was about to strike the girl when something pulled her back. She looked behind to see a Warlock standing there, silently watching.

“Only Xelqua,” it commanded.

Grian turned to Gem, shaking his head. He clearly didn’t want to do it, but Gem couldn’t help.

She mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

The girl lunged at Grian who got out of the way at the last second, stumbling back. The girl landed on her feet and held her sword up, about to take a powerful swing.

Grian moved out of the way, finally getting in the zone, and raced past her. Gem had seen him do this trick before, it was honestly spectacular every time.

Her twin jumped up, his foot pushing off of a nearby tree, and jumped over the girl. He grabbed her braids on the way down, sending her to the floor.

They both crashed, both scrambled for the girl’s dropped sword. It looked closer to kittens fighting than a death match. They tugged hair, thrashed, and yelled at each other, neither saying any actual words.

Grian got to the sword first, but the girl was above him, she had the high ground but he had the weapon. A stalemate of sorts.

Gem watched as Grian used the butt of the sword to hit her in the face, giving him enough time to stand. If it had been Gem, she would have stayed on the ground and finished the girl there. But, Grian delivered the final blow anyway; the sword plunging into the green-haired girl’s chest. Straight through the heart.

The avian took the sword out and dropped to his knees, gently lifting the girl’s body. Blood spilled onto his hands, caking his already dirty fingers.

Gem had no idea what Grian was doing. He’d won, why was he holding the corpse?

Grian put the girl onto her back, and did something Gem never expected. He looked away, closed his eyes, and shoved his hand into the girl's wound.

Crimson pooled around the body, flowing out of her body. Gem watched in horror as her twin pulled at something in the girl, ripping out her heart. The noise, smell, and sight was disgusting, but Grian continued. As the body fading, marking her return with one less life, Grian stood, holding the heart in his hand.

Blood dripped down his arm, covered his whole hand, as he lifted it above his head staring at the Warlock behind Gem. Gem couldn’t believe her eyes, Grian’s eyes looked hollow, barely any guilt showed on his face and in his posture like it usually did.

The Warlock let Gem go, but she didn’t move. How could she?

Grian made eye contact with her. His bloody hand fell to his side, still clutching the heart. Gem couldn’t comfort him if he had no guilt.

“Good job,” she praised, her voice feigning pride.

“You okay?” Gem asked her twin gently. Snapping back to reality instead, trying to ignore the past.

He sighed, “I feel like I’m ruining everything...”

“Grian…” She wanted to comfort him, but she had no clue how. The river reminded her too much of the heart dripping crimson down a younger Grian’s arms.

“It’s true,” the avian sighed, “I’ve hurt so many people, hid things from everyone, I feel so… Guilty.”

Gem hugged him. She couldn’t deny his claims, they were all too true, but she could help him going forward. Gem didn’t let go right away. She could feel his heartbeat thudding against her shoulder, faster than it should be. Not fear, adrenaline. The kind that didn’t fade easily.

“You can hate yourself later,” she murmured into his hair. “Right now, we need to move.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her. “Where?”

Gem scanned the treeline. The river curved north, but the sound of movement carried from that direction, a branch snapping, heavy footfalls. She’d heard enough hunts to know they weren’t alone.

“Anywhere but here,” she said, grabbing his wrist and tugging him toward the undergrowth.

The two of them slipped into the shadows beneath the trees. Grian’s wings brushed low branches, and Gem kept glancing back at the clearing, half-expecting the Warlock to still be there. But it was gone, leaving only the impression of its shadow burned into her mind.

They moved quickly, neither speaking, until the forest opened into a small rise overlooking a patch of open ground. Smoke curled in the distance.

Grian squinted. “Campfire?”

“Or bait,” Gem replied, crouching low. She scanned for movement, for the glimmer of magic. Her skin prickled. “We’re being watched.”

Grian’s jaw tensed. “By who?”

She didn’t answer, because she’d already spotted it; the faint shimmer of an illusion being held in place, too steady to be natural. Someone was cloaking themselves nearby, and they were good.

Too good.

Gem’s voice dropped to a whisper. “We might have company… and I think they’re one of us.”

Not a player. Not someone who was supposed to be in the arena. Definitely not someone they wanted to talk to, not in Grian’s emotional state.

Chapter Text

Grian kept running the teams through his head. It’d been a few days in the world, nobody had been boogeyman again, no deaths had occurred. It was relatively calm actually.

Cabin Core Café: Etho, Scott, Bdubs. A chaotic and unpredictable alliance, but dangerous. For whatever reason Scar didn’t seem to be teeming with them.

Gluten Guys and their Boyfriends: Impulse, Ren, Tango—plus Jimmy and Martyn tagging along like barnacles.

Roommates: Gem, Pearl, himself. They were all really close and he doubted that would change.

Clockers Family: Cleo and Scar. A mother and son pair, either really dangerous or the most unstable of all. Grian supposed the family was decided, Cleo and Scar versus Etho and Bdubs.

The Rejects: Joel, Lizzie, Mumbo. BigB.

Too many alliances. Too many shifting loyalties. And somehow, he was caught in the middle of all of them.

Impulse hadn’t been there when everyone first arrived. In fact, him not being there had been odd considering the other Gluten Guy’s had been transported to the games by the Warlocks. When Grian had asked Impulse about it, the guy had just said he used magic to find them and was pulled in by the game itself. Grian had bigger problems to worry about besides another player.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his thoughts. He knew it was only a matter of time before these alliances collided.

A shout cut through the calm.

“Someone’s taken my stuff!” Mumbo declared from across the camp, which had now been transformed with different buildings and walls, but everyone was still only a few minutes walk at the most from each other.

Scar, who was walking by, chided, “well, knowing you, I doubt it went far.”

Mumbo glared at the vex hybrid who had a smug expression, “did you steal my supplies?” It was more of an accusation than a question.

“No, Mumbo why would you—“ Scar started to speak, but Mumbo cut him off.

“Oh, likely story. You steal all the time, the only difference now is that there’s no laws against it.” The taller man accused.

That was no revaluation to Grian, he’d seen Scar steal firsthand. He’d never pointed it out of course, he had Scar’s back… Most of the time anyway.

That made Scar’s expression turn more serious, something that Grian had seen very rarely; Scar was always joking. Gem used to say it was to cope with something, Grian never questioned it.

“Don’t be mad at me when you can’t hide. No animals… barely any food. Just us.” Scar spit out.

Something about his tone made Grian feel off. Like Scar was twisting a knife into something Mumbo did not want to be touched. Something deeply personal.

Mumbo stepped closer to Scar, “like your one to talk. We’re in the same boat, we are.”

There was tension in the air that Grian could practically see. It looked as though either person would draw a weapon at any moment.

Grian stepped between them, holding up his hands. “Both of you, stop. This isn’t helping anyone.”

Scar didn’t back down. “Maybe it’s time someone taught Mumbo a lesson about respect.”

Mumbo’s mustache twitched. “Respect? From a thief like you? Don’t make me laugh.”

“Stop!” Grian shoved them both with his hands. They both did so and looked at him. Silence.

He didn’t know what to do after that. He needed something, anything to get them to just leave each other alone.

“Mumbo, what are you missing?” Grian tried to keep his voice even.

“Food, iron, some tools…” Mumbo replied slowly.

This was good. They weren’t arguing.

“How about I give you some of my stuff, and you can be on your way, yeah?” Grian tried.

Scar scoffed, “that’s not the problem, Grian. We all know the real issue.”

The avian ignored the vex, giving Mumbo the items he lost. It was clear that Scar and Mumbo didn’t like each other. It was even more clear that it was Grian’s fault. He hadn’t meant to lead them both on, he truly hadn’t. He had used Scar, he knew that. But, Grian didn’t want them to fight about anything because they both liked him.

“Grian.” Scar tried again. The shorter one didn't respond.

“Grian!” The vex grabbed his shoulders and made them face each other.

The blond tried to delay the inevitable, “Scar, now is not the time.”

“When is, then?” Scar sounded angry.

Mumbo piped up, his voice quiet. “Scar’s right Grian… You can’t ignore—this—forever.” Mumbo gestured to the three of them.

Darn love corner, he thought unsavorily.

“Since when did you agree with him?” Grian retorted.

He desperately wanted to leave. He wanted to wrap his wings around his body and disappear. Grian didn’t want to deal with two people who loved him, not at all.

Scar and Mumbo wanted answers though. Grian knew they did. Unfortunately for them, Grian only had guilt. He didn’t like one more than the other. At one point he might have had an answer, but it was years too late.

“Grian…” Scar’s voice was calmer, but still firm, “you can’t keep dodging this. Not with us, not with anyone. You need to say something, anything.”

Grian swallowed hard. His wings twitched behind him, the smallest flick of irritation and fear. He hated how both of them looked at him, expectant, like he carried the answers to all their problems. Love he didn’t know how to return. Love he ran from him.

Mumbo’s eyes softened slightly, but his voice remained insistent. “We’re not asking for a decision right this second. Just… don’t push us away. Talk to us, Grian.”

The avian rubbed the back of his neck, his feathers ruffling nervously. He wanted to run, vanish, hide in illusions until neither of them existed. Yet, even as he considered it, he knew that leaving things unsaid would only make the tension worse.

Scar took a careful step closer. Grian was hyper aware of Scar’s hands still on his shoulders. “We can’t keep pretending this isn’t here. I don’t care if it’s messy or complicated… Grian, we need honesty. All of it. I think after a few years of this we deserve that.”

Grian felt the weight of those words, pressing against his chest like stone. He could feel Mumbo waiting, steady, but firm. Scar’s intensity pushed him in another direction entirely. Both of them wanted him, but in different ways. And the truth was, he wasn’t sure he could give either of them what they were asking for.

His feathers bristled, wings tightening against his back. “I… I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I care about both of you. I never wanted this… I never wanted it to hurt anyone.”

Silence fell again. Scar’s jaw clenched, Mumbo’s mustache twitched, but neither said anything immediately. They were waiting, waiting for something to break, something to shift.

Why couldn’t they just stop? Why did they hold onto Grian? He wasn’t worth what they were willing to put down.

Grian took a shaky breath, realizing that his indecision wasn’t just emotional; it was dangerous. In the arena, hesitation could get people killed. If he didn’t navigate this carefully, alliances could crumble, tempers could flare, and he could lose more than just the fragile trust between them.

Finally, Mumbo exhaled, stepping back slightly. “Alright. We’ll wait. But Grian… don’t keep it bottled forever. It’ll blow up eventually.”

Scar nodded once, slowly. “Yeah. Don’t make me regret being patient.” Grian knew the meaning behind those words; “don’t make me regret being your play thing.”

Grian swallowed again, unsure whether to hug them both, run, or jump off a cliff. He did none of those things. He simply stood there, trembling slightly, feeling the weight of two people who trusted him more than they should.

And above it all, in the quiet tension that remained, Grian realized the arena wasn’t just testing their strength; it was testing their hearts, their loyalties, and whether alliances built on love could survive the chaos ahead. Clearly, it was already breaking.

***

Jimmy sat next to Tango in their little pyramid Ren and Impulse had built. It wasn’t much; cobblestone walls, a few chests, and the constant smell of baked bread drifting from the crafting bench, but it was home. Or at least, as much of a home as you could get in a game where your “neighbors” might stab you for food.

Everyone had gotten used to the “games” very quickly. People understood the rules, created alliances, and did all they could to stay alive.

The whispers set the rules; three lives, only a boogeyman can kill someone on their first or second life, and to not trust anyone fully.

Impulse had even fit in quite well after being pulled in by the games when searching for Ren and Tango with his magic. It was sweet that he was so worried, but it was scary that others could just be put in the games if they so much as tried to find the missing people. According to Impulse, it had been less than an hour, even though to everyone in the games it’d been days.

Despite no one dying on the first few nights, it was still stressful. People kept to their homes and only ventured out if necessary. The Gluten Guy’s who used to work at a bakery together baked bread for the rest of the server. It was good for making allies and for food. Jimmy felt lucky that Tango was his boyfriend and he could stay with them. Martyn was also a tag along since he and Ren were together.

Tango was muttering to himself over redstone in the corner, clicking and unclicking levers like he was trying to brute-force the meaning of life. Impulse stepped over and frowned, looking down at it. It was Impulse’s machine after all, one that Tango was desperately trying to fix.

Since Tango’s death, he tried to keep himself busy. Jimmy could see it in the way his eyes darted around while kneading dough or messilying with redstone. The canary hated seeing his boyfriend so fragile, but he had no idea how to help otherwise.

A small whisper tickled his ear. It was one voice. Unusual.

Canary, the voice whispered. It was a higher pitch than the usual deep voices that clawed at him like a threat.

“Canary,” it said again. “Whoever’s last will rejoice. Whoever’s first will not be by choice. Canary calls to those who mine. Connected by a thin line. All who’s close, begin to die. Cursed with pain, a gift to lie.”

Jimmy froze. The words didn’t fade like usual; they lingered in his skull, curling through his thoughts like smoke that wouldn’t clear.

“What was that?” he muttered under his breath.

Tango glanced up from the redstone with a distracted hum. “What was what?”

“Nothing,” Jimmy lied quickly. The gift to lie part sat heavy in his chest. He’d heard the Warlocks speak before, but never like this; never directly to him as one. It was always a jumble of words, or when they called him a canary a few times.

Impulse caught his gaze and frowned, like he could tell something was off. “You good, Sheriff?”

Jimmy forced a grin that felt like cardboard. “Yeah, peachy.”

Before anyone could press, a shadow passed across the pyramid’s doorway. Martyn stepped inside, dust clinging to his boots, his usual half-smirk absent. “Something’s brewing out there. Scar’s arguing with Cleo about something, and I don’t think it’s family related, Mumbo’s holed up with Lizzie and Joel, and Grian’s… well, no one’s seen him since earlier.”

Impulse swore under his breath. “That’s not good.”

Ren looked up from picking wheat. “I could go talk to Scar perhaps, offer him some bread as well. We know a good deal will ease his mind.”

They all nodded murmuring thanks to Ren. Scar, while usually good spirited, was a bit scary in a place like this. Vex were powerful creatures and Jimmy himself feared the predator in the back of his mind, especially being an avian.

Ren walked out with a bread basket, the smell of warm baked goods traveling with the wolf hybrid. Impulse fiddled with his contraption along with Tango, finally flicking a lever and making it work. Rails duplicated, staking on top of the one on the ground. The thing definitely had some sort of magic to it, though, probably Impulse’s doing.

Martyn walked over to Jimmy, sitting next to him against the pyramid wall. The other blond gave a warm smile, but Jimmy still felt off.

“Jimmy, your powers… they’re stronger. I can feel it.” Martyn whispered.

The canary froze, not expecting that. Was that why he could hear the Warlock's words? Was that part of it?

Jimmy asked, trying to joke, “does that mean you’ll teach me?”

“Of course, we’re family, and even if you have a silly bird brain I’ll still care about you.” Martyn proclaimed.

“Aww, Martyn you’ve gone soft.” Jimmy teased.

“You wish.” Martyn flicked Jimmy in the forehead before standing up. “Tomorrow we’ll start, okay?”

“Great.”

***

The wind was sharper up here, louder too. Grian liked it that way; something to get his mind off of the “games,” as the other players called it. Grian supposed it was a good enough name.

His ears and nose were cold and his feathers hung close to his body to keep warm, but it was all worth it for the distance. There were no people to hear, no decisions to be made, just cold mountains and wind.

If he stayed far enough away, he could forget the “teams,” forget the rules, and just wait for the end. It wasn’t a crazy thing to think; he’d run from worse problems.

Next to him, on the cliff’s edge, a familiar figure appeared. A Warlock who’d Grian had been friends with the longest out of anyone, except for Gem of course. The figure, cloaked in shadows in good Warlock nature, stayed silent.

“Hello Xornoth.”

Xornoth removed his hood, revealing his purple-ish hair. The shadows fell, revealing the boy. If it weren’t for the lavender hair, Grian would have mistaken Xornoth for his twin, Scott.

“Hi Xelqua…” the boy sounded oddly sad.

“You okay?”

The Warlock watched the camp closely, people wandering about in tight groups. “Scott’s going through it… I wish I could help.”

The avian’s jaw clenched. There really wasn’t anything Grian could do to help, Grian knew all too well. Scott and Xornoth had been as close as Gem and Grian were, but they fell apart when the Warlocks stepped in. Without anyone knowing, the Warlocks controlled Xornoth’s every move, eventually taking him with them. Grian was never told the details, it’d clearly been too traumatic for both twins.

“You know I’m the worst person to talk to about this. Gem is much better with these kinds of things,” Grian pointed out.

Xornoth shrugged, “you’ve been through more than her, and I’m not looking for therapy.”

“What are you here for?” Grian quizzed.

There was a long pause. Xornoth perused his lips. Grian felt uneasy at the silence, it ate at him, reminded him of things he didn’t want to think about. So many times when people went silent with worse things to say after, usually in pain because of Grian.

Xornoth broke the silence. “The canary needs to be protected.”

“Timmy? Why?” Grian didn’t like that, not that he seemed to like most things that were revealing themselves.

“There’s a plan for him, they call it the canary curse. It’s made especially for him…”

Grian cursed, catching Xornoth off guard who raised an eyebrow.

“I wish I could give you good news but I don’t really have any. They have plans for everyone. Each person, each win…” Scott’s twin explained.

“Wait,” Grian squinted at the Warlock,” what do you mean ‘wins,’ plural?”

“Oh, there’s going to be multiple games.”

***

Scar wasn’t the kind of person to snap. However, the past few days had scratched away at his carefully built mask, revealing the worst of the worst.

First Mumbo, the Grian, then his own mother.

The day wasn’t going well, besides stealing Mumbo’s precious stuff of course. Despite Grian protecting him, he had in fact stolen Mumbo’s stuff. There were no rules against it and it wasn’t like Mumbo couldn’t just get more, proven by Grian who’d just given him free supplies.

But Grian’s help didn’t feel like loyalty; it felt like a bandage. One meant to hold together whatever they used to have, even if the edges were already curling away.

Scar didn’t know if Grian was protecting him out of friendship, guilt, or strategy. He knew it was Grian’s nature to use people, he’d seen the avian do it to him as well as others, and Scar never complained. To be fair, Scar did whatever Grian asked of him whenever, usually with very little in return.

His mother told him to end the relationship, to stop talking to someone who was clearly using him. But, Scar never did. In fact, he encouraged Grian to do whatever, ask for whatever. If Grian wanted money, he’d give Grian money, if the avian wanted a fake boyfriend, Scar would do that too.

The only thing that truly stopped their friendship was Mumbo. It wasn’t for the worst, Scar wasn’t expected of as much, he could live life much freer, but he missed the attention Grian gave him.

And Mumbo… Well, Mumbo had certainly taken Grian from him. That was the true crime. Scar knew he was a bit of a masochist, but taking Grian from him, that was unforgivable.

More recently, Mumbo was starting to look at him differently. Scar could handle suspicion, even anger, but what he saw in Mumbo’s eyes was worse; expectation. As if Mumbo was waiting for him to fail, wanting to even.

In the back of his mind Scar knew that this was always a competition for Grian. Somehow they’d never changed, even years after high school. Scar was still obsessed and Mumbo was still worried. The vex knew that Mumbo believed, in the deepest of that bloodsucker’s heart, that Scar would only make Grian worse. It was likely the truth, but Scar didn’t care.

The wind picked up, whistling between the walls they’d built. Past camp, legs dangling precariously over a cliff, he saw Grian talking to someone cloaked in shadow. Scar caught a flash of unnatural purple hair before the figure pulled his hood up.

Did anyone he knew even have purple hair? What was that about?

The conversation was very short. From Scar’s view, he couldn’t see their expressions, tell what they were saying, but Scar desperately wanted to know. When Grian came down from the ridge, his expression was the kind Scar didn’t trust; blank, unreadable, like nothing had happened at all.

Scar shoved his hands in his pockets. The worst part wasn’t that everyone seemed to have secrets. It was that he was starting to feel like the only one not in on them.

Chapter Text

Gem was proud of her brother. She’d seen him talk to Mumbo and Scar, something she wasn’t sure he had done in years; at least not with the two of them together. It was progress, and anything in the right direction was good.

After their interaction, however, Scar argued with Cleo and seemed out of it, Grian disappeared altogether, and Mumbo stayed in his house the entire rest of the day. Gem knew it was hard on all of them for different reasons, but she wished there was an easy fix, mostly for her brother’s sake.

She told herself it was a step forward, that he was finally starting to face things instead of running from them. But the more she thought about it, the more a quiet truth gnawed at her; nothing Grian did was by accident; whatever he did always had to work out for him.

Her gaze drifted to the forest beyond the camp, the shadows pooling between the trees. And just like that, she was back there; not on this day, not in this season, but in the moment she first realized the brother she knew was gone.

There was a ceremony for the children who passed training. It was grand, prideful, and the thing kids looked forward to the most after training.

The great hall was filled with newly-robbed children, all wearing midnight purple robes that dragged on the floors. It was loud, groups standing together, with everyone packed into the comically large room like sardines.

Gem couldn’t lie, she was as excited as everyone else. Who didn’t love a huge party hosted by gods?

Grian stood next to her, his eyes shining with the same pride everyone else radiated. Gem couldn’t help but smile, he was back to his normal self, that was good.

The Calling was long, and boring. Hundreds of kid’s names were called out, one of the head Warlocks usually saying a few kind words, before giving them a white robe and sending them off.

When it was Gem and Grian’s turn, Gem got called up first. She received the white robe and a Warlock, one she and her twin called Two, talked about how fierce and loyal Gem was. She felt proud to call herself an illusionist, daughter of a Warlock, at that moment.

Grian was called up next.

“Xelqua Tay, the voice boomed.”

Grian made his way to the stage and was presented his white robe, but the air in the great hall shifted. Gem’s twin placed the hood on his head, his eyes glowing magenta with more pride than Gem had ever seen him possess in relation to the Warlocks. He was defiant, and especially despised “stooping to the level of corruption.” Maybe he was just enjoying the moment, Gem told herself.

A Warlock stepped forward, Two again. The Warlock’s long white braid brushed the floor behind them. They lifted Grian’s arm, he grinned at the audience below.

“Xelqua here is a model student. Showing us the true face of illusionists in the arena only a few days ago. He ripped the heart out of a girl, no mercy. You should all strive to be as mercy-less as Xelqua.” Two’s voice echoed around the hall, children cheered, mindlessly agreeing with such a horrible thing.

Grian’s hand was let go but he kept his hand in the air, balling it into a fist and grinning. Other kids started to do the same. Soon, hundreds of children were all chanting Xelqua with their fists pumping in the air.

Gem’s twin finally walked off stage. Gem herself felt weak, like something had been taken from her. She hoped it was an act, a show for the Warlocks so Grian wouldn’t be ridiculed.

Later, in their first class not as trainees anymore but real mages, Grian and Gem sat next to each other. Gem couldn’t help but analyze everything her brother did. She knew him as well as she knew herself, and she was starting to feel like that connection was being strained.

“Grian,” she whispered. Thankfully, he turned.

“Yeah?”

“You good?” Gem couldn’t help but feel she asked that question far too many times recently.

Grian paused for a moment, seeming to think about it carefully, as though the question could be answered a thousand different ways.

He answered, “yeah, I am.”

That didn’t reassure Gem. Not one bit.

“You looked pretty silly on the stage,” Gem tried joking. Normally he’d join in, or tease her back.

“It’s an honor, not ‘silly.’” Xelqua replied coldly.

Gem nodded slowly, going back to doodling on her desk, hoping that all of this would blow over, that she was just over reacting.

Class started, the professor asked a simple question about humans and their use. Grian’s had shot up.

“Use them, they don’t know if they're being manipulated.” He said easily.

For a moment Grian sounded old, his voice stern, not like a child’s. Not like the person he was. The twins had always been told they sounded older than they were, but Grian didn’t sound eleven then.

He sounded like Xelqua.

Grian stepped into the room, interrupting Gem’s thoughts. His bangs were in his face and his eyes were cast downward. Gem couldn’t help but notice the avian’s state. It was almost morning; he’d been gone for almost a day.

“Where were you?” Gem quizzed.

Grian bit his cheek, Gen could see the way his mouth moved. “Just around…”

“Grian…”

He sounded almost offended. “What? It’s true.”

“That’s not an answer and you know it. I thought we didn’t keep secrets from each other.” Gem frowned.

There was cold silence. Why couldn’t she have the old Grian? She wanted the old Grian, the one that told her everything, the one that gushed about his new friends at school. Where had that Grian gone?

“We have to end the games as quickly as possible. That’s the only way we get out, before they trap us here forever.” Grian avoided the question.

Gem was close to yelling, why was he being so difficult? “What are you talking about?”

“No, listen Gem. They want to keep the games going. Not just this one, keep repeating over and over for as long as they want. If we end the games and get a winner before they finish figuring out how to trap us, we’ll be able to go back to our lives.”

“How do you know this?” She wanted to ask if she could trust him but she couldn’t sever their bond, it was the only thing she could rely on, even if he didn’t trust Grian completely.

“Xornoth visited.”

Scott’s twin? Gem knew he was a Warlock, but it was still surprising. Her and Xornoth were honestly closer than him and Grian. Gem wasn’t liking anything that was going on, everything seemed far away, like she was the only one who had no idea what to do.

“How do we end the games?”

“Winning.” Coldness. Determination. Grian wanted to win the games, Gem realized.

Gem squinted at the boy in front of her, trying not to see the boy he used to be. “What happened to you? Should I call you Xelqua, huh?”

“Gem, what? Of course not… I’m not going crazy, think about it. We win the games, we go back. Next time if they try to make us play again, we can figure out magic to stop it.” He tried explaining, but Gem wasn’t having it. This was crazy.

“You’ve lost it.” She turned on her heel and walked out of their half built tower.

She needed Martyn, maybe even Mumbo or Scar. Someone who she could actually rely on. She loved Grian, but maybe that’s what blinded her into believing he was trying to fix things.

***

Martyn wasn’t expecting Gem to ask him for help. He knew Gem was more of the rebel when it came to the Warlocks, at least from what he’d seen, so it wasn’t super surprising. But, her saying Grian had lost it, that wasn’t on his bingo card.

He decided to push back his training session with Jimmy to help Gem. They weren’t close, but he didn’t hate the girl. Plus, Grian being unstable was probably one of the worst scenarios Martyn could think of.

So, Martyn sat with Gem far from camp, looking over a ginormous lake that felt like an ocean minus the salt.

“Grian wants to win the games,” the red-head murmured, her voice low. She sounded almost hateful, something that Martyn hadn’t really expected from the girl who seemed to always smile.

“What about dismantling the games?”

She spit out, “I don’t know Martyn, I don’t know why he’s… I don’t know why he’s joined them.”

“What do you want to do about it?” Martyn knew it was a heavy question but it wasn’t really his place to suggest things, especially relating to Grian.

Marty watched the lake, waiting. With the light breeze that seemed to be constant in the games, there were small waves on the water, lapping at the beach like a small child nudging their parents to play a game with them. Despite Martyn’s dislike towards most things in the game, the landscapes were beautiful. At least the Warlocks knew how to create some things that are pretty.

Gem cleared her throat and Martyn looked up. “We need to stop him. Do whatever it takes. I love him, but he’ll start a chain that I don’t think anyone will be able to break.”

“I’ll follow your lead on this. Grian… Well you know we don’t get along… I don’t want to hurt you anymore than I have to, and hurting Grian will hurt you,” Martyn explained.

“Xelqua… he’s not Grian anymore. I just want him back…”

Martyn didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t a therapist, wasn’t really even Gem’s friend, and he certainly wasn’t good at these kinds of things. His job was mostly restocking an empty magic shop and sitting around, not even talking to customers.

“We’ll figure it out. Once this is over, we’ll get him in therapy, maybe everyone in therapy, and he’ll get better. Okay?” He kept his voice as calm and trusting as possible, not that he was someone people considered trustworthy; but, Gem had come to him, so maybe he was just a bit.

Whispers filled the air. Gem and Martyn both looked around.

“Jimmy, Tango, and Ren were blown up by Grian.” The whispers told them.

“What?!” Gem exclaimed, “he’s not even yellow! He can’t kill them! Tango’s on his last life!”

“Oh Void…” Martyn muttered under his breath.

Suddenly, a device appeared in front of both of them, one for each person. It looked kind of like a phone but smaller and foreign. Martyn picked one up, examining it. His name was carved into the top in perfect print.

“Communicators… in training sometimes we got these in the arenas.” Gem explained.

< Jimmy > Tango’s on red

< Etho > is no one going to question why we got these?

< Joel > why’d you do that Grian????

< Lizzie > Pearl Gem are you okay with this

< Pearl > I had no idea… Grian why did you do that, it’s against the rules

Reply < Impulse, Etho > who knows at this point

Reply < Grian, Pearl > if they wanted it to be against the rules it wouldn’t be possible

< Jimmy > I can’t believe you Grian…

The chat continued to blow up, nothing good. Martyn sighed, putting the small device in his pocket. It kept vibrating but he ignored it.

“This is a disaster… Why are we even here?” Gem questioned.

“Entertainment?”

“It’s sick.”

Martyn agreed, it was awful. Death games weren’t exactly fun, especially with all the drama and secrets everyone had.

Suddenly, Martyn had a thought, “what if the Warlocks want Grian to be their champion. Pit him against everyone, he wins, he joins the Warlocks completely.”

“Grian said there’s going to be multiple games, why would they tell him that?” Gem commented.

Martyn hummed in thought. “Maybe it’s a lie, maybe not. I don’t think it matters as long as he’s isolated. We need to mend his relationships, it’s harder to kill if he likes the people he tries to murder.”

“He just killed Jimmy, one of his closest friends…” The red-head commented.

“Well, clearly we need to work hard,” he ran a hand through his hair, “we’re going to have to tell Mumbo and Scar.”

“Even his secrets?”

“Depending on how they react to us trying to push them together…”

Gem nodded.

It was a plan, not a happy one, but a good start. Martyn had just gotten used to talking to Grian without scowling, now he had to revert to his old standing. It wasn’t difficult, but it was a little confusing.

“I feel something…” Gem whispered.

“What is it?”

“I don’t—“

There was rustling from behind them in the dense underbrush. Gem’s hand shot to her side, pulling out a gleaming knife, while Martyn’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. They were ready, or at least, Martyn thought they were.

A shadow detached itself from the trees. Purple eyes glimmered like dying stars, wings spread wide, and in its grasp gleamed a heavy axe, lifted high above a slender, unnatural frame. Grian.

Martyn’s heart stuttered. He watched as Gem rolled, clearly instinctively, the knife slicing through the air, narrowly avoiding the swing. The axe slammed into the ground where she had just been, sending a splintering crack through the roots and soil.

Martyn lunged forward, but a glowing hand pressed against his chest. He froze, levitating mid-step, limbs trembling. Grian’s magic coiled around him like a serpent, squeezing and binding him to the spot. Panic clawed at his throat as he realized he could do nothing but watch.

Grian moved like a nightmare made flesh; swift, precise, utterly relentless. Gem darted, parried, and struck back, but her movements seemed sluggish compared to his inhuman speed. Every strike he made carried a weight that should have been impossible.

The first cut came swift. Gem cried out as the axe bit into her arm. Warm, sticky blood spurted over her hand and down her forearm, soaking her sleeve. Grian’s eyes glinted with something more inhuman than even some Warlocks as he kicked her in the stomach, sending her flying backward. Her back slammed into the trunk of a tree, the impact reverberating up her spine. Pain bloomed through her body like wildfire.

“Why… why are you doing this?” she gasped, blood tasting iron on her lips.

Grian’s voice was calm, chillingly devoid of warmth. “I need to win,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

His axe swung again, the metallic thrum of impact echoing like a death knell. Bone cracked under the force, sending a spray of red into the cold forest air. Martyn’s communicator buzzed violently, flashing urgent messages he couldn’t respond to.

Gem staggered to her knees, clutching her arm, eyes wide with shock and disbelief. But Grian didn’t relent. Each movement was precise, calculated, merciless. His wings flexed, creating a shadow that swallowed the forest around them. His magic rippled across the ground, freezing leaves and cracking bark in icy veins.

Then, with a final, sickening strike, Grian stepped aside. Martyn’s stomach dropped. The sight that met him froze his breath. Gem’s body lay crumpled, unnaturally still. Her skull had been cleaved in a grotesque arc, crimson spreading like wildfire across her face, brains and shards of bone mingling with her hair. The forest around them seemed to exhale, the silence afterward heavy, suffocating.

It was disgusting.

Martyn’s throat felt raw as he tried to scream, but nothing came. His chest tightened, and the world seemed to warp around the edges, bending to the presence of the boy he once knew.

This wasn’t Grian, not truly. The boy he had known, the one who he hated for being manipulative, was now a monster.

All that remained was something else. Something cold, precise, and terrifyingly calm.

Grian stepped forward, wings glinting in the fading light, axe still in hand. The forest seemed to recoil from him, leaves trembling, shadows pooling unnaturally. And Martyn, frozen in place, understood with a sick certainty that this was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

Martyn felt the shackles of Grian’s magic loosen. It wasn’t a lot but it was enough for Martyn to slip free. He fell backwards with a painful thump and carefully shifted back a foot or so. Grian was fastly approaching, only a sword’s length away.

“Grian, what’s going on?” He asked the illusionist, trying to bide time.

Thankfully, Grian stopped walking. In the odd moment, Martyn stood. He didn’t move anywhere in case that triggered Grian, but he did try to find the best way out, just in case.

The dirt blond's glowing eyes faded a little. The purple was still evident but a little darker, like his usual black irises. Martyn wasn’t sure what that meant, if magic glowing from his eyes was different then his veins, but clearly something was very different.

Grian opened his mouth, closed it, then opened them again. “You’re in my way… While I don’t need to kill you, it seems like a much more permanent option. Once you’re out, things will be much easier.”

A villain monologue wasn’t what Martyn had been expecting. Grian had never been one for those kinds of things; usually just stating his reasoning and showing his power. Martyn usually acted amused, but internally Grian did scare him. The man was incredibly powerful, enough to absolutely obliterate Martyn if he so wanted. A monologue from him felt weird, like someone else rewrote Grian into a villain.

“What do you gain from killing other than more enemies? Why would you kill Jimmy, he’s your best friend?” Martyn tried to understand.

The illusionist sighed rather dramatically, “I don’t need allies. I can make people do what I want if needed.”

That was unfortunately the truth. Void, how Martyn disliked everything to do with this. Martyn wasn’t sure if all of this; the games, Grian’s emotions, stemmed from Martyn.

They’d been terrible to each other until the moment they entered the game. It only made sense that something came from that. In the back of Martyn’s mind, he felt sorry. Sorry for the pain Grian probably felt, he knew deep down Grian tried his best, even if he’d done some awful things. He was no prodigy either, and he wasn’t sure if all that time ridiculing Grian had caused something much worse than guilt.

“You don’t have to be like this,” Martyn tried to reason, “you can fix relationships, you don’t have to be the bad guy. You started with Mumbo and Scar, it doesn’t have to be thrown out the window.”

Grian frowned, his wings folding behind his back briskly. “They’re worse off close to me.” That got Martyn, it wasn’t laced with power or anger, just a statement.

Originally, Martyn used Grian’s actions against Scar to excuse his hatred to the fake avian. In all fairness, it was wrong to use Scar like Grian had, but that wasn’t why Martyn hated him, not at first. It was surprising to hear Grian state the one thing Martyn used to berate him for.

Something snapped in Grian, Martyn could see it. Grian’s wings spread out again, his eyes glowed with a fierce purple, his frown turned to a wicked smile.

“Enough with the small talk.” Grian stepped forward.

“We can talk about this.” Martyn dodged Grian’s first swing with the bloodstained axe.

Grian twirled around and tried to kick out Martyn’s knee but Martyn barely moved out of the way. “No.”

Martyn looked around, running for the clearest path. He jumped over a large log and started towards camp. The more people the better. Martyn’s boots pounded against the dirt as he broke from the treeline, lungs burning. He burst into the center of camp, startling a few survivors who were tending fires or sharpening weapons.

Then Grian landed behind him with the crash of thunder. Wings snapped out wide and his eyes burning with violet. The illusionist looked less like a man and more like something the world should never have let crawl free. Warlock.

“Martyn!” someone shouted, but their voice was swallowed by the rush of air as Grian swung. Martyn rolled, the axe cleaving into the ground where he’d been.

Martyn scrambled to his feet, grabbing his sword from his belt. He raised it just in time to block another blow. The clang echoed across camp, drawing more eyes.

“Stay back!” Martyn barked at the others. His arm trembled from the force of Grian’s strike. “This isn’t your fight.”

Grian grinned, “no, it’s yours.”

Grian shoved forward. Martyn stumbled, barely managing to twist and land a cut across Grian’s ribs. Blood spewed from the cut, hitting Martyn in the face. Grian hissed, stumbling back for a moment before his wings carried him forward again.

They collided in the dirt, weapons flashing. Martyn fought desperately, each strike ringing through the camp. Grian was faster, stronger, but Martyn was fueled by something the illusionist had abandoned, fear and stubborn will.

Steel bit flesh again, Martyn’s shoulder tore open under the edge of Grian’s axe. He cried out, but didn’t drop his sword. In the same motion, he drove the blade upward, slicing into Grian’s arm. Blood spattered across the dirt.

The crowd had gathered now.

Martyn’s chest heaved, eyes darting around, then back to Grian. He raised his sword again, his voice quiet where only Grian could hear.

“I’ll tell them what you are,” he warned, sword angled at Grian.

The illusionist froze, breath ragged, purple still gleaming under his skin.

Martyn took a step forward, wounded but unrelenting. “You’ll be dead before you can blink twice.”

For the first time, Grian faltered. His grip on the axe slackened just enough. His eyes swept the crowd, their suspicion, their fear, and something twisted in his expression.

The fake avian spread his wings again, but this time not to fight. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he spat. “You never did.”

Then Grian turned sharply, half-stumbling from the blood leaking down his arm and side. With one powerful beat of his wings, he launched skyward, vanishing over the treeline.

The silence he left behind was louder than the fight.

Martyn stood alone in the center of camp, chest heaving, one hand pressed to his bleeding shoulder. The crowd watched him in silence, torn between questions, doubts, and fear.

Martyn tightened his grip on his sword. “Does anyone know where Scar is?” he asked, a bit louder now.

***

Scar watched as his mother ushered a wounded Martyn into their small house. His shoulder was bleeding profusely from a large gash, he had multiple cuts across his body, and he looked like he was about to throw-up.

Cleo helped Martyn sit down. Scar was still in shock. What could have possibly happened to cause that?

“Why did you want to talk to Scar?” Cleo asked Martyn, who grabbed the bucket from Cleo’s hands and barfed into it.

Martyn set the bucket down, “I might need a second…”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll patch you up first.”

Scar watched as Cleo bandaged Martyn’s wounds and cleaned the mud off his skin. It was a process that reminded him that his mother used to be a well known doctor. The whole thing was a bit of an anomaly to his recent life.

“Scar,” he snapped his attention to his mom, “have you checked your communicator at all recently?”

The answer was, obviously, no. He fished the small device out of his pocket and scrolled through a lot of people’s chatter to the most recent system message.

Gem was killed by Grian? Jimmy, Tango, and Ren had also been killed by him? Scar did a double take, rereading the messages. Surely it was wrong, right? Nope. He scrolled through people’s reactions, all of which emulated surprise and shock. Scar’s biggest question was why.

“What did you want to talk to me about Martyn?” Scar questioned, trying to avoid thinking about Grian.

Martyn’s reply didn’t ease Scar’s mind. “Nothing you’ll want to talk about.”

Just great. Scar wasn’t ready for this, he just knew it. His week had turned into an internal nightmare and Scar wasn’t sure he could deal with another train wreck.

“Okay, well I’ve got time.” Scar wished he didn’t.

Martyn took a deep breath, “how much of Grian’s life do you know about?”

Scar blinked, “what?”

“Well, what do you know about his past, his family, anything?” Martyn repeated, his voice stern in an odd way Scar couldn’t place.

Scar thought about it. Scar knew Grian’s parents had been terrible people, and he and Gem had “emancipated” them. Scar was pretty sure that meant they didn’t talk anymore, except with some legal complications. He’d never brought it up. Despite knowing things like that, Scar couldn’t say he knew much about Grian’s life. He knew Grian and his twin moved to Hermit Vill when they were seven or eight, though he didn’t know where they lived before that. Scar had never seen Grian’s parents, not before or after they were separated.

“Is that really my place to share?” Scar asked instead.

“Do you know anything?” Martyn frowned, his eyes cold.

Scar’s competitive spirit rippled under his skin, he needed to know something, needed to prove himself. “His parents were emanc—emon—“ he couldn’t say the word aloud.

“Emancipated?” Martyn filled in.

“Yes, that.”

A bark of laughter wilted Scar’s pride. Martyn looked a little manic with all the wounds he possessed and his vibrant eyes shaking slightly.

Scar thought back to the death messages and the blood Martyn had been spilling out over the floor. Scar knew in his heart that Grian was dangerous, that the avian was unpredictable, but he didn’t put Grian to be a killer. It was fair to say the games brought out the worst in people, Scott killing Tango had been clear of that, but the way Martyn questioned him gave Scar the impression that there was something else to the craziness going on.

“That’s all a lie, Scar. I know it’s hard to see past his charm, or whatever you see in him, but he’s a liar through and through.” Martyn murmured, not giving Scar a chance to defend himself before talking again, “he’s a liar, and a killer. I know you saw the messages now. You can’t pretend he’s a sweet person, not anymore, even if he wasn’t in high school either.”

“It’s the game, it has to be. Grian wouldn’t kill people! It’s like Scott… Scott didn’t want to, but he killed Tango anyway,” Scar tried to defend Grian, he had to,

His mother stepped in, “Scar, dear, the boogeyman hasn’t been picked since Scott. It was just once so far…” she turned to Martyn, “get to the point Martyn, what’s going on?”

“Grian is… not an avian. Neither is Gem a hybrid. They aren’t human.” Martyn replied.

“What are they then?” Cleo puzzled.

A pause, then Martyn answered, “illusionists, Warlock trainees, some people call them watchers. The name doesn’t matter.”

Cleo exhaled sharply. Scar knew it wasn’t a good thing, not that he knew what a Warlock was, though he did know the idea of what an illusionist was.

Cleo stepped closer to Martyn, “you sure?”

Martyn nodded simply, as though his knowledge wasn’t making Scar spiral.

“Martyn,” his mother started, “what does this have to do with us?”

Martyn looked straight at Scar. “I need your help.”

Cleo cut in. “I’m not sending my son out to some murderer. I don’t care what you think Martyn, Scar’s doing fine here.”

“Look, Scar’s close to him.” Martyn argued.

“You think he’s expendable.”

Scar looked between the two. Martyn was older than him by a few years but acted closer in age to his own mother. His mom treated him as such, said that some people were just more mature than their age and they should be treated like it. Arguing, however, was not what he expected. He was used to Etho and her fighting, but Martyn, he’d never expected that.

Scar drowned the sound, he was practically an expert by now. He walked to the window, looking out at camp. Only Joel and Lizzie were outside, holding hands. They looked happy, as happy as anyone could be in the games.

The shadows of the forest felt off. Of course the whole world felt a bit weird, there weren’t nearly as many animals and the sky would sometimes flicker unnaturally, but it felt much more off than that.

Scar watched as Grian peeked out from the shadows. His wings were tucked behind him carefully and his eyes, which were purple, looked over the camp carefully. Scar felt his heart lurch, just a bit. Maybe the illusion was why the man was so handsome, but Scar found he didn’t mind.

Maybe he was crazy for still finding a murderer, handsome, but he couldn’t deny the feelings that ran through his veins as much as vex magic did. He really was messed up, Cleo was right.

The world seemed content like this, in this little scene. Lizzie and Joel went back inside, still holding hands and smiling. Scar looked back at Grian and saw someone else with him.

It was the person from before, locks of purple hair peeking out from under their hood. The two stood facing each other. Scar could tell Grian was tense, just from the way his wings folded and unfolded.

The purple-haired figure reached up to Grian’s forehead. Scar watched in fascination. He barely registered that there were two people beside him, also watching the transaction.

The three watched as Grian’s eyes faded from purple to their usual black. Scar looked over when Martyn cursed, not expecting that.

Cleo cleared her throat, “so what does that mean?”

“I don’t know. I need to ask Gem…” Martyn replied quietly.

“So…” Scar looked between the two people, “what’s going on?”

The two exchanged glances that Scar had seen so many times as a child, but he wasn’t expecting it between them, not when he was twenty-seven years old. Like he was too young to understand, too innocent to care. It hurt a little. Scar knew he wasn’t the smartest or anything, but he knew when to get things done, and he knew how to deal with bad news when needed. He wasn’t weak.

Martyn finally answered, “I—we—thought that Grian was being controlled. There was no definite proof until right now. Whoever that is, they’re a Warlock. What you just saw; that wasn’t Grian pulling back, that was someone else pulling the strings. The Warlocks don’t let go of their toys. If his eyes are purple, it’s them. If they’re black, it’s him, but only the pieces they let stay. Either way, he’s dangerous. And if we don’t figure out what side he’s on…”

Cleo helped, “…then we all live to regret it.”

“And,” Martyn continued, “we need to stop him. It’s either he dies or we do, and you're the only person besides Mumbo who can get through to him.”

“Why didn’t you ask Mumbo?” Scar questioned, not sure if that was what he was supposed to latch onto.

“You’re stronger. He’s smart, and has a lot of things that could help, but you’ll do whatever it takes to save Grian. Right now, to save him… we need to kill him.” The blond told him, his expression cold but Scar could hear the slight fear and determination in his voice.

The vex looked back at Grian. The boy was alone now, staring at his hands as though they held the meaning of life. “You need me to kill him.”

Martyn’s eyes narrowed on Grian. “Twice.”

Chapter Text

Scott didn’t leave the cabin much. He was fine listening to Etho and Bdubs argue and cook for the two. They’d created a nice routine, Scott cooked the meals, Etho got the ingredients for the meals, and Bdubs—well Bdubs existed.

However, he decided to go out to get some fresh air when Etho and Bdubs were having a pretty uninteresting argument, something about Etho’s choice of clothing? Honestly, Scott didn’t care all that much.

Either way, he made his way outside. The forest was calm in the evening light, which was quickly fading. The stars were scattered across the sky like glowing freckles, making Scott think of Jimmy once again. He wished he could just stop. They were friends, Jimmy was decently safe, and everything would be fine. He hoped at least.

Scott leaned against a tree that stood next to the cabin. It was a sturdy oak from what Scott could see, which wasn’t much in the rising moonlight. Distantly he could hear Bdubs crashing out, screaming nonsense, likely at his father. He felt bad for Etho, unsure of how the deranged boy a couple years younger than Scott could have possibly been raised by such a calm man; one of the enigmas of life.

Shadows seemed to shift beside him, taking the form of something. Scott took a couple steps back, towards the cabin that had become home. He hit the wall of the cabin, now a better distance from the shifting shadows that looked as though they wanted to swallow him. The shadows turned into a hooded figure, his brain could barely process what his eyes were seeing.

The figure turned to him, its eyes regarding him in some way, but Scott was still in too much shock to think about that. Scott didn’t utter a word, not sure what to do.

It took off its hood. Scott froze.

Scott wasn’t scared of a lot of things, most things really, but this—this scared him.

The person in front of him looked like an all too familiar reflection. Someone he’d buried deep in his mind, locked in a box with the rest of his regrets, and forgot, or tried to. Scott pinched himself, hoping it was a dream, it was in fact not a dream. Well, shoot.

“Scott…” the person whispered. Scott didn’t know if he wanted to scream and run the other way or hug them.

“Xornoth,” he choked out.

His twin with purple hair smiled, just a bit. The boy looked just like Scott remembered, minus the dark robes and pale skin. Scott tried to smile back but he doubted it looked more than a grimace. He did look different, but at a distance Scott couldn’t quite figure out why.

“So…” Xornoth started, “I… I’m really sorry Scott. Like, really sorry. I never meant to hurt your boyfriend or—“

Scott interrupted, he wasn’t going to talk about Jimmy, he didn’t need a bag of salt to his open wound. He was already desperately confused by Xornoth’s sudden appearance. “I don’t… I don’t want to think about that, okay?”

“It’s been a while hasn’t it?”

Scott tilted his head, “well I wonder why. You’ve been gone for eight years.”

His twin frowned. Scott noticed the way he fidgeted with the sleeves of his cloak. “I was forced to leave… And to hurt him. You know I would never do that on purpose, right?”

Scott thought back to everything before. It was true that Xornoth had never been all that bad of a person, not until he was. It hadn’t been a fun experience watching Xornoth slowly fall down a well. But, it happened. Scott didn’t question anything after that.

“I guess so. It’s been a long time Xornoth… How are you even here?” Scott asked, avoiding the other stuff, it didn’t matter right now.

His brother exhaled slowly, “Well… the Warlocks—they forced me to join them. They changed me, it was… Anyway, I’m a Warlock now. So, I can go anywhere I want.”

“You only came to see me now?” The siren’s eyes widened slightly, staring at his shadow-covered brother.

“I wasn’t allowed to.”

“And you are now?”

A pause. “Not really… But, I bent the rules. It took years to be myself again Scott, you have to understand it wasn’t a simple thing.”

Scott nodded. In this moment he needed to believe Xornoth, for his own sanity. It was difficult looking at his brother, seeing the changes, subtle things only a brother would notice. New scars added and old scars erased. His teeth weren’t as sharp and his eyes were a different shade, kind of like Grian’s eyes when he’d been attacking Martyn. That was a whole different thing Scott didn’t want to get into.

“I can’t forgive you… But, I’m sorry too.” Scott apologized quietly.

Xornoth smiled, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around Scott. They held each other for a long moment, embracing their lost part. Scott didn’t know how to feel. Relief, hatred, and fear all strangled his heart.

“So,” Xornoth stepped back, “I do have another thing to tell you.”

“Hit me with it.” Scott said, feigning confidence.

“You need to gather some people for me.”

Scott blinked, not sure where this was going, “who? Why?”

“Martyn, Cleo, Scar, Gem, and Mumbo. Leave the ‘why’ to me.” Xornoth stated bluntly.

“Okay… sure, I can do that. Can’t be that hard.”

Xornoth laughed, a genuine laugh. Gods how Scott missed that. He smiled slightly, knowing it would be a challenge, but he would do it for his brother.

Scott glanced at Xornoth again. He was gone, just vanished. Scott smiled to himself knowing that he’d be back, he knew it in his heart. When he looked back at the sky, a small dot flashed purple for the quickest of seconds.

Xornoth.

Maybe things weren’t perfect, but they were okay. Everyone was still stuck in the games, Tango was on his last life, Grian had gone insane, but they weren’t dead. No, they were doing just fine.

And, Scott had his brother back. Maybe things could have been different; maybe if Xornoth had never hurt Jimmy, Scott wouldn’t be such a mess. But, he couldn’t change the past.

His only goals; find people, bring them together. Easy.

***

Scar tried to move on with his life. The plan to kill Grian wasn’t immediately in effect and Scar tried to not think about killing the love of his life, his best friend.

Instead, he focused on caring for his mother who was becoming increasingly irritated every time Martyn walked by. It was almost funny, almost.

“Mom?” He called out, “want some soup?”

“Yes please!” She called back from the living room that was just a couple chairs and a table.

Scar filled two bowls with the vegetable soup and walked over to the living room. He handed Cleo one and sat on a chair with his bowl in his lap. Peace.

Scar finished his soup quickly, partially regretting it when his tongue burned, but enjoyed the warmth. Days were becoming cooler and it looked as though winter was fast approaching. Considering it hadn’t been more than two weeks, the weather was certainly strange. Supposedly that meant summer was just around the corner, which Scar certainly wasn’t upset about.

A knock hit the door and Scar and Cleo looked up. Scar watched as Cleo walked to the door and opened it a smidge, her eyes widening when she looked outside. Scar stood too, unsure of what, or more likely, who, was outside.

“Why are you here? You know people don’t want you around.” Scar’s mother murmured.

An all too familiar voice responded. “I just want to talk to Scar, I won’t do anything, I promise… I swear on my soul that I won’t hurt him.” Grian.

Why was Grian here? Was Grian going to kill him? Did anyone else know Grian was here?

Would Scar have to kill Grian now?

“I’ll be standing in the other room, if you do anything… I’ll kill you myself.” Cleo opened the door.

In walked Grian. His eyes weren’t glowing, his hair was a mess, he’d lost the green hat, and his wings were folded tight. He looked awful.

“Grian…?” Scar couldn’t help but be perplexed. He didn’t look like the angry murderer from before, or even someone who was hiding much of anything. He just looked tired. Like someone who’d given up. Which was odd considering the past weeks events, all involving Grian.

The door closed, Cleo walked to the kitchen, and Scar and Grian stood face to face. It felt kind of like a dream; things aren’t quite right and don’t really make sense but it’s realistic enough that it’s believable.

“Hi Scar.” He sounded small.

The vex started to ask questions. “Why are you here? Why—“

“Scar, I don’t have a lot of time. I’ll explain as much as I can, really quickly. Right now, I’m me, the same me you knew in high school, that one. Most of the time, I’m not. Then, I’m controlled by something else, a part of me that is just bundled-up hatred. Sounds bad, it is. The problem is that to get everyone out, there has to be a real threat, not death, not a scary monster, but something worse.” Grian breathed in, pausing.

The avian continued, Scar listening intently, “I’m what will drive people out. I know it might sound crazy but people know I’m not the most stable, me going off in an environment like this makes it more believable. I need you to put those acting skills to good use… The first step was killing people, the next is disappearing. People fear what they don’t know. Plant seeds, act scared, anything. Scar, if I hurt you, remember it’s not really me. Eventually, when everyone is either dead or escaped, we’ll all be back in our normal bodies.”

Scar tried to process all the information told very quickly. He understood for the most part. Make others fear what isn’t there, Grian doesn’t actually want him dead, and they’ll get their lives back at the end. But, things still ate at Scar, questions he wasn’t sure he could ask.

“I can do that, but why—why are you telling me this?” The vex quizzed.

Grian fiddled with the sleeve of his sweater, looking at the floor then back up to Scar. “I don't really understand how you could care about me, but I don’t want you to think I’m doing this for fun, or whatever reasoning you came up with.”

Scar was baffled. Grian cared? The avian was never the kind to say heartfelt things or explain himself, he just went for it until whatever he was doing was finished. Scar thought he’d gotten it down pretty well, understanding how the bird boy worked and what his actions really meant. He thought the death games had changed Grian, or maybe the person he’d seen with Grian had, but this, this was new.

“So, you're just gonna go off on your own? When will you come back? When will all this be over?” Scar asked quietly.

Grian explained, “I’ll be fine, I’ve handled worse. When I come back depends on how everyone else does these next few days, I’ll be watching to make sure things go… the way they need to.”

‘Watching’, Warlocks. Scar remembered the conversation with Martyn, the look on his mother’s face.

Grian must have seen the expression he made because he let out a sigh, “I’m not avian, which I’m sure you figured out.”

“A Warlock then?”

“Illusionist,” Grian cracked a smile but Scar could see how fake it was. “I guess I’ve been a liar since birth.”

The vex wanted to hug Grian and tell him that he didn’t care, that he was beautiful no matter what, that everything would be okay. The problem was that Scar wasn’t sure if it would be okay and it seemed as though Grian had the power to change that.

“I think we all are,” Scar confided.

The avian started to turn around but then turned back with a look in his eyes that Scar couldn’t place. A shiver went down Scar’s spine. Grian stepped closer, close enough where Scar could count his freckles.

He wanted to kiss Grian. It wasn’t a thought he hadn’t had before, but at that moment it felt so real, so enticing. He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the intrusive thoughts banging around in his head.

Grian apologized, “I’m sorry Scar, really. For everything.”

“It’s okay,” the vex replied immediately, it really was to him.

Grian shook his head, “it’s not, but I appreciate your forgiveness anyway.”

The avian turned on his heel and walked out. Scar just stood there, unsure of what to do. It all felt like a dream; hearing Grian apologize with so much emotion, emotion that wasn’t fake.

When Scar looked out the window, he saw Grian walking towards the trees, when Grian looked back for just a second, Scar saw glowing magenta eyes. It wasn’t his Grian anymore, but one day it wouldn’t matter, Scar told himself.

Cleo came back into the room, immediately eyeing Scar for any injuries. Her mouth formed a tight line but she exhaled in a clear sigh of relief.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” his mother remarked. “I’ll never understand how you could still like him though, he’s a killer…”

Scar just shrugged. How could he explain to his mother that Scar would love Grian no matter what, even if Grian was trying to murder him? It would never work, especially since she was divorced herself. Love wasn’t a topic they really got along on.

“Well,” Cleo exhaled, “I can’t change who you love…”

She definitely tried in the past though, Scar remembered.

There was an awkward silence that neither pierced. The weight of Scar and Grian’s tension had always caused family problems. When Scar was a teenager it had been worse, now though, he appreciated his mother’s care even if he disagreed.

“Scar, are you hungry?”

He thought for a moment. Human food held them both over for a while, but eventually things would become messy. He shook his head slowly, he could go crazy here with only his friends to terrorize.

“I’ll be okay…” He answered at last.

Cleo nodded. “I hope Mumbo is doing well, you two may not be on the best of terms but he doesn’t deserve to starve.”

It was true, unfortunately, unlike Scar and Cleo, Mumbo didn’t have any options to ‘hold him over,’ it was blood or nothing.

“Yeah, I don’t know how he’s held out this long to be honest.” It was genuine, he truly didn’t think he would have his hunger controlled if he was in Mumbo’s position.

“Well, we’re all going to have some problems soon enough; we can only last so long without… feeding.” Those words cut deep, mostly because of the fear laced in them.

“Hey Mom! This is Mumbo, he’s my new friend!” Scar grinned, practical dragging Mumbo over by the arm. Scar’s vex wings flapped a little as he talked excitedly.

Cleo smiled kindly to the two young boys. She tilted her head at Mumbo as Scar explained how they met at the swings and told his mother about a big spider they saw, which Scar had been terrified of and Mumbo had to grab the spider and throw it far away so Scar would stop freaking out.

“Mumbo, I have a question for you,” Cleo told the taller one.

Scar stopped his story, listening intently. He wanted to know what was going on, he always did.

“Are you a vampire?” Cleo asked bluntly.

Scar looked at the boy whose eyes were a little red in the right light and had paler skin than fresh paper from his mom’s printer. Definitely looked like a vampire.

Mumbo looked around nervously, his hands fidgeting with nothing, before nodding quickly.

“That’s cool!” Cleo cooed, “Scar and I are vexes, so you don’t have to worry.”

Mumbo raised an eyebrow, looking at Cleo, “but you’re a zombie?”

Scar laughed quietly. That’s what everyone said. Scar always explained that Cleo could jump to different worlds and got infected by a zombie in one of them, becoming both zombie and vex. Scar was proud to explain this to Mumbo, who nodded along making a small ‘ohh.’

Mumbo shifted on his feet, clearly unsure if he should stay. His hands kept fussing with his sleeves, like he wanted to disappear inside them.

Scar tugged at his arm again, pulling him toward the bench. “Don’t look so nervous! Mom makes the best cookies, and she said friends can have them too! That means you too, vampire-boy.”

“Scar,” Cleo warned, though her lips twitched at the corner.

“What? He is a vampire,” Scar defended, plopping down on the wooden park bench. “He can probably—like—turn into a bat or something.” He turned eagerly to Mumbo. “Can you?”

Mumbo blinked at him, then slowly shook his head. “No… I don’t think so.”

Scar deflated, vex wings slumping. “Aw. That would’ve been so cool.”

“Scar,” Cleo said again, but softer this time, “not all vampires are the same. Some of them drink blood, some of them don’t. Some can shapeshift, others can’t. You can’t expect people to fit into the stories.”

Scar wrinkled his nose at the thought, but Mumbo actually looked… relieved. He sat on the bench beside Scar with a little smile, as though someone had just lifted a weight from his shoulders.

“Do you want a cookie then…?” Scar asked slowly.

“I can’t eat cookies, I’d get super sick.” Mumbo explained.

Scar frowned, but then took a bite of his own cookie and shrugged. “More for me then.”

Later, in the car, his mom explained that vampires that do drink blood can’t eat other things because their anatomy was different. Scar was half paying attention until he remembered Mumbo was in fact a blood drinking vampire, he forgot things very easily.

“Their bones are different?” Scar asked.

His mom laughed wholeheartedly, “no their organs… Like your stomach! Their stomach connects to their heart and pumps blood, so anything that isn’t blood will go into their veins if it isn’t filtered out in their stomach.”

“Ohh,” the little vex nodded along, “that’s cool!”

“Mhm.”

Scar looked out the window at the trees that blurred as the car went by. Maybe he and Mumbo would hunt together someday, Scar thought to himself happily.

***

“They aren’t fighting!” Two slammed the table with its fists.

One stood, “we’re taking our time.”

“I ask for food, you say it’s being prepared, it turns out it has barely been seasoned.” Two shook its head in frustration, glaring at the other Warlock.

One’s eyes shifted, all opening. “Fine. You’ll get what you want in the morning. All the chaos you could dream of. In fact, you can direct it.”

Two opened their Vision to the players at peace, their lives so perfect. Pathetic. They were about to respond, a blow to One’s pride.

“Good, we needed Two to take charge.” A third voice commented. It was a closed meeting, yet neither Warlock dared command them to leave.

Chapter Text

Grian felt lost.

A puppy in the rain, starving and vulnerable.

Death waiting for him to give in, pushing his buttons in hope that he’d give in soon.

The great hall was empty. Purple metal frames that gleamed in the faint, starry light of the void towered to the sky. Beautiful magenta flowers were etched in glass and chandeliers that dripped crimson casted light across the mural on the furthest wall. One of the sun trapped in a cage, the moon falling to the sea, and stars exploding. It was a beautiful mural full of emotion that an ancient Warlock had painted.

With no way to tell time, the avian assumed he’d been there for at least three days. No one had summoned him; he’d simply awoken on the cold floors that were so familiar to him.

His footsteps echoed down the hallways, following him as he turned down tighter corridors and lone passageways. There wasn’t a soul in sight, though Grian knew he was being Watched.

During training, Grian had never seen a single hall empty, at least a small group of trainees or Warlocks were heading somewhere or talking in clusters. He hadn’t been back many times since training, but this was beyond strange. It felt like a trap, it probably was, but how could Grian stop it? He could feel his absence of power, unable to use his Vision or even muster up an attack or defensive spell. Just silence where his magic should’ve been humming. He felt a little empty without, like a piece of him was pulled away and may never come back.

Fingers traced the wall as he walked, feeling the metal frames and cold stone beneath his living skin. It grounded him in nostalgia. He pretended he was wearing a fresh robe, his magic still buzzing under him with anticipation, blood still under his fingernails because of another successful arena match. Gem calling his name after him—

Gem.

Did they know he was gone? Was he simply forgotten? Or, if he did get back, would he start right back where he left? He had to hope, to dream, to pretend this wasn’t what he deserved.

He turned instinctively, letting his gut tell him where to go. His wings dragged across the cold, stone floors as he walked. Something was pulling him a certain direction. Grian wasn’t sure he could fight it if he wanted to.

The halls become less detailed and smaller, looking more and more like an empty hospital built in the middle ages with a modern layout, than anything cult-like.

The halls grew tighter still, the purple light fading into a dull gray. Grian’s footsteps seemed louder here, each one bouncing back at him as if the walls were mocking his hesitation. The scent shifted too; no longer the metallic tang of stale blood and rotting flesh, but something bitter, acrid, like smoke from a fire that refused to die. The smell of home fading into pure cold.

He slowed, feathers bristling. The pull in his chest dragged him forward anyway.

Then the air rippled.

The corridor ahead blurred and warped, shapes folding into themselves until they reformed into something else. A chamber circular and vast, lined with pillars carved into screaming faces. At the center, lounging on a throne that looked alive with veins of glowing crystal and flesh of shadows, was Two.

They were exactly as Grian remembered; too tall, too sharp, their many eyes half-lidded in amusement. Shadows clung to their robes like hungry dogs. Oddly enough though, Grian felt the urge to bow, to show respect, to prove himself to the figure in front of him.

“Little fledgling,” Two greeted, voice lilting like a song just a bit off-key. “Finally, you’ve come home.”

The nickname felt warm in his heart. A name only Warlocks called him when they were alone. Maybe it was manipulation, but Grian deserved that, didn’t he?

Grian froze at the threshold, every instinct screaming to do different things. His voice scraped out anyway, “why am I here? What do you want with me?”

Two tilted their head, smiling with all their teeth. “Want? Oh, I don’t want much. Only what’s always been yours to give.”

They stood, moving closer, every step echoing like a drumbeat. “Chaos. Fear. The game needs a spark, and who better than you? You are our little masterpiece. The one who kills and kills, even when you don’t mean to.”

“I didn’t ask for that,” Grian snapped, though the words felt thin in the cavernous hall. “I didn’t choose it.”

He thought back to the young boy whose throat he’d bitten through crushing bone as Gem cried out, to the older girl, one of the oldest trainees, whose blood fell down Grian like a waterfall. He’d loved it, a part of him still did. A fragment of who he was existed in these walls, in the bloodshed and terror he brought upon others.

Two’s laughter rang out, high and cruel, proud and beautiful all the same. “No. But you carried it so well. You think the others would love you if they saw you without the mask? If they knew every drop of blood wasn't an accident, but inevitability?”

Grian’s throat tightened. He wanted to deny it, but the memory of all the deaths stacked like cards, pressed down on him. Blood from others he’d licked from corpses with glee. Organs he’d cooked and devoured in pride for what he’d done. He was a survivor, more than that, a victor.

Two leaned close, eyes glowing like embers. “The illusion on the surface? A puppet. A decoy to keep the game going. But you, dear Grian, are the raw truth. I want you to embrace it. To be what you were made to be.”

A puppet? What did that mean? A version of him?

“What are they doing?” He asked, his voice high and even.

The Warlock’s eyes crinkled, all of them showing a deep smile. “Killing.”

Like Grian would do. Why did they need him? They had what they wanted; chaos and bloodshed, what more could Grian offer that a clone, likely a Warlock, couldn’t?

“Why do you want me out there?” It was a true question laced with nothing but sincerity.

A soft sigh escaped Two’s lips, something Grian hadn’t thought was possible. “Xelqua, a puppet winning is no win. You’ve trained for this moment little fledgling, you deserve to win.” Grian didn’t interrupt when Two paused, knowing there was more, he was right. “And, it may show you who you truly are.”

A sudden realization hit Grian, “you want me to join you.”

“Of course. You can be a true Warlock, hold more influence than ever before. Little fledgling, this is an offer you can’t refuse.” There was surprisingly no threat behind their words, just a simple statement that Grian knew Two believed wholeheartedly, if he even had a heart.

“I go back to the games, you don’t control me, as long as I win?” Grian bowed down on his knees, making sure Two knew he was submitting, not that he actually had any intention of doing that.

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll do it.”

There was a long pause, not a single thing made noise. Then, “I have one thing to mention though…”

Oh no.

“What is it?”

“It won’t be the same games you were in with your friends. Same people, new universe, have fun.” Two laughed, it echoed in Grian’s brain.

“Wait—“

His vision went black.

***

Gem was astounded as an announcement was made, making everyone pull out their communicators.

The games have only just begun. You have twenty-four hours.

Not everyone, in fact, had twenty-four hours. Tango was at ten, multiple people at sixteen, only the people who hadn’t died before were at twenty-four, and Scott was at twenty-five since he’d killed Tango previously.

In seconds, the world erupted in chaos, far worse than when the boogeyman had been whispered into people’s ears. No, this was war.

She looked back at Pearl, her best friend and roommate. Gem had taken her far from the camp, close to the shimmering border that didn’t allow them to leave. They’d built a small bunker in the ground that was relatively large, at least big enough for people to stay comfortably. More importantly, however, it was safe. Nobody headed in their direction, the creeks weren’t as wide, and trees were so thick it was impossible to hunt animals. The two had relied on fishing to catch anything, mostly eating anything green that looked vaguely edible. They hadn’t died yet.

“I’m going to go back,” she told Pearl.

The moth hybrid looked up from a craft she’d been working on. “What? It’s safer here.”

“Grian’s still there. Everyone is still in danger and—“

There was another announcement on their communicators, the buzz more fierce than people’s chatter.

Scott has been slayed by Joel.

Then more.

Joel fell from a high place.

Cleo was burned to a crisp while escaping Lizzie.

Scar was blown up by Tango.

Mumbo starved to death.

People were dying quickly, that much was obvious. Gem just couldn’t figure out why such things were happening. Sure they were all on different teams but they didn’t hate each other, right?

Pearl sighed, “I don’t think it’s a good idea. We’re on good time right now, no point in losing it.”

Gem shook her head. She knew the Warlocks, she knew the arena. If this was going on, people’s minds were being changed. No one was safe, and if she wasn’t able to fix it, break the spell somehow, everyone would be just as crazy as Grian.

She looked down at her wrist that displayed the yellow time, ticking down by the second. Whether she liked it or not, this was the life she was living. Gem knew she hadn’t wanted to succumb to the games, but if she had to, she would.

“It’s not a good idea,” she agreed with Pearl, standing from the floor, “but I can fix this, and I’d hate myself if I didn’t try.” The world felt much more inspiring than the dread building inside her but it was better than nothing. She was an illusionist after all, masking was in her blood.

When she made it back to camp, she held a sword tight in one hand and a shield in the other, being careful to stay calm. Briefly she saw Scott running with Martyn, towards Cleo and Scar’s house, but she paid no mind to them. She was here for one person only, and his name was Grian.

Another person caught her eye. It wasn’t Grian, but was concerning all the same.

Gem rushed over to the Gluten Guy’s small camp. It was a mess, smelling of bread and fire.

Jimmy was cowarding in the corner of the open room, the only other person in there being Tango. The fireborn was clearly very angry, taking it out on his avian boyfriend. Jimmy’s wings shook, pressing into his back as though his life depended on it. Meanwhile, Tango stepped closer to the other, an axe in hand. Gem watched, startled, unsure of what to do.

Gem rushed over to the Gluten Guy’s small camp. The smell of charred bread clung to the air, smoke curling through the open room where the fire pit had been stoked too high. Everything about the place felt unsettled; baskets of grains were overturned, loaves trampled into the dirt floor, and the comforting warmth of the home twisted into something violent.

Her eyes snapped to the corner of the open room. Jimmy was huddled there, shoulders tight, wings trembling so hard it looked like he might shake apart. His feathers were pressed flat against his back as though he could somehow disappear into them, melt into the wall and be spared from the scene unfolding in front of him. His wide eyes darted between Tango and the weapon in his hands.

Tango stood over him, anger radiating from every step he took closer. The fireborn’s axe caught the orange glow of the flames, flickering like it was already stained with blood. His expression was set hard, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. He looked dangerous; someone who had been pushed too far and was ready to release that fury.

Gem had seen people in the arenas before who were influenced with red bloodlust, snapping like a twig under the pressure. It was clear the same had happened to Tango. It was different than guilt, or an absence of mind, it was actually the opposite; like someone could see so clearly that they noticed every detail that was wrong, driving them to insanity.

Once Grian had described when the two had been put in different arenas for training. He’d said he felt the power within him and felt as though he’d harnessed it like a god of sorts. Back then, before Grian felt pride in the name Xelqua, he’d been terrified of giving into those voices.

Now was not the time to reminisce on a boy long gone, he had to save the one that still had a chance. One who wasn't lost in a sea of madness, yet.

Her gaze flicked to Jimmy again. He looked so small, like a bird trapped in a cage. She thought of Grian in his weakest moments, when his wings drooped and his eyes lost their light. It was the same hollow, terrified look, and it carved something raw and painful into her heart.

Do something, her thoughts screamed. Don’t just stand here, do something!

Tango raised the axe higher, his voice sharp with anger Gem couldn’t quite make out through the pounding in her ears. She saw the time on his wrist, the few hours in red counting down, a ticking timebomb. Jimmy flinched, curling into himself, as if bracing for the strike.

That was it.

Gem surged forward before she could think, her body moving faster than her fear. “Enough!” she shouted, her voice cracking like a whip in the small space. Her illusions shimmered faintly around her hands, power begging to be used, though she didn’t even know what shape it would take yet.

She planted herself between Tango and Jimmy, arms outstretched as though she could physically shield Jimmy with her body. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, but her voice came steady, fierce.

“You’re not doing this. Not while I’m here.”

She let the magic take form.

It started in her fingertips, a familiar prickle that spread like pins and needles through her palms. The air seemed to thicken, heavy with static, and then it shimmered. Threads of violet light unspooling from her hands as if she were weaving something out of the void itself.

The threads tangled and twisted in the air, forming the first outlines of a creature. Bones took shape, long limbs and a hunched spine, each joint clicking into place with a faint echo, though no real sound had been made. It was like watching lightning crackle in slow motion, arcs of purple knitting together into a skeleton that had never lived.

The wolf’s ribs stretched wide, its skull elongated, fangs dripping illusionary saliva that hissed when it touched the ground. And then flesh rippled over it, semi-transparent, shifting like smoke and starlight, so that parts of its body looked solid one moment and ghostlike the next.

The beast’s eyes glowed white-hot, pinpoints that locked directly onto Tango.

He stumbled back hard, his axe lowering instinctively. For a second, his own fire dimmed, confusion etched across his face. Even he could sense the weight of it, the predatory aura Gem’s magic pressed into the room.

Gem’s breath came uneven, her heart hammering. She felt the strain immediately; the wolf wasn’t real, but it fought her like it wanted to be. Holding its shape pulled at her ribs and spine, as if her own body was tethered to the illusion. Every detail she added, the shift of fur across its shoulders, the wet gleam of its tongue, demanded another thread of her focus.

But she didn’t let it falter.

The wolf snarled, a sound that wasn’t a sound at all, just the psychic echo of Gem’s intention reverberating in their skulls. It padded forward, each step landing heavier than illusion should ever be allowed, forcing Tango back further. The fireborn’s breath hitched, and Gem caught the flicker of doubt in his eyes.

Jimmy peeked up from the corner, eyes wide as the massive beast loomed between him and Tango. For the first time since Gem entered, some of the terror drained from his face. His feathers lifted, not in fear this time, but in awe.

Gem squared her shoulders, teeth gritted as she forced her voice steady. “You want to swing at someone?” she growled, the wolf mirroring her posture with its mouth open and fangs gleaming in Tango’s dying fire. “Try me.”

Tango’s shaky hands raised the axe again in a defensive stance. He took yet another step back as the wolf came closer. In reality, the wolf was only as strong as Gem, and likely less considering she was close to the line of the illusion fading entirely. It was a trick of the mind, hopefully enough to scare the bloodlust straight out of the fireborn.

“Why were you attacking him?” Gem quizzed Tango, making the wolf bare its fangs at him for added tension.

He stammered, “I–I don't know what came over me… I swear, I didnt—don’t want to hurt him.”

It was genuine, Gem could tell. She let the illusion fall and turned to Jimmy, kneeling in front of the other. If Grian were in his right mind, Gem was sure Tango would have had a very painful death. Tango was lucky it was Gem that’d found him.

“You okay?” she asked the avian quietly.

The tall blond sat a little straighter, though his wings were still painfully tight against his back and his eyes kept glancing Tango’s way. Trust had been broken, quite obviously, something that may never be truly fixed if they stayed in the games too much longer.

“I’m not dead,” was the answer Jimmy managed.

She comforted him slowly, not sure if her connection really did justice in Grian or Martyn’s place. Gem did her best, soothing him until he fell into a gentle sleep. Tango watched, crosslegged, a few paces away, he didn’t move and barely blinked. Every so often Gem noticed him glancing at his hands in hatred she recognized in her own brother, or used to.

She comforted him slowly, not sure if her connection really did justice in Grian or Martyn’s place. Gem did her best, smoothing his hair back from his damp forehead, murmuring nonsense until the trembling in his shoulders eased. His breaths steadied against her arm, fragile and uneven at first, then softening into the rhythm of sleep. He curled instinctively into her side, small and vulnerable in a way that made her chest ache.

Gem let him rest, even though her own body remained tense, wings half-flared like she was still braced for another strike. She didn’t trust the silence, but she wasn’t about to move him now.

Tango watched from a few paces away, cross-legged on the floor. He didn’t move and barely blinked, as though the fire in him had burned itself out all at once. Every so often, Gem noticed his eyes drop to his own hands. His knuckles flexed, then stilled, flexed again, each time followed by a look of raw, sharp hatred. It wasn’t directed at her, or at Jimmy. No, she knew that expression.

She had seen it before, in her brother’s face when he thought no one was looking. The loathing that came not from what you’d done, but from knowing exactly what you could do again if pushed. That gnawing certainty that the worst part of you might be the truest part.

Gem swallowed, a heaviness settling in her chest. She wanted to tell him she understood that he wasn’t alone in that kind of war. But Jimmy’s breath hitched in his sleep, and she chose instead to keep her hand steady on his back, humming quietly to keep him calm.

Tango would have to fight his own demons tonight.

“There’s a bunker,” she told Tango quietly, “I can take Jimmy there. Pearl’s already there, it’ll be safe.”

The fireborn looked up and nodded slowly, he opened his mouth but closed it quickly after. Gem waited, letting him get a hold of himself.

“Thank you Gem. I don’t want to hurt him.”

Gem glanced at the canary, curled up next to her with a soft expression; kin to an innocent child’s smile. She knew Tango loved the boy. Actually, she didn't know anyone who had a negative relationship with Jimmy.

So, she carefully picked up the avian, nodded at Tango, mostly in pity, and started her journey back to the bunker.

***

Mumbo wasn’t sure why Scott was so adamant on him coming with, but with nothing much to do and having already died once due to lack of food, he didn’t have many other options.

The group gathered in Scar’s house. Cleo and Scar sat on the chairs, Martyn across from them on the floor, a hooded figure leaning in the corner whom Mumbo did not recognize, and Mumbo sit-leaning against the other wall that had a window.

Scott was off to apparently find the last person needed for their “meeting.” Mumbo tried to judge what was going off based on people’s expressions, but honestly he had no clue. His fingers fidgeted with anything within grasp, currently ripping the end of his jacket’s sleeves into nothing but loose strands.

The silence pressed in on him. Scar was humming faintly, but it wasn’t his usual cheerful tune; it sounded forced, brittle. Cleo’s eyes darted between everyone like she was calculating where the danger was. Martyn had his arms folded and his head tipped back against the wall, giving off the look of someone pretending to be bored, but Mumbo caught the tightness in his jaw, more like he knew what was going on and didn't like it rather than confusion or fear. Martyn always seemed to know what was going on, it annoyed Mumbo a little considering he was always left in the dark.

The hooded figure hadn’t moved since Mumbo walked in. Not a twitch, not a sound. Just standing there, shadowed, with their arms crossed inside their cloak like they had all the time in the world. Mumbo decided pretty quickly that he wasn’t going to be the first one to ask who they were.

He tugged another loose string from his sleeve and let it curl around his fingers, heartbeat a little too fast. He hated not knowing what was going on. Was this a plan? A rebellion? An ambush waiting to happen? For all he knew, Scott had dragged him here to be a sacrifice.

Scar finally broke the silence, clearing his throat. “Sooo… mysterious meetings in my house, huh? I’ll admit, I didn’t plan for that when I built the dining room.”

Cleo shot him a look sharp enough to cut, but the hooded figure stirred, turning their head slightly toward Scar’s voice.

“Enough waiting.” The voice was low, distorted by the cowl, but there was a sharp edge to it that made Mumbo’s shoulders stiffen. “When Scott returns, we begin. But you should all know that I’m not someone you should fear.”

Martyn let out a dry laugh, “right, because you’re so feeble and weak. I know who you are. You are lucky I haven't killed you. Scott had to convince me otherwise.” His words were bitter in a way he’d only heard Martyn use against Grian.

The figure shook a little as though he was silently laughing, a shiver ran down Mumbo’s spine. “Martyn, you give me too much credit. It’s not my fault, I was manipulated like anyone else.”

“You’re actions are excused because you didn’t have the mind to realize you almost killed him. You haven't even apologized to the one person who deserves it,” the golden blond scoffed, his blues vibrating with anger.

“He doesn’t even remember.”

“I hope you die a very painful death.” Mumbo looked away from the two who clearly hated one another.

Just then, the door opened. Scott walked in with Gem following. She looked around with a confused expression that emulated how Mumbo felt. When her eyes landed on the hooded figure, her brows furrowed and she frowned.

“You manipulated my–” Gem started, her voice louder than the others.

The figure waved a gloved hand and interrupted, “I’ve had enough of people patronizing me. We have more to discuss than my past. Most importantly, all of your survival.”

The only person who seemed optimistic about the creepy guy’s words was Scott who nodded along. Martyn shook his head, Gem frowned, and Cleo and Scar watched with curious expressions. Mumbo tried to take in the bits of information coming his way. Mostly about the person rather than what he was saying.

“There’s a portal deep underground, likely on the far side of the arena,” Gem flinched at the figure's words, “Martyn will lead everyone there, before things get a lot worse.”

Martyn stood up abruptly, “I don’t trust you in the slightest, I’m not leading everyone to their deaths!”

Scott piped up, “Martyn, there's no other–”

“I don’t want to hear it! You’re only willing because you haven’t looked past the person who used to be your brother. He almost killed Tim! How can you forgive him? He took Tim from you, not Tango, not some god in the sky, and you know it!” Martyn screamed at the blue-haired siren.

Scott froze, the whole room froze. Mumbo knew vaguely of Jimmy’s accident, but he’d only ever known it as that, an accident. Grian had cried into his arms about it after staying at the hospital until a nurse told him to go home and get some rest. It’d been awful for everyone, he remembered, though he wasn't all that close to Jimmy. Knowing the figure may have been responsible for Jimmy’s near death and loss of memories was insane. It also didn’t go unnoticed to Mumbo that Scott and the figure were supposedly brothers?

The whole encounter was falling apart and Mumbo was confused as ever. He and Scar made eye contact as Scott, Martyn, and the figure that may have been Scott’s sibling fought. In that monet there wasn't a fight for Grian or anger towards the other for practically nothing. Instead it was a bond of both confusion and hunger that crawled under their skin. Mumbo could see it in Scar’s eyes, the vex needing to tear apart flesh just as Mumbo’s own “vampire” needs shook through his veins. He tried to remind himself that he was a fairy, not a vampire, that he couldn’t let humans categorize him into something he wasn’t. A blood fairy didn't sound all that much better, but at least it was true.

His attention turned back to the fighting at hand when purple light flooded the room. The hooded person raised a glowing hand in the air, making Martyn and Scott freeze, even Cleo looked surprised. Mumbo gasped as the glowing slowly faded, not sure what it was but he could feel his body calming down despite his own brain being far from calm.

“As I was saying," he muttered, “Martyn will lead everyone to the portal with me. Martyn if you feel I’m leading you to a trap, you can kill me, or do whatever you believe necessary. Scar, Gem, and Scott, will stay here and deal with Grian, before going back through the portal after us. You are the best candidates to stop him, and I trust you’ll succeed.”

People were clearly about to protest when another wave of magic ran through the room. For a second, Mumbo saw people’s eyes glow violet before he felt magic fill his own senses. Peace.

All at once, they all spoke, “we accept.”

The simple phase lit symbols in the air, the weird lines glowing and pulsing until it became so blinding that Mumbo swore he’d never be able to see again. Everyone watched the letters wordlessly, possessed by the figure’s magic.

The letters exploded in the middle of the room. It casted a white light in Mumbo’s eyes before the room returned to normal, Mumbo could move again. He immediately rubbed his eyes and looked around the room.

The mustached man realized the magic was a threat. They had to do as he wanted, otherwise they all could be obliterated. It wasn't a nice thought; knowing one person held so much power, but it was all Mumbo could think about.

“Fine,” Martyn grumbled, standing up from his spot on the ground. “I’ll rally everyone, people who are staying here, I suggest you gear up and say your goodbyes. We don’t know what extremes Grian will go to or what state he’s in, but you’ll need to be prepared.”

Everyone nodded, slowly standing as well.

Gem spoke before anyone could object, “If we fail, what happens?”

The figure in the corner let his hood fall, revealing a face identical to Scott's, only his hair violet instead of blue. “Then you won’t get your beloved twin back, or at least not the one you want.”

Cleo cleared their throat, “The others have a reason to hate you, but I know you can’t be worse than your creators. So for that, I trust you. If my boy dies though… I’ll have an army behind me; people from beyond this world who could tear you apart.”

“I don’t doubt that, world hopper. However, if Scar's dead, that’s the least you should be concerned about,” Scott’s twin warned with a villainous smile that Mumbo looked away from.

There was doubt in the air as they filed out of the house, Mumbo was the last to leave. When he looked back at the corner, there was nobody there. Scott’s brother seemingly vanished. Mumbo closed the door behind him as Martyn hurried every person to the middle. He noticed Gem running off in an odd direction but decided not to point that out to anyone.

Gods, Mumbo just wanted sleep and some fresh warm blood.

Chapter Text

The world was just as it was before; beautiful and content but tinged with magic, acting almost mechanical. The grass swayed as though on command, not with the whim of the wind. The sky above was perfect, too perfect, its blue unmarred by clouds, its stars faintly gleaming even in daylight. There weren’t many animals, though more than in the previous arenas, but even they seemed wrong, like sketches filled in too neatly. Ren had said in the previous arena that the sky would sometimes shimmer like plastic in the sky, Grian could see that too, much more vibrant than before.

The most notable thing, however, were the players.

They all stood in a line, motionless, their eyes closed. Grian’s breath caught. Faces he knew, faces he remembered; friends, enemies, people who had been alive and vibrant once, were now arranged like dolls waiting to be wound up. His stomach turned.

Then, as if powered on by the same unseen switch, they all opened their eyes in unison. Dozens of gazes snapped open, bright and hollow, and the sound that followed was chaos given form, feet pounding against earth, voices shouting, hands already reaching for weapons and resources.

They ran in separate directions, scattering into the arena like sparks from a fire.

Grian stumbled a step back, heart hammering, his feathers flaring with unease. He tried to breathe, but the air here was too sharp, too clean, filling his lungs with something that felt manufactured. These weren’t his friends. They couldn’t be. Their movements were too precise, too rehearsed. Like puppets. Like echoes. Like him.

Someone he knew too well glanced at him. Scar, or rather, this world’s Scar; not-Scar.

For the briefest moment, those familiar green eyes brushed across his. Recognition flared in Grian’s chest like a cruel trick, but it was gone as quickly as it came. The man turned and sprinted toward the trees without a word, without hesitation. No smile. No warmth. Just another piece of the machine, falling neatly into place. Grian didn’t know if these people had lives or if they were created solely to haunt Grian, either way, he felt cursed. His punishment for all he’d done, he assumed.

Grian’s hands shook. He pressed them tight to his sides, trying to stop it, but the tremor only traveled to his wings. The memory of the real Scar, his jokes, his voice, the easy way he made even disaster feel survivable, hit like a blade to the ribs. And here he was again, except… not. Maybe not-Scar had been spared of Grian's manipulation, maybe they had been friends with no strings attached, maybe more. Grian could only assume the best as no one told him anything. For once, he was the odd one out.

“They already know,” Grian muttered to himself, voice hoarse. His throat ached with the words. “They’ve been taught what to do. No confusion this time.”

It made sense, didn’t it? The Warlocks must’ve learned after watching the real group stumble through chaos. This time the pieces were laid out with precision, the pawns trained to play their parts before the board was ever set.

And he was alone in the clearing, left behind like some discarded observer.

The silence that followed their departure was worse than the noise. His ears rang with it. He felt suddenly small, crushed under the weight of it all. This wasn’t a second chance. This wasn’t even survival. It was theater, and he was standing backstage, unable to tell if he was the actor or the audience.

The ringing didn’t fade. It swelled, climbing higher and sharper until it was all he could hear. He pressed his palms hard against his ears, but it didn’t stop. If anything, the ringing only seemed to echo deeper inside his skull.

His chest clenched. Air scraped in and out of his throat like glass shards. He stumbled, legs giving way, and crumpled to the ground. The grass beneath him was cold and prickly, but he barely felt it over the burn in his lungs. He clawed at the floor, as though he could anchor himself, but the world was already tilting and spinning too fast.

“Breathe,” he hissed to himself, though it came out as a broken gasp. Oxygen was suddenly too far away, every inhale shallow, sharp, useless. His wings jerked against his back, feathers bristling like they were trying to escape his skin.

He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping, stupidly, that darkness would calm him.

It didn’t.

Shapes bloomed behind his eyelids, murky at first, then sharp. Faces. Dozens of them. The people he’d killed, the ones who had looked at him in shock, in betrayal, in fear. They filled the blackness, crowding in until he could almost feel their bodies pressing against his own. Their blood soaked, broken limbed, skin wrapped bones circled him.

And they were screaming.

At first, it was faint, muffled by the ringing in his ears. Then it built into a chorus, shrill and unrelenting. He tried to cover his ears tighter, curling into himself, but the voices weren’t outside. They were inside his head, bleeding out of the dark.

Grian’s throat closed. He sobbed, the sound tearing through him, hot tears streaking down his face. He wanted to move, to crawl away, to do something, but his body refused. His limbs were heavy, pinned down by invisible hands. He could only tremble, chest heaving, as the voices screamed louder.

Monster.

You killed me.

You liked it.

You’ll do it again.

He shook his head violently. “No, no, no—I didn’t—” His voice cracked into nothing. Every denial only fed them, the sound layering over itself until it was unbearable.

He tried to open his eyes, desperate for the world, but the visions didn’t fade. The arena was still there, warped and shimmering, and the figures were there too. Not illusions he cast by choice. Not shadows. They crawled out of the corners, pale and twisted, eyes hollow and mouths wide open. Some reached for him, their fingers bone-thin and grasping, tugging at his wings, at his arms.

He jerked away, choking on another scream, his nails dragging uselessly across the floor.

The ringing was deafening now, a high shriek that felt like it would split his head apart. He couldn’t tell if the sound was real or if it was all in his mind. His chest convulsed with another gasp that barely brought in air. He was drowning, suffocating in a place with no water.

For one fractured second, he thought he heard Scar’s voice; warm, worried, calling his name. He latched onto it like a rope, but when he blinked, it was gone, dissolved into the mob of phantoms. Scar’s face was there instead, pale and contorted, accusing eyes burning into him.

Grian screamed again, breaking on the sound.

The walls of the arena seemed to stretch and twist, curling inward like the world itself was collapsing onto him. His heart hammered against his ribs, too fast, too hard, as though trying to escape his chest. He couldn’t tell if it had been minutes or hours. He was trapped in his own head, his own guilt clawing him apart piece by piece.

And through the chaos, one thought kept pulsing, mercilessly steady; maybe this is what I deserve.

He didn’t notice the moment the screaming stopped. One instant, the mob of phantoms was clawing at him, their shrieks splitting him apart, and the next, silence. Not complete silence, but the heavy kind, thick and weighted. He was still shaking, still gasping shallow breaths, but it was different. The air was softer.

A hand touched his shoulder.

He flinched, bracing for cold claws, but instead it was warm. Steady. He dared a glance upward, his vision blurred with tears, and through the haze he saw him. Scar, not his Scar, but not-Scar. In the moment, Grian didn’t care what version it was, he was glad the screaming had ceased.

The other knelt beside him, eyes calm, expression unreadable. He didn’t speak, didn’t demand an explanation or push him upright. He just stayed there, his hand firm against Grian’s shoulder, grounding him.

Grian tried to form words, an apology, maybe, or a desperate plea that this wasn’t real, but his throat closed on the attempt. His chest still heaved, breaths ragged and broken. He expected the visions to come rushing back, the screams to claw open his head again. They didn’t.

Instead, not-Scar shifted closer, sliding his hand from Grian’s shoulder to his back, just between his wings. The touch was gentle, deliberate, pressing down with enough weight to anchor him. As though the movement had been done before. His body, which had been curled tight and trembling, began to loosen by degrees. The world was still too bright, too loud, but there was one clear, solid thing to hold onto: that hand. That presence.

No words. No judgment. Just silence that wasn’t empty, but safe.

Grian sobbed again, but this time the sound wasn’t ripped from him. It was quieter, almost relieved, the kind of broken noise that came when the storm was finally fading. He leaned into the touch, unwilling, almost ashamed, but unable to stop himself.

He wanted to ask why. Why this copy of Scar, this stranger wearing his friend’s face, would choose to help him instead of finishing him off like the rest of them. He wanted to ask what the Warlocks had done, why everything felt like a punishment. He wanted to explain that he wasn’t weak, that he didn’t fall apart like this, not really.

But not-Scar didn’t seem to want any of that. His hand remained steady, his eyes soft, as if he already understood without needing the words.

And for the first time in too long, Grian let himself believe it might be enough.

Eventually, the trembling slowed. His chest still hitched, but his breaths came easier, drawn past the tight knot in his throat. Grian blinked hard, clearing the blur from his eyes. Not-Scar hadn’t moved. Still kneeling. Still steady.

“You don’t… have to do this,” Grian muttered, his voice hoarse. “I’m fine.”

The words rang false, even to him. Not-Scar tilted his head, studying him. He didn’t call out the lie. He didn’t even frown. Instead, he smiled faintly, a warm, lopsided thing that hit Grian like an arrow. So much like Scar. Too much like Scar. Why did Grian have to ruin what Scar and him could have been?

That strange warmth clawed at his chest, and the words slipped out before he could stop them. “Do you even know me?”

Not-Scar blinked. For a moment, confusion flickered across his features. Then he laughed; a soft, startled chuckle, not cruel but bewildered, like Grian had just asked if the sky was blue. “Of course I do,” he said simply. “You’re Grian. Who else would you be?”

Something inside Grian cracked at the casualness of it, the absolute certainty in the answer. He wanted to argue, wanted to tell not-Scar that if he knew who Grian really was that not-Scar would hate him, wanted to demand how a copy could know him better than he knew himself, but the words died in his throat.

Instead, he stared at him, a desperate, wounded sort of staring. Not-Scar didn’t flinch away. He only shifted closer, lowering himself to sit beside him. Their shoulders brushed. How Grian wished his Scar would do that, or rather that he’d let Scar do that. Instead, of course, Grian pushed the vex away.

“You scared me, y’know,” not-Scar added after a pause, voice light. “For a second there, I thought you were gonna forget how to breathe altogether. That’d be a pretty dumb way to lose a partner.”

Partner. The word was said casually, but it snagged in Grian’s chest like a hook. His breath caught, sharp and unsteady. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to believe this was real. And in that moment, just for that moment, he let himself. If he was going to try and survive, he couldn’t look a fool, right?

Grian convinced himself it’d be okay to take not-Scar for himself; to selfishly hold onto this Scar. After all, he was an illusionist, the Warlocks would love Grian to use not-Scar. Definitely.

They found a place to build a base together without really saying it aloud. Not-Scar moved naturally, scouting for a clearing by the river where the soil was soft and the trees arched overhead in a protective canopy. Grian followed, quiet, hands still trembling as he picked at the edges of his sleeves.

When the walls went up, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He fumbled torches. Dropped blocks. Built uneven. And every time, not-Scar just laughed, fixed it, and moved on. Like it didn’t matter. Like nothing about Grian’s messiness mattered. Like it was normal.

By the time the roof was finished, Grian was leaning against him shamelessly, cheek pressed to his shoulder as if anchoring himself to someone who might vanish if he let go. He hated how much he needed it, hated the selfish ache of it, but he couldn’t stop. Not this time. Not when the warmth was right there.

Not-Scar didn’t push him away. He only shifted, looping an arm around Grian’s back in an easy side-hug, still smiling that soft, crooked smile. “You’re clingy today, Bird Boy,” he teased lightly, but his tone wasn’t cruel. More amused than anything. “Not that I mind. I just… wasn’t expecting it.”

Grian swallowed hard, the words thick in his throat. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” not-Scar said at once. His hand gave Grian’s shoulder a squeeze. “Honestly, it makes sense. The Games do that to people.”

Grian’s head lifted slightly. “The Games?” He knew his real friends had started calling it that as they lost sanity and hoped it was some big practical joke, but nobody called it that like not-Scar had said; not casually.

“Yeah. You know.” Not-Scar shrugged like it was obvious. “The Life Games. They break you down. Get under your skin. The first time’s always the worst.” His voice gentled, almost knowingly. “I heard yours were… rough.”

Grian froze. His heart slammed. “Rough?” he echoed, voice almost a whisper.

“Mm.” Not-Scar nodded, casual, like he was talking about the weather. “That first couple of Games for you… didn’t end easy, did they? I can’t imagine how bad that must’ve felt. But hey—” he gave Grian a small grin, nudging his side “—you made it here. You always do.”

The words landed like a blade pressing into his skin, or fire burning his face. Grian clung tighter, burying his face against the other man’s shoulder so he wouldn’t have to answer. Not-Scar didn’t push. He just let him stay there, humming quietly as though this closeness was the most natural thing in the world.

But Grian’s mind wouldn’t stop racing. This wasn’t his Scar. And yet this Scar knew about the Games in ways no one but Gem understood, spoke of them with an understanding and history his real friends had never had.

“Can I ask you some weird questions?” Grian murmured, “I think I’m a little dazed still,” he tried to play it off.

Not-Scar nodded, still with that smile that was killing Grian. “Of course you can, Songbird.”

Grian shivered at the nickname, knowing it was likely a normal phrase since it’d been said so easily, but it felt wrong all the while. Void, Grian was being selfish.

“…How many times have we—” Grian’s throat caught, and he forced the words out quieter, “—done this? The Games.”

Not-Scar tilted his head, one brow arching, but didn’t laugh like it was absurd. Instead, he leaned back on his palms, gaze flicking in sunlight as leaves filtered it. “Mm. That’s a big one. Too many to count if I’m honest. Every time we swear it’s the last, every time we come back anyway. You’d think we’d learn.”

Grian blinked. “Come back? You… remember them?”

“Of course,” not-Scar said, like it was obvious. “That’s half the point, isn’t it? You play differently when you know how bad it hurt the last time.” He looked at Grian then, eyes narrowing slightly as if finally catching the odd note in his voice. “Why? Did you… forget?”

Grian’s mouth went dry. “Maybe,” he muttered, deflecting, hugging himself tighter.

Not-Scar didn’t press, but the suspicion didn’t leave his face. He shifted, letting Grian lean in again, though his tone was gentler now. “You’ve always been a little cagey after resets, Songbird. No shame in it. Some people get… scrambled.”

“Resets,” Grian echoed, tasting the word like ash.

“Mmhm. When the clock ticks back and we start again. Some folks pretend it’s new every time, but most of us can’t. Memories stick.” Not-Scar gave a crooked grin, though his eyes were sharp with something Grian couldn’t read. “It’s part of why everyone watches you, you know. You always come out of it different. Like you’ve seen something the rest of us haven’t.”

The words hit too close. Grian ducked his head, trying to hide his expression. His hands fisted in not-Scar’s sleeve like he was afraid of floating away.

Not-Scar let him. But when he spoke again, his voice was softer, more deliberate. “You’re asking stranger questions than usual, G. And I’m not sure if I should be worried, or just chalk it up to you needing rest.”

Grian’s chest tightened. He wanted to ask more. He wanted to ask everything. But the weight of Scar’s gaze made him freeze, unsure how much he could reveal before this whole careful balance shattered.

He decided to ask one more question, pushing his luck. “How…how long have we…?” He didn’t finish, unsure how to phrase it without not-Scar becoming more concerned than Grian could handle.

Not-Scar looked at him with a more worried look than before, more than worried even. It wasn’t as though not-Scar thought he was insane, instead he looked almost expectant, but still sad. “I was wondering when you’d ask,” more quietly he added, “you always do.” Not-Scar straightened up and then answered the question, “Well we met in high school and started dating pretty loosely when I went to college, when I came back it got more serious. Now, here we are, a decade later.”

The words didn’t hit all at once. They sank in slowly, like stones into water, rippling outward until Grian could hardly breathe. A decade. It wasn’t a story, not the way not-Scar told it. Not a fabrication or a script. His voice carried too much easy familiarity, too much truth for Grian to dismiss.

He realized then that he and his Scar had known each other for a decade as well; since they were seventeen years old. It was a startling thought amongst the new information he was learning about a version of himself, one that had clearly lived a better life than he had, minus all the Games of course.

Grian swallowed hard, his throat tight. High school. College. A decade of shared history. All those years that weren’t his to remember. He felt like an intruder, standing in the ruins of someone else’s life wearing their skin. He did have those experiences with Scar, but not this Scar, not dating.

“I…” The word died in his mouth. His nails pressed crescents into his palms, and he buried his face against not-Scar’s shoulder again, more desperate now than before. It was selfish, greedy, wrong, but he couldn’t stop himself. He wanted, no, needed, to believe, just for a moment, that he belonged here. That this wasn’t another cruel test from the Warlocks. That it wasn’t a mockery of what he’d done to the real Scar.

Not-Scar let out a soft huff of breath, mistaking his silence for emotion of another kind. His hand rubbed circles against Grian’s back, patient, almost rehearsed. “See? That wasn’t so scary. You’ve always been dramatic about asking that one.”

Grian forced a shaky laugh, though it came out more like a sob. His chest hurt, his ribs straining under the weight of all the questions clawing at him. What happens if he asks the wrong thing? If not-Scar realizes he is not the right Grian?

So he said nothing. He just clung tighter, letting not-Scar’s warmth anchor him while his mind spun. Every inhale dragged in the scent of him, familiar, achingly so, yet wrong in all the ways that mattered.

Inside, Grian hated himself. Hated that he could want this, when it wasn’t his to take. Hated that his first instinct wasn’t to run or resist, but to curl closer, to pretend he’d earned even a fraction of the love in not-Scar’s voice.

“Songbird,” not-Scar murmured into his hair, softer now, almost like a promise, “whatever’s rattling you, we’ll sort it out. We always do.”

The words twisted the knife deeper. We. Always. As though Grian had lived a whole life that wasn’t his, and this Scar was waiting for him to remember it. He wished he could remember it, take this Grian’s place and let the real Grian’s soul rot in the Void, but the Warlocks wouldn’t allow it. For that, Grian was sure.

Chapter Text

Scar, Gem, and Scott watched as the ‘escape group’ left, led by Martyn and Xornoth. The people were a little confused but willing to follow them to the portal. Time was, quite literally, running out.

Scar moved through the twisted trees, the ground slick and trembling beneath his boots. Smoke curled along the horizon, the air thick with magic and fear, carrying the acrid tang of burning wood and scorched earth. Even from a distance, he could see the stronghold rising ahead; a blackened monolith bristling with spikes and humming with power.

He hadn’t expected it to feel like this. Knowing the final fight was about to happen, it felt too soon and too far at the same time.

They spotted him first from afar, wings trembling, feathers dull and clumped with dust, eyes wild and glassy. Grian’s posture was off, unsteady, as if gravity itself was weighing him down unevenly. Scar’s stomach knotted.

“He’s…” Gem’s voice was a whisper, taut with horror. “…he’s falling apart.”

Scar swallowed, stepping forward. The closer they got, the more the air seemed to hum with Grian’s presence, each step a pulse of fear and power.

“Grian,” Scar called, his voice louder now. “We’re here. You’re not alone. Come with us!”

Grian’s head snapped up. His eyes, the same and yet utterly different, darted from Scar to Scott to Gem, glowing faintly under the bruised light of the sky. There was something feral in their gaze, a wildness that made Scar’s chest tighten and a cold bead of fear crawl up his spine.

Grian stumbled forward a step, then another, wings quivering as though ready to lift off, or strike. The quiver wasn’t just nervous energy; it was raw, untamed power, as if every fear and memory that haunted him had coalesced into the trembling of his feathers.

The world around him was bending. The air vibrated with the weight of his presence, a low hum rising from the earth that made Scar’s teeth chatter. Every uneven breath from Grian seemed to ripple outward, distorting reality itself. Scar’s stomach twisted as he watched the terrain warp in response to his friend’s unrest. Rocks lifted from the ground, swirling around in a slow, menacing orbit before crashing into one another. Shadows stretched like dark water across the clearing.

One of the poor blond’s fists tightened, and the impact of that simple motion tore through the landscape. Scar barely had time to gasp before a towering tree, its roots no longer gripping the soil, toppled into a yawning crack forming in the ground. The sound of splintering wood echoed like gunfire, dirt and dust billowing into the bruised sky. Scar instinctively shielded his face, heart hammering, though he knew the act was almost symbolic, Grian’s anger, confusion, and fear weren’t just directed at them, they were bending the very world around him. Scar wasn’t sure if Grian even knew he was doing it.

Grian’s wings shivered. Feathers twitching. Every muscle taut. His feet dug into the earth, shaking it, cracking it. Scar felt the ground move beneath him, as if it feared Grian too. And yet beneath it all, Scar could feel the thread of recognition, a faint echo of the boy he knew; the friend he had loved, the chaotic heart that had always been slightly broken.

Scott shifted uncomfortably at Scar’s side, unease written in every line of his posture. Gem’s grip on her weapon tightened, but even she seemed frozen for a heartbeat, caught between fear and longing, a sibling lost. And all the while, Grian’s eyes darted, wild and unblinking, as if trying to take in everything, trust nothing, and respond to nothing but the pulse of the chaos surrounding him.

Grian was long gone, left was a powerful creature with only the goal to live. Scar hated that thing that looked like the man he loved, but it wasn’t Grian anymore, and that was enough.

Scar’s pulse raced. He had to act, but every instinct told him this wasn’t a battle he could fight with brute strength alone. Every instinct told him to reach out, to speak, to somehow tether the fractured storm before him to something solid, something real. But words, he realized, might not exist yet to anchor what was happening. All he could do was watch and fight, ending this once and for all.

Scar was moving before he knew it, feet carrying him toward the figure he loved, the figure he had to stop. Grian’s magic rippled violently, warping the earth beneath them. Trees warped and shifted, air itself bending to the chaotic will that emanated from him, becoming more violent by the second.

Grian’s first strike was aimed at Scott. Scar had seconds, literally, seconds, to process it. He dove, catching Scott just in time to redirect the blow with his own vex magic. The arc of Grian’s magic hit the dirt, sending a spray of stones and earth into the air. Scott coughed, staggering backward.

“Scott, move!” Scar barked. Scott tried, but even as he scrambled, Grian was already spinning, eyes blazing. The chaos made everything feel slower, yet faster, a distortion Scar had never experienced before.

Scott lunged forward, determination written across his face, trying to grab Grian and stop him before the chaos escalated further. For a heartbeat, Scar thought it might work, that maybe, somehow, the boy could be tethered back to reason.

But the air itself seemed to coil around Grian like a living thing, thick, heavy, almost sentient, twisting and curling around the avian. Scar could see the way it pulsed, responding to every quiver of Grian’s wings, every tightening of his muscles. It wasn’t just power; it was a tempest, wild and untamed, a force that refused to be held back.

Energy slammed into Scott’s chest with the force of a cataclysmic wave. The sound was deafening, a mix of flesh tearing and bones cracking. Scott’s cry of pain was swallowed by the roar, his body tumbling backward through the clearing like a ragdoll caught in a storm. Scar’s stomach dropped, a sick, twisting knot forming as he watched the scene unfold in slow motion.

The earth beneath Scott’s feet cracked where he landed, dust and debris erupting like tiny geysers, and a line of crimson streaked his face. Scar’s eyes widened, heart clenched so tightly it felt as though it might stop entirely. Scar could almost feel it pressing against his skin, a physical weight of destruction and sorrow.

“Scott!” Scar shouted, voice cracking, lunging forward, but the clearing seemed to ripple under Grian’s power, slowing his steps as though the air itself resisted him.

He watched helplessly as Scott’s hand twitched weakly in his direction, an almost imperceptible signal that he was alive but beaten. His chest tightened further, guilt and fear tangling together.

Scar’s mind raced, torn between rage and desperation. He knew the fight wasn’t over, at least, not for Grian, but for Scott, it was. Scar could see the pain etched across his friend’s face, the blood streaking his features, the slow, ragged breaths that carried the weight of defeat.

And all the while, Grian stood there, wings quivering, eyes glowing faintly, a storm barely contained, untouchable by any measure they had.

Scar focused on breathing so he wouldn’t scream. Scott was dead. Dead. In front of him. A friend, simply gone.

Scar swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay upright. There was no time to grieve for Scott, not yet. The chaos wasn’t finished, and the next wave was coming. He clenched his fists, feeling the vibration of Grian’s power in his chest, and braced himself for what he knew he would have to face next.

Gem stepped forward, shield up, sword glowing faintly. Her eyes never left Grian’s.

“Grian, stop!” she cried, voice cutting through the air.

Grian’s gaze flicked toward her, wild and uncomprehending. He moved with terrifying speed. Gem parried a strike, the clang of metal against magic echoing like a drumbeat. She swung, pushed, tried to ground him with every trick she had learned, but each strike was met with force, her illusions flickering, bending, struggling to hold against his raw, unstable energy.

Scar watched in horror as Gem lunged forward, trying to reach Grian, but the air around him moved with a mind of its own, crackling and snapping like lightning trapped in invisible chains. Every motion she made seemed to draw the storm’s attention, and it lashed out without mercy.

A scream tore from her throat as Grian’s energy surged again, a violent pulse that threw her sprawling into a shallow crater that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Dust and debris erupted around her, mingling with the acrid scent of scorched earth and the faint metallic tang of fear. Her shield lay a few feet away, scuffed and smoking, its surface glowing faintly where the energy had grazed it. Strands of her hair clung to her soot-streaked face, curling and smoldering where sparks had danced too close.

Scar’s chest burned as if he’d been struck himself, a hot, aching weight pressing down, and he felt the helplessness clawing at him like icy fingers. Every instinct screamed at him to act, to run to her, to pull her into his own body if it would keep her safe, but he couldn’t.

Not against this. Not against Grian, whose wings twitched like a coiled storm, whose glowing eyes held both recognition and something terrifyingly rageful.

Gem coughed, her voice a hoarse whisper of defiance despite the pain, and even that small sound twisted Scar’s stomach into knots.

Scar wanted to cry out, to demand the chaos stop, to rip Grian away from this world, or maybe himself, but words would do nothing.

Gem tried to get up, trembling, her hands reaching for her sword, and Scar saw the resolve in her eyes. And yet, each attempt seemed to only draw more of Grian’s uncontrollable power toward her.

Scar’s mind raced, panic and fear mingling with a deep, gnawing dread. This wasn’t just a fight. It wasn’t just survival. Grian was… breaking apart, the world around him bending to his emotions, and Gem was right in the path of it. Scar’s fists clenched, nails digging into his palms, but the thought of reaching her in time seemed impossibly distant.

He took a step forward, then froze, seeing the faint quiver of Grian’s wings, the erratic pulsing of light around him, and realized with a jolt, this wasn’t just physical power. It was emotional, raw, unfiltered, a storm fueled by everything Grian had been through, everything he had seen, and everything he feared he might become. And Gem… she was trying to reach him, to touch a part of him Scar couldn’t even name.

Scar’s chest tightened further. He swallowed hard, trying to force air into his lungs as he watched her struggle, helpless to stop the storm, desperate to do anything that might save her.

Bright violet light blinded Scar. He blinked rapidly, desperately trying to see past the light. As soon as he did, however, he regretted it.

It was just him now.

Gem was gone. A body crumpled, half buried in dirt that had risen.

The world had narrowed. Noise faded to a hum, only the pounding of his heart and the echo of Grian’s wild breathing remained. He squared his shoulders, drawing every ounce of his magic to his command.

“Grian,” Scar said, voice low but firm. “Listen to me. You’re not alone. You don’t have to do this.”

Grian tilted his head, a slight quiver in his wings, almost like confusion, but it didn’t last. The chaos tightened again, energy spiraling around his form. Scar braced himself.

He attacked and dodged. Every motion was precise, but Grian’s movements were something else, unpredictable and inhuman, just like he. Magic flared, earth shook, trees splintered. Scar’s arms burned from holding defenses, his legs screamed from dodging, his mind raced with every memory of fighting this Grian.

The first strike Scar managed grazed Grian’s shoulder, drawing a hiss of pain that twisted Scar’s stomach. He had hurt him, even if only a little. Guilt and fear flared, he wanted to stop, but couldn’t.

Another strike from Grian caught Scar off guard, sending him sprawled out on the ground. He swiftly got up and threw his sword, impulsively, at Grian.

Scar’s chest heaved, muscles trembling as he pressed forward. Each strike, each punch, was painful. He had fought Grian emotionally, but never like this, never so violently. He remembered the exact heat of fights before, the desperation, the anger, and the way Grian’s tears had carved themselves into his memory. The way Grian had cried, whispering “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” even though they both knew he’d hurt Scar again, and he did.

Over and over, Scar was hurt, slowly breaking apart while idiotically following Grian. The avian knew it too. Always had, always would.

Grian wasn’t the same, not truly, but it didn’t matter. Scar could feel the same fire, the same storm of power, the same fragile, broken heart behind those glowing eyes. Every scream, every pulse of energy, reminded him of when they’d fallen apart, of Grian’s wings trembling as he begged for forgiveness that Scar could no longer accept. Everything had led to this moment, every time they’d fallen, now all the way in hell.

Maybe he’d been mindless before, following Grian, praying he’d be loved the way he imagined Grian would. But, he’d never been given that, instead been ordered around, used, until he wasn’t useful anymore.

He swung again, this time aiming lower, forcing Grian back, though not without cost. Sparks of Grian’s magic sizzled along Scar’s arms, leaving him with shallow burns and a lingering sting. Grian’s cry pierced him, a sharp, raw sound that rattled Scar’s ribs and his heart. So much pain, Scar thought, so much like arguments before, except so much worse.

Grian’s arms thrashed violently in the icy chains Scar managed to summon. The avian’s glowing eyes met his, a flicker of recognition, or was it accusation, shining through the chaos. Scar froze, half a second too long, and a shard of guilt shot through him like ice. He had to finish this, he reminded himself. He’d promised Grian he would, before it turned into mindless carnage.

Grian had told him that this was for the best. In his own home, Grian told him that he needed to die and Scar to live. He wished it was that simple. Scar wished every single memory of them together wasn’t racing through his mind.

He pushed forward, fists colliding with warm, trembling flesh. The avian shrieked, the sound cutting through the distorted world around them, but Scar blocked it out, focusing on each movement.

Scar gritted his teeth. It felt so wrong to beat the love of his life. He lunged one last time, aiming to pin Grian down, to subdue him before the avian’s uncontrolled power tore everything apart.

His chest heaved, body trembling under the strain, but as their eyes met, Grian’s wide, glowing, terrified, Scar felt the ghost of that night. The one where Grian had wrapped his arms around Scar and kissed him. Right out of high school after they’d hung out the whole day, it’d been real. It wasn’t a dream then, though now, it certainly felt like it.

What they could have been.

Scar’s hands shook, gripping Grian with all the force he could muster, trying to forget. Forget Grian. Forget his love. Forget everything.

Grian’s wings flared, his chest heaving as if he were trying to push the world away, to shove it all into Scar so he could take it back himself. “Scar…” His voice cracked, barely audible over the storm of magic and broken earth around them. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

The words hit Scar like a hammer. He froze, seeing not just the glowing eyes, not just the fury and chaos, but the trembling, raw vulnerability of the boy he had loved for years. Scar wanted to reach for him, to tell him it wasn’t true, that it didn’t have to be like this, but every muscle screamed in opposition.

“I… I need you to live—not here, not… like this,” Grian whispered, voice tight with something Scar couldn’t name, desperation, guilt, love. His feathers shivered with tremors, and even through the chains, his hands reached toward Scar. “You have to… I can’t—don’t—please, you have to—”

Scar tried to speak, to argue, to make it stop, but the words caught in his throat. The world around them warped, fire licking through the grass, cracks opening in the ground, and Grian’s magic surged higher, untamed. Scar realized, with a pit of despair in his stomach, that Grian wasn’t holding back. Not this time, not this moment.

Grian asking him to end it. Asking Scar to finish his life. It was too much, all too much. How could Scar do that? How would Scar live?

Before Scar could brace himself fully, Grian closed the distance, his trembling hands brushing Scar’s face, and pressed their foreheads together. The intensity of their shared history, their closeness, all the stolen moments and memories, collided in that brief, devastating instant.

“I love you,” Grian breathed. Not a plea, not a question, just truth. Part of Scar wished it wasn’t real. After everything, this was one of their ends.

Scar’s heart stuttered. He tried to respond, tried to shove him away, tried to fight the inevitable, but his hands stayed frozen, caught between the rage of the arena and the softness of the boy he loved.

Grian’s lips met Scar’s in a kiss that was desperate and fleeting, a tremor in the chaos. It was almost laughable, almost tender in a world so broken. Scar’s mind screamed that it was selfish, that it wasn’t fair, that this wasn’t real, but he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t stop him.

Pulling back just enough to whisper, Grian’s voice quivered, “I’m… so sorry, Scar. I’m sorry for everything… I have to—you’ll understand one day.”

Something shifted in Grian’s expression.

Scar felt the blade before he fully registered the motion, a final, sharp stab through the heart of everything he thought he knew. The world blurred. Pain erupted, all-consuming, but in the very last moment, Grian pressed closer once more, lips brushing his ear.

“I’m sorry…Love.”

Scar’s vision darkened, the chaos of the arena folding into black. And through it, the echo of Grian’s touch, the warmth of that impossible, beautiful kiss, lingered.

“Scar… I’m sorry,” he whimpered again, voice raw, cracked. “I… I love you. I love you, and I… I can’t… I can’t fix this. Not now. You’ll be back though, I’ll get you back.”

Grian’s head fell to Scar’s shoulder, feathers brushing over warm skin that would never move again. Scar smiled, just a little, feeling Grian against him. He felt Grian’s shiver, and heard the avian’s sobs.

The clearing around them groaned as the landscape itself protested the magic unleashed, but Grian did not lift his eyes. Scar watched, his vision mostly dark, as Grian broke. In his final moments, he could see Grian, and that was enough for him.

***

Grian fell to his knees, wings dragging on the fractured marble, feathers bending, tattered. He held his head in his hands. His own reflection, echoes of himself, stared back at him from the cracks in the floor, in the shards of broken chandeliers, in the warped metal of the railings. And in every reflection, every fragment, he saw the same thing. The terrible, unchangeable truth.

He was a monster.

The great hall groaned, the echoes of what had been life, love, and friendship twisting into whispers that clawed at his mind. Grian’s shoulders shook, tears soaking the floor beneath him, and he whispered again, hoarse, trembling, “I’m… so sorry. I… I’m so, so sorry…”

But no one answered. No one could. The world had ended here. And he was alone with the truth of himself.

Not-Scar stood across the clearing, arms loose at his sides, posture relaxed, almost casual. His smile was calm, warm, familiar, and infuriatingly steady. Grian’s chest ached at the sight. This Scar wasn’t real, and yet…

“Ready?” Not-Scar asked softly, voice carrying just enough warmth to make Grian hesitate.

Grian nodded, throat tight, feathers bristling. He didn’t want this fight. He hadn’t asked for it. But the rules of this new world were simple, only one remained. Only one could leave. Like any arena, except it felt more real when everyone knew the rules only he and Gem once had in his world.

He launched himself forward, wings flaring. Not-Scar didn’t move until the last second, sidestepping with grace that made Grian falter. He swung a fist, trying to land a hit, and for a brief moment, their hands brushed. Not-Scar’s hand was steady, warm. “Take it easy,” he said, still smiling. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Grian’s wings twitched with frustration. His magic surged around him, a soft violet haze coiling in the air, yet whenever he tried to strike harder, not-Scar’s movements seemed to guide him, redirect him, letting Grian feel powerful without truly being in danger.

“Why—why are you letting me—?” Grian gasped between strikes, chest heaving, eyes glowing. Not-Scar didn’t startle as his magic dipped with emotion.

“Because,” not-Scar replied lightly, ducking under a swinging blow, “I trust you’ll figure it out. You always do. Besides…” He smiled wider. “You need to win once in a while. Keeps you sharp. Keeps the fire alive.”

Every strike from Grian met an unyielding, impossible patience. Not-Scar laughed softly when Grian’s frustration boiled over, magic crackling in erratic sparks around him. “You look exactly like yourself,” he said. “Wild, chaotic, terrified, and…beautifully stubborn.”

Finally, Grian stumbled forward, exhausted, chest burning, wings trembling. Not-Scar didn’t press forward. He simply stepped aside, letting Grian collapse to one knee. Grian’s arms fell to his sides, magic humming faintly as the world slowed back to its quiet state.

Not-Scar crouched in front of him, brushing a stray feather from Grian’s face. “It’s okay Songbird," he said softly. “You did it. I suppose…until next time?”

Grian’s chest ached, throat tight. He hadn’t won anything, he’d barely landed a single punch. He nodded anyway, confused and tired. He was unable to speak, because somehow, he believed him. Somehow, even here, he could see the faint, unshakable thread of connection, the part of him that remembered love, trust, friendship.

Not-Scar stood, smiling once more, and with a graceful leap, he was gone. Grian watched the lighting flash when not-Scar had to have landed. Leaving Grian alone in the quiet aftermath. The victory was hollow, but strangely comforting. He peaked over the edge of the cliff, watching as red pooled beneath the body.

Grian sank to the ground, wings folding around him, staring at the scarred earth. He was alive. He had won. And somewhere deep inside, he felt the ghost of that smile, like a small ember he could cling to.

It wasn’t just one Scar, though. Grian looked through the shattered glass at fragments of other worlds. A Warlock had given him a mirror to see the other worlds, which he’d immediately thrown at a wall. Now, he could see all of the versions of him and Scar.

In every world, Scar died, Grian lived.

Grian stood slowly, wings trembling with the effort. He didn’t look at the red pool below, he didn’t want to, but he could feel the weight of it in his bones.

Instead, he turned his gaze to the horizon, where the fractured landscape stretched on, a maze of broken worlds and shattered skies. The ember of not-Scar’s smile lingered in his mind, stubborn and small, like a light refusing to die.

He whispered into the quiet air, hoarse, but determined: “I… I’ll make it right. Somehow. Somehow, I’ll make it matter.”

And for the first time since arriving in this cruel mirror of reality, Grian felt a tiny, fragile pulse of purpose. The reflections still haunted him, the echoes of what he had lost still clawed at his mind. But, in that moment, he wasn’t just the monster in the mirrors. He was himself, alive, and breathing, and capable of choosing the next step.

He let his wings fall fully to his sides, feathers fluttering faintly in the wind. One step at a time, he began moving forward, toward the unknown, toward whatever awaited him in the fractured lands. The world had ended in these halls, yes, but perhaps, not entirely.

He stepped off the cliff, following not-Scar. Making a new path.

Chapter Text

One Hour Earlier

“So, a portal that’ll just take us home?” Pearl asked Martyn, barely believing it.

“Well I hope so. I don’t trust the sources,” he glanced at the newest member of their group, “but all we can do is hope.”

Pearl nodded because that was all she could do. Gem was off with Scar and Scott to try and stop Grian. She didn’t really understand, all she knew was that Gem said she’d enter the portal after them. Pearl had to believe it, because what would she do without her best friend?

Pearl shifted her grip on the straps of her bag, eyes flicking to the horizon. The sky wasn’t a sky anymore. It rippled, bruised purples bleeding into blacks, smears of unnatural green threading through the clouds like veins. It reminded her of glass about to shatter. It looked wierd, just plain wrong.

No one spoke.

Their footsteps filled the silence instead, shuffling, uneven, too loud in the stillness. They were close to the stronghold. They had to be. She clung to that thought, even though every bone in her body ached with the knowledge that distance didn’t matter. Not when the whole world was tearing itself apart.

Beside her, Jimmy tried. He always tried.

“Bet the stronghold’s still got a library,” he said, voice breaking the quiet like a stone through a window. His tone wavered, half-forced cheer, half-fright. “I heard from Grian they always did. Maybe I’ll write a note in a book and history will talk about me.” His voice cracked into silence. “Maybe I’ll be a hero or something.”

Pearl’s lips twitched, a weak smile that never reached her eyes. She didn’t want to laugh, didn’t have it in her, but it was Jimmy. He had always been like that; jokes in the wrong places, jokes to cover fear. She loved him for it, even now, even when her chest hurt from how fragile it sounded.

Impulse grunted behind them, shifting his pack higher. “Hero of makin’ it out alive, maybe. Save the jokes for after we’ve got both feet through that portal, Jim.”

Jimmy only hummed in response, and Pearl saw the way his hands trembled as he adjusted the strap on his bow. He knew. They all knew. ‘After’ might not exist.

The ground shuddered, cutting through the silence again. This time it didn’t stop. The tremor deepened into a groan, the kind that made Pearl’s stomach twist, like the earth was alive and angry. Ahead of them, a crack zigzagged through the dirt, sharp and jagged, spreading faster than she could blink.

“Move!” Cleo barked, shoving at Lizzie’s shoulder. The group lurched forward, scattering to avoid the splintering ground. Most of the group that’d been shuffling behind Martyn and them jumped back, while Pearl, Jimmy, Tango, Cleo, Lizzie, Impulse, and Martyn stood on the other side.

Pearl’s boots slid in the dirt, the strap of her bag catching on her arm as she stumbled. She reached out instinctively, her fingers brushing Jimmy’s sleeve. He stumbled too, wings flaring for balance, and she grabbed hold without thinking. Her own moth wings that did nothing to help with balance flattened to her back.

The crack yawned wide. A chasm. The earth fell away beneath Jimmy’s boots, taking the ground with it in a roar of stone and dust.

“Jimmy!” Pearl screamed, her grip locking tight around his wrist. The world lurched again, tilting under her. She dropped to her knees, dirt cutting into her palms as she clung to him, refusing to let go.

His eyes met hers, wide, panicked, his free hand clawing at the collapsing ledge. The void below wasn’t darkness, it was worse, an endless swirl of light and shadow, collapsing in on itself. No bottom, no chance. Void.

“I’ve got you!” Pearl shouted, her voice raw. Her shoulders screamed in pain as Jimmy’s weight dragged her forward. She dug her heels into the dirt, boots skidding. “I’ve got you, just—just hold on!”

The earth crumbled under her knees. Chunks of stone and soil rained into the abyss.

Jimmy’s grip tightened, his face scrunching in that way it did when he was terrified but trying not to show it. He opened his mouth, Pearl expected him to beg, or cry, or curse. Instead, he laughed.

A sharp, broken sound, but a laugh all the same.

“It’s okay, Pear—” His voice cracked. He coughed, and tried again. “It’s okay! Keep goin’, yeah? Don’t—don’t look back.”

“No! Don’t you dare say that!” Pearl shrieked. Her vision blurred, tears stinging her eyes as dust filled the air. “Don’t you let go! I can pull you up—Impulse, help me!”

Impulse’s boots thundered behind her. He lunged, grabbing her shoulders to anchor her, but the ledge split again with a crack like thunder. The ground between them and Jimmy broke away in one violent jerk.

Pearl’s grip slipped.

“No—no, no, no!” Her nails scraped Jimmy’s wrist, tearing skin, desperate to cling to him, but the stone under her knees dropped out. Jimmy’s weight vanished from her grasp in an instant.

His hand slipped free.

Pearl screamed, raw and feral, as Jimmy fell. His wings flared open, desperate, useless in the collapsing void. His voice carried up to them one last time, high and choked and gone in an instant.

Then there was nothing. Just the echo, and the bottomless pit.

Pearl’s hand hung limp in the air, empty. Dust settled around her, gray and choking, and she stared into the chasm until her vision blurred too much to see. Her whole body shook. The sound of Jimmy’s laugh clung to her like a curse.

Impulse’s hands were still on her shoulders. She didn’t even notice the way he was shaking too.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Her hand hovered uselessly in the dust, fingers still curled around nothing. Jimmy had been there. Right there. His weight on her arm, his laughter in her ears, how could he just be gone?

Gone. Jimmy, gone.

Dead.

The first one to lose all three lives.

Impulse’s grip on her shoulders tightened. “Pearl—” His voice was rough, broken, as if he’d swallowed gravel. “Pearl, we gotta move. The ground’s—”

“No.” Her throat burned. She shook her head violently, eyes locked on the chasm. The abyss seemed to pulse, like it was alive, like it had stolen Jimmy and was daring her to reach in and follow. “No, he—he could—”

“There’s no bottom.” Cleo’s voice cut in, sharp as a blade. She was farther back, but Pearl could hear the wobble in it, the strain of holding herself together. “He’s gone, Pearl. We can’t—”

Pearl’s whole body flinched. She wanted to scream at Cleo, claw at her, anything to make the words untrue. But before she could, movement blurred in the corner of her eye.

Tango.

He was already running. His scarf snapped in the wind, his footsteps a blur as he charged straight for the edge.

“Tango!” Pearl shouted, her voice breaking in panic. She lurched to her feet, reaching out, stumbling toward him. “No—don’t—!”

But his eyes weren’t on her. They weren’t on the others. They were fixed on the void, fierce and unyielding, like the fire he carried had finally found its fuel.

“Jimmy!” he roared, his voice carrying across the fractured landscape. “I’m not leavin’ you!”

The world tilted under Pearl’s feet. She stumbled, choking on dust as Tango reached the edge. He didn’t even hesitate. He leapt.

Pearl’s stomach dropped with him. The world narrowed to a single line of motion, the arc of his body, his arms outstretched as though he could still reach Jimmy, could still catch him. His scarf snapped once, twice, then vanished into the void.

Pearl’s scream tore itself out of her before she could stop it. It scraped her throat raw, ripped her chest open. “Tango!”

Impulse was shouting too, but Pearl couldn’t hear him over the roaring in her ears. All she could see was the chasm, the hungry nothing that had taken them both. The thing groaned as if alive, with rocks falling in and void whispering.

Her knees buckled. She dropped again, fists slamming against the broken stone at the edge. She leaned forward so far she could feel the void’s pull, her hair dragging into the dust, her tears cutting pale streaks down her cheeks.

There was no sound from below. No wings, no voices. Just emptiness.

Two lightning strikes sped down into the void.

They were gone.

Pearl pressed her forehead to the dirt, shaking. She wanted to dive after them, wanted to throw herself into that same nothing because how could she not? How could she let them be gone and keep breathing? But Impulse’s arms closed around her, hauling her back from the edge before she could even try.

“No,” she sobbed, thrashing weakly against him. “No, let me go—let me—”

“I can’t.” His voice cracked, and she realized he was crying too. “Pearl, I can’t lose you too. I won’t—”

His words blurred into noise. Pearl dug her nails into his arms, tried to push him away, but he only held tighter. Her moth wings twitched uselessly, dragging in the dirt. She hated herself for not following. She hated herself for being pulled back, for not being brave enough, or stupid enough, to chase them into the dark.

Cleo crouched a few feet away, her hand trembling as she pressed it over her mouth. Her eyes were wide, wet, but no tears fell. She was watching the chasm like it might still spit them back out. Lizzie stood stiff, pale, her bow hanging limp in her hands. None of them looked real anymore. Ahead, Martyn stood silently with tears streaming down his face. They’d been family, brothers. Now, there was no ‘them’.

Pearl wanted to tear the world apart with her bare hands. She wanted Jimmy’s stupid jokes back, Tango’s exasperated laughter, and wanted to tell them both to shut up, to keep walking, to stay alive.

But the world had swallowed them. And there was no bringing them back.

The ground groaned again, another tremor splitting the silence. Pearl’s tears dripped into the dirt, little dark circles that vanished as quickly as they formed.

Impulse leaned his forehead against her temple, his voice a rasp. “We have to move.”

Pearl wanted to tell him no. Wanted to stay here, to scream until the world ended around her. But her voice wouldn’t come.

Her chest ached with every breath, her wings heavy against her back. She stared into the abyss one last time, hoping, praying for movement, for light, for the impossible.

Nothing.

Just the void.

***

Impulse’s arms ached from holding her. Pearl wasn’t fighting anymore, not really, but she trembled in his grip, her sobs hitching like her body couldn’t decide if it wanted air or not. He pressed his chin into her hair, tried to breathe steady even as his own chest threatened to cave in.

Jimmy. Then Tango. Gone in a blink.

Impulse stared at the jagged lip of the chasm, at the dust still curling upward from where Tango had leapt. The silence below wasn’t silence at all. It was a roar, a mockery. He could almost hear Jimmy’s laugh, Tango’s nervous little snort, echoing back from the void like ghosts.

His throat burned. He forced the grief down, buried it under a layer of grit like he always did. Someone had to stay steady. Someone had to hold Pearl together, to keep Cleo and Lizzie moving. If he fell apart now, no, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

“We…we can’t stop here,” he said hoarsely. His voice felt like broken glass scraping his throat. “They wouldn’t want us to stop.”

Pearl shook her head in his arms, her voice shredded. “They wouldn’t want to be dead either.”

Impulse had no answer. He pressed his lips together, tasted dust and salt, and kept holding her because it was the only thing he could do.

Cleo was pacing just beyond them, hands raking through her hair, her eyes wide and wild. She wasn’t crying, not like Pearl, but there was something brittle in her movements, like she was seconds from snapping clean in two. Lizzie stood stiff as stone, her bow clutched tight, staring at the abyss like if she stared long enough it would give the others back.

Impulse’s gut twisted. He wanted to believe, needed to believe that there was a chance, that maybe Jimmy and Tango had found some impossible way to land. But the void below wasn’t a place for survivors. It devoured. It ended. That was the truth, and the truth was unbearable. Impulse knew it to be true, his kind hadn’t found friendship in the void. Demons be damned it hated everyone.

Another tremor shuddered through the ground, this one violent enough to knock him and Pearl sideways. He caught her against his chest, teeth gritted, heart hammering as cracks spidered outward from the chasm’s edge.

“We have to move!” Cleo shouted, her voice raw. “It’s not safe here—if we stay, the ground’ll take us too!”

Impulse forced himself upright, dragging Pearl with him. She stumbled, her wings dragging heavy against the dirt, but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t risk her falling like the others.

“Come on,” he urged, voice as steady as he could make it. “We’re not stopping here. Not after—” His words broke, caught in his throat. He cleared it harshly. “Not after everything.”

On the other side, the rest of the group followed the path down to a part where the crack was small, waiting for them to join. Joel looked close to passing out and Bdubs was quieter than ever before.

Lizzie finally tore her gaze from the abyss. Her face was pale, eyes rimmed red, but her jaw was set. “Which way?”

Martyn scanned the fractured horizon. The portal had to be close, they’d been pushing toward it for what felt like forever, but the land kept shifting under their feet, splitting and breaking like glass under pressure. “East,” he said finally, pointing toward a jagged ridge. “If the map was right, the stronghold should be—”

The ground lurched again, cutting Martyn off. Lizzie stumbled, her bow slipping in her grip. The crack split through the earth at her feet, racing toward her like lightning.

“Lizzie!” Impulse shouted.

She leapt back just as the ground gave way, the soil collapsing into another dark wound in the world. Her boot skidded on loose stone, arms pinwheeling as she fought for balance.

Impulse’s heart stuttered. He lunged, but Pearl’s weight slowed him, and the gap widened too fast. Lizzie’s eyes met across the chasm, wide, panicked, and then something moved in the dust.

A shard of stone, no, not stone. Something sharper, something wrong, a jagged spike driven up from the broken earth like the world itself was trying to spear her.

Lizzie didn’t even have time to scream.

The spike pierced clean through her side. Her bow clattered to the ground, her body crumpling with it.

“No!” Impulse’s roar ripped from his chest, raw and desperate. He staggered forward, dragging Pearl, who gasped sharp enough it cut through him.

Cleo was already sprinting, her boots skidding across the unstable ground, hands outstretched. She fell to her knees beside Lizzie, her voice breaking into a litany of curses and pleas. Joel ran as well, jumping over the other side of the chasm where the ground wasn’t too far apart, and ran to his wife’s body, yelling and cursing. Many people were screaming, all in shock.

Impulse’s stomach dropped, bile burning his throat. He couldn’t even get to her, there was another gap, too wide to cross without wings, and Lizzie’s small fairy wings twitched weakly, useless, already slick with blood.

Her lips parted, a thin sound escaping. “Go…”

Impulse shook his head violently, his hands fisting in Pearl’s sleeve. “No. No, you’re not—we’re not leaving you—”

“Go!” Lizzie’s voice was weak but fierce, her hand lifting shakily toward the ridge. Her bow lay at her side, stained, forgotten. “Don’t…don’t waste it.”

Her arm fell. Joel caught it, sobbing, clutching it to her chest. Mumbo, Lizzie’s younger brother, fell to the ground, punching the dirt in anger. Everyone was scarred.

Impulse’s vision blurred, tears spilling hot down his cheeks before he even realized they’d fallen. Jimmy, Tango, Lizzie, their group was unraveling faster than he could hold together, and every time he tried to be steady, the world just cracked deeper.

Pearl sagged against him, whispering, “Not her too…not her too…”

Impulse wanted to scream, to smash his fists into the broken ground until it swallowed him too. But Lizzie’s eyes, glassy and fierce even as her life bled out, held him in place.

She wanted them to keep going. She wanted them to survive.

Impulse swallowed hard, throat raw, and nodded once, though it felt like breaking something sacred inside himself. “We’ll go,” he whispered hoarsely. “We’ll…we’ll make it mean something.”

Lizzie exhaled softly, a sound almost like relief, and then her body stilled.

Joel and Cleo’s cries tore through the air, wild and agonized. Pearl buried her face against Impulse’s chest, trembling.

Impulse stood there, numb, his arms tight around Pearl as if holding her was the only thing tethering him to the world at all.

Three gone. And the portal was still ahead. The world was ending, and so were they.

Martyn coughed, wiping the tears from his face. “We need to move… And fast.”

***

Grian sat alone, cross legged on the marble floor, staring out at the void, the air still heavy with the taste of ash and ruin from their world. His wings hung limply, feathers bent in all the wrong directions. He could see three souls floating over the void.

Jimmy, Tango, Lizzie.

He’d heard the echoes of their voices, felt the weight of their absences settle like stones in his chest. Each one another tally in a ledger that only seemed to grow. Each one was his fault.

He dragged a hand down his face, nails scraping against grime, forcing his breaths into something even. If he broke here, if he stopped now, then the world really would end.

No. He couldn’t allow it. Not after both Scar’s, after everyone’s death in other worlds.

“I’ll fix it,” he whispered into the dark, his voice shaking but steadying with each word. “I’ll fix everything. I don’t care what it takes.”

The ground shuddered beneath him, the void cracking with another ripple of impossible light, but Grian didn’t flinch. He was already planning, already piecing the steps together in his mind, the portal, the dimension beyond it, the threads of power he’d touched before but never dared hold too tightly.

This time, he would.

He lifted his head, eyes burning violet, feathers twitching with a restless energy. The Warlocks had always whispered that power came at a cost. He didn’t care anymore. If the price was himself, then so be it.

Because if he didn’t pay it, then everyone else would, again and again.

Chapter Text

Jimmy woke to the soft, sterile beeping of machines. The faint sting of disinfectant hung in the air, sharp enough to make his nose wrinkle. White ceiling tiles stretched above him, broken only by the harsh glow of fluorescent lights. His chest tightened. He hated hospitals. Always had. The faint memory of smoke, of fire, of sirens cutting through the night pressed against the edges of his mind, and he flinched.

Not again. Please not again.

He shifted, wincing at the tug of wires taped to his skin. His hands fumbled at the blanket, needing to ground himself in something real, something steady. A voice broke through the fog.

“Hey. Easy, Jimmy. Don’t move too fast.”

Jimmy turned his head, throat dry, and blinked at the figure seated by the bed. Scott. He looked tired, shadows painted under his eyes, but when Jimmy met his gaze, Scott smiled. Small. Soft. A smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You…?” Jimmy rasped, unsure what he was even asking.

Scott leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Yeah. I’ve been here since I woke up myself. You scared us all, you know. Doctors said—” His voice faltered, and he had to start again. “They said a lot of people in town collapsed at the same time. Like dominoes. Some woke up quicker than others, but you… No one knows why, I heard Cleo say something about an ‘arena’.”

Jimmy frowned, brow knitting. The word “arena” echoed faintly, like a half-remembered dream. People running. Screaming. A glimpse of wings, of glowing eyes. He shook his head quickly. No. It slipped away, like water through his fingers.

“I don’t…” He swallowed, frustration creeping in. “I don’t remember.”

Scott’s smile stayed, but his eyes betrayed him, flickering with something more fragile. Loss. “That’s okay,” he said softly. “You don’t have to. Just… rest. You’re safe now.” It looked like the siren wanted to say more, but his mouth was firmly shut, yet still kind.

Safe. The word should have been comforting, but Jimmy only felt hollow. Hospitals had never meant safety to him. Only endings.

Scott reached out, hesitating a moment before resting a hand gently over Jimmy’s. Warm. Familiar. A touch that made Jimmy’s chest ache, though he couldn’t place why.

Jimmy sank back into the pillows, his breaths uneven. His wings bristled underneath him, but as long as he didn’t sit up, they wouldn’t be all too damaged. The room felt too bright, too loud, every beep of the monitors gnawing at his ears. Before he could ask Scott anything more, the door opened and two doctors stepped inside, clipboards in hand, their faces too polite, too practiced.

“Mr. Solidarity,” the older of the two said, approaching with a reassuring smile. “Glad to see you awake. We just need to check a few things.”

Jimmy stiffened. Hospitals always had that tone; gentle, careful, as though he might break apart if they pressed too hard. He hated it. He didn’t want to be treated like a glass bowl already cracked.

“Can you tell us your name?” the younger doctor asked.

“…Jimmy,” he whispered, his throat raw.

“Good. And do you know where you are right now?”

Jimmy’s eyes darted to the ceiling tiles, to the drip line, to Scott at his side. He swallowed. “Hospital.”

“Excellent.” The older one scribbled something down. “Do you remember what happened before you woke up here?”

Jimmy froze. His mind scrambled. Bits of something flickered, darkness, laughter that turned to screams, the ground splitting open. Feathers being ripped from his wings as shadows pulled him apart. He blinked hard, trying to pull the pieces together, but they scattered just as quickly.

“I…no,” he admitted, voice breaking. His chest squeezed painfully at the emptiness.

“That’s alright,” the doctor said quickly, as if to smooth over the shame creeping up his throat. “Memory lapses are common after these kinds of episodes. We’ll monitor you closely. For now, rest is the best thing you can do.” He already knew this.

The questions continued; his birthday, what year it was, who the president was, all things Jimmy answered with growing irritation. But when they asked again if he remembered anything unusual before collapsing, Jimmy shook his head harder than before. He didn’t want to talk about what he didn’t know. He didn’t want them to think he was crazy. He didn’t want to be reminded that he still had missing memories from the accident so long ago.

When the doctors finally left, Jimmy sagged in relief. He turned to Scott, who had stayed silent through the whole thing, watching with that same quiet intensity.

“Scott?” Jimmy asked, voice hoarse.

Scott hummed softly, leaning closer.

“…Where’s Tango?” The question slipped out before he could think. His stomach twisted at the name, though he wasn’t sure why. It just felt right, like someone important should’ve been there when he woke. He remembered the person with flaming hair and a big grin, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember who he actually was.

Scott’s expression faltered. Just for a second. His mouth pressed into a line, his eyes flickered down, and then he forced a smile back up.

“He’s…not here,” Scott said carefully. “Haven’t seen him yet. I’m sure he’ll come when he can.”

Jimmy blinked at him. The hesitation was sharp, almost painful. “Are you mad at him?”

Scott exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “No. Not mad. Just…” He trailed off, looking away toward the window, where pale sunlight tried to break through the clouds. “It’s complicated.”

Jimmy frowned, confused. His heart tugged in a way he didn’t understand. He wanted to push, to ask more, but his head ached, and Scott’s expression told him enough; the conversation was a minefield.

So instead, Jimmy turned his face into the pillow, whispering, “I just…want him here.”

Scott didn’t answer right away. When Jimmy finally dared to peek, Scott’s eyes were on him again, warm and pained, like someone holding onto a secret he could never say. Jimmy felt almost responsible, not that he knew of anything he’d ever done to the siren.

“I’ll call him for you,” Scott murmured, standing up and pulling his phone from his pocket. The blue-haired man walked towards the door, presumably dialing Tango’s number.

The whole situation felt all too familiar.

***

Scott stepped into the hall, the door clicking shut behind him. For a moment, he leaned his forehead against the cool wall, eyes closed, letting the weight of Jimmy’s whisper sink into him. I just want him here. Of course he did. Of course Jimmy wanted Tango.

Scott’s hand tightened around the phone as he scrolled to the familiar number. His chest ached with a thousand unsaid things, with years of history Jimmy didn’t even remember. And that was the worst part, Jimmy had asked him, not knowing what he was asking, not remembering that once upon a time it had been Scott in that chair beside him.

Once upon a time Scott was the one crying next to the avian, brushing his healthy hand and asking the doctors questions. Back then, they’d barely even known Tango. Back then, Jimmy remembered.

The call connected on the second ring.

“Scott?” Tango’s voice came, rough around the edges, like he’d been running. “Is Jimmy—did he wake up?”

Scott’s jaw tightened. Straight to the point. “Yeah. He’s awake.”

He heard Tango’s sharp inhale on the other end, relief flooding through the line. “Oh thank god. I’ve been–Scott, I’ve been so worried, I couldn’t get anyone to tell me what room he was in, and I—”

“He asked for you.” The words came out harsher than Scott meant. He pressed his fingers into his temple, forcing his tone level. “You should probably come.”

Silence hummed through the line. Tango cleared his throat. “Right. Yeah. Of course. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Scott paced a few steps, his boots squeaking faintly against the tile. “Tango.”

“…Yeah?”

“He’s doing better than–than before…” Scott pinched his arm to keep from crying. Once the tears started, they wouldn’t stop.

Tango sounded pitiful, “this must be hard for you. I’ll be there soon, okay? You need a break.”

Scott nodded though Tango couldn’t actually see it. He knew Tango didn’t mean any harm, he also knew Tango didn’t remember how Scott killed him in cold blood with more anger in his veins than ever before. It was for the best, Scott knew, but it haunted him to know only he remembered. It was a living nightmare.

He felt slow anger boil in his mind, a tint of rage that blossomed with Tango’s relieved breaths on the other end of the call.

“Where were you? I’ve been staying here as much as possible and haven’t seen you since you woke up!” A nurse raised an eyebrow at him when Scott raised his voice, he looked down at his feet and leaned against the wall.

Tango sputtered, “don’t pin this on me! I couldn’t stand seeing him like that, I knew he'd be alright–”

“You knew nothing,” Scott growled into the phone, “you act all high and mighty but god forbid you have to care for your own partner!”

“I’m not you Scott. It must have been horrible, but you can’t expect me to follow in your footsteps knowing the outcome.”

It stung. A lot.

He wanted to scream, wanted to throw his phone across the hall.

Tango muttered through the phone, “I’m sorry, I really am. I don’t want to hurt you Scott… I just want what’s best for Jimmy, just like you.” He sounded almost pained.

“I miss him…” Scott whispered, slowly crouching down and sitting on the floor. “I miss him so much… And I know–I know you two love each other, I know you do and I don’t want to break that… But I still hurt, I still miss him.”

On the other end, Tango was silent for a long beat. Scott could picture him, speed walking to the hospital, fingers in his hair, brow creased the same way Jimmy always teased him about. It should have made Scott feel better, knowing Tango was hurting too. Instead, it hollowed him out further.

“I know,” Tango said finally, voice low, ragged. “I know you do. And I can’t replace that. I don’t want to replace it. I just want him safe, Scott. That’s all.”

Scott pressed his palm hard against his eye, but the tears still came, hot and traitorous. He hated this. Hated that Tango was right, hated that Jimmy had no memory of what they’d been, hated that he was the one who had to carry all of it alone.

“You don’t understand,” Scott whispered, fingers tightening around the phone like it might shatter. “He’s right there, but he’s not, and I smile and I say the right things because that’s what he needs but—” his breath hitched, “—but I remember every word he said to me. Every promise.”

“Scott…” Tango’s voice broke softly. “I’m sorry.”

The apology wasn’t enough. It could never be enough. But Scott clung to it anyway, because it was all there was. He pulled in a shaking breath and leaned his head back against the wall, the sterile hospital lights buzzing above him.

“Just get here,” he managed, his voice steadier now, even if his hands weren’t. “He needs you.”

There was a pause. Then, “we both know he needs you too.”

The line went dead, leaving Scott staring at his reflection in the black screen of his phone. His face was blotchy, his eyes red. He looked like a man who’d seen ghosts, and for the most part, that was true.

He stayed on the floor for another minute, forcing his breathing to slow, forcing the sharp edges of anger and grief back down into the locked box he’d built for them. Jimmy couldn’t see him like this. Jimmy couldn’t know.

Finally, Scott pushed himself up, wiped his cheeks with the heel of his hand, and squared his shoulders. He turned the handle of Jimmy’s door and stepped back inside, his voice calm, steady, practiced.

“Hey,” he said, managing a small smile for the boy in the bed. “He’s on his way.”

Jimmy’s whole face lit up, brighter than Scott had seen in years. And though it cut him deep, Scott smiled back, because Jimmy deserved nothing less.

***

Grian stumbled through the fractured remains of the arena’s sky, the last threads of magic clinging to him like a dying storm. His wings, tattered and crooked, dragged across the scorched ground as if the earth itself wanted to hold him down. Every step was agony; every breath felt stolen. Months had passed here, but the world he had once known, his real world, waited, unchanged and oblivious, as if mocking his suffering.

The last moments of the arena were long past but fragments still haunted him with shards of glass, screams, and chaos that had burned itself into memory. Faces he’d loved, hated, lost, all twisted into an incomprehensible, haunted kaleidoscope. He had survived, yes, but only barely, and at a cost he couldn’t yet measure. His magic was nearly spent, the raw energy that had warped worlds now a faint, quivering wisp in his chest.

He forced the last remnants of his magic into a thread, twisting, stretching, until the air before him tore apart in a shimmer of violet light. Beyond it lay the city he remembered; streets glistening under pale sunlight, buildings intact, life moving forward as though nothing had happened.

He looked back at the destruction he’d created. Back at the arena where he lost everything. Nothing remained. No life, no safety, nothing. Perhaps it’d been better than the collapsing great hall in the Warlock realm, but not by much.

Grian fell through the tear, landing in an alleyway on the city’s edge. His knees buckled, and he caught himself against the cracked bricks of a long-abandoned building. His reflection in a puddle caught his attention. His wings were bent at odd angles, feathers clumped with dirt and blood, his eyes glowing faintly with residual power. He hardly recognized himself. For a heartbeat, he allowed a bitter laugh to escape, hoarse and dry.

He looked like a storm that had weathered itself into exhaustion. Or, dead.

The city hummed around him, oblivious. Screens in windows flickered with headlines. “Mysterious Mass Hospitalization: Local Authorities Investigate Sudden Collapse of Dozens of Citizens.” Faces flashed, friends, enemies, those he had once fought beside and killed all the same. His chest tightened. He could not afford anyone seeing him like this; not Pearl, not Gem, not anyone. He could not risk their safety, or the fragile tether of his own sanity.

He staggered forward, hiding in alleys, slipping through side streets. By evening, he found a small, crumbling house at the edge of the city. Shutters rattled loosely, the door hung crooked, but it was isolated. No prying eyes, no interference. He collapsed inside, letting the silence swallow him whole.

His body screamed in protest, hunger hollowing his stomach, thirst burning his throat, exhaustion weighing down every limb. He sank to the floor, wings folded around him like ragged blankets, and allowed himself a moment of stillness.

The purple shimmer of his magic hovered faintly, insufficient to sustain much of anything. He traced cracks in the plaster, scratching diagrams into dust, whispering plans into the gloom.

He had to fix this. He had to repair the damage done to his world, to his friends. He could not risk being discovered. He could not risk Pearl or Gem seeing him like this. They would worry, and worry would make them targets. He had survived this long; he would survive further.

Hours passed. Grian counted them silently, feeling the passage of time in the ache of his bones. His mind, though exhausted, did not rest. He mapped every memory of the arena, every encounter, every victory and loss, trying to weave them into a strategy. He reviewed his limited magic, noting its weakness, its unreliability, and the careful conservation required to reach his goals.

Sleep was impossible, though he drifted in and out of micro-dreams. Each brought flashes of the arena; shattered rock underfoot, screams, the chaotic flare of magic, the face of Scar in his final moments there. Each vision was painful and vivid, a reminder that even here, even back in the world that was supposed to be safe, he carried the arena with him.

Food, water, basic necessities, he ignored. They seemed trivial. Survival wasn’t about sustenance anymore; it was about strategy, about rebuilding a bridge from the devastation he had left behind. His body weakened by weeks of neglect, he occasionally blacked out, only to wake to the reality of his empty, crumbling shelter.

Life was no longer about him, but everyone else. He didn’t need to survive in order for others to do so. After all, he was the problem.

The faint glow of his magic offered tiny comfort. He could still manipulate small objects, lift shards of debris, fashion rudimentary tools. With this, he began to construct a space for himself. A small alcove where he could work unseen, a table of broken wood for notes, a safe perch for rest. Each action drained him further, but gave him a tangible sense of progress.

He allowed himself rare moments of reflection, though they were dangerous. Gem, Pearl, Scott… Scar… Each name was a thread in his mind, a reminder of what he had survived and what remained to be repaired. The thought of their suffering tightened his chest, coiling with both guilt and determination.

Grian knew that he could not act recklessly. Time in this world was short, fleeting. A week passed here, while months had ground him down in the broken lonely world that once was the arena. He dared not dwell on the collapse of the great hall, dared not understand what caused such a strong place to fall. He, instead, calculated and saved every ounce of power, every movement of his body. Every decision was deliberate and precise.

And yet, even in the quiet of the abandoned house, the whispers came. Each of his friend’s souls floated in the void while he watched from afar. He shook his head, trying to suppress them, to focus. They were distractions he could not afford.

By the fourth day, he allowed himself a small victory. He had mapped the city, observed news reports, tracked the movements of his friends in hospitals, calculated the fewest possible interactions needed to remain unseen. His magic, though depleted, was enough to keep him hidden, mobile, and alive.

He stood by a window, watching the sun rise over the city. His reflection in the glass showed a hollow, gaunt version of himself, yet there was fire in those violet eyes.

He whispered to the empty room. “I’ll fix it. I will. I have to. They can’t see me fail. Not them. Not anyone.”

Even as his body trembled from exhaustion, Grian felt the faintest thread of hope. It was fragile, almost laughable, but it was real. And it was enough.

The storm of the arena had ended, but a different one brewed inside him. One he would shape with careful hands, quiet planning, and the last of his magic. One the others would survive.

And when the time came, when he was ready, he would reclaim everything he had lost.

The days blurred together. Grian moved through the small abandoned house in slow, precise motions, conserving the little energy he had. He scavenged the city edges for anything edible, anything drinkable, and returned with meager scraps that barely touched his hunger. The air smelled faintly of dust and decay, a constant reminder that the world had gone on without him. Each bite felt foreign, almost wrong, yet necessary. Each sip of water burned down his throat with an alien sharpness, making him wince.

He spent hours staring at the small, cracked television set he had found in the corner, tuning into local news channels. Reports came in monotonously, distant voices explaining the sudden, unexplained hospitalizations across the city. His friends’ names flickered on the screen occasionally, but the reports were vague, shuffled in with other headlines. There were no photos, no interviews, no faces. Just words floating across the screen.

“Several individuals, all seemingly healthy, have collapsed suddenly in what authorities are calling an unexplained phenomenon…”

Grian clenched his fists. His chest ached. He could see them on the hospital beds, hear the faint rhythms of their machines in his mind, imagine the panic on their faces. And yet, he couldn’t approach. Not yet. Not when he was this hollow, this weak. He needed to be ready.

At night, he would perch in the window, wings folded, staring at the streets below. Neon signs flickered in the dark like warnings, and streetlights cast long, skeletal shadows that danced on the walls of the house.

He imagined the city breathing, unaware of the storm that had walked through it only days before, or months, depending on how the reckoning of the arena was measured.

He tested his magic sparingly. Just enough to lift small objects, move scraps of debris, light a candle. Each spark of violet light cost him more than the last, leaving him hollow and trembling.

Hallucinations crept in with increasing frequency. At first, it was subtle, a whisper, a flash of movement at the edge of his vision. Then, faces appeared in the reflections of windows, staring at him with expressions that morphed from love to fear to hatred. He would blink, rub his eyes, and they would vanish, leaving only the dust-mottled glass and the pale cityscape beyond.

“Stop following me,” he muttered one night, voice raw and hoarse, addressing no one. He pressed his hands to his face, feeling the twitch of wings beneath his fingertips, feathers brittle and dry.

He thought of Scar often, of Pearl, of Gem. Of Scott and Jimmy. He imagined their voices calling to him, echoing faintly in his mind. But he couldn’t trust them, not yet. Not when he was barely a shadow of himself.

One fatal night it seemed people’s conditions were getting worse. Pearl and Gem were back in the hospital, Jimmy had never left, and Scar was still unconscious.

“I’ll fix it,” he whispered to himself each day, pacing the small living space, wings twitching. “I’ll make it right. I’ll save them.”

Sometimes, he looked at the city outside and imagined a path, a way to reach his friends without alerting them, or anyone else, to the truth of what had happened. Each route was measured, calculated, impossible in its precision. He planned contingencies; what if someone saw him? What if his magic faltered mid-flight? What if…?

And yet, the desire to act, to correct, to fix what had been broken in the arena, burned brighter than his exhaustion. He forced his trembling body to map routes through the city, track shifts in news cycles, and note the safest times to move. Even with nothing left, he pressed forward.

At night, when the house was silent, Grian would sit against the cracked wall, wings folding loosely around him, and allow himself the smallest touch of hope. A whisper to himself that he could survive this, that he could reach them, that he could mend what had been shattered.

Months in the arena had taught him endurance. Months of solitude and loss had forged an almost unnatural patience. And though the body was failing, though magic clung weakly to his bones, his mind remained relentless.

“I’ll be ready,” he murmured to the darkened house, voice hoarse, yet firm. “When the time comes, I’ll be ready for them. For everything. I’ll make it right.”

And for the first time since stepping back into the real world, he allowed a small, shivering smile to cross his face, fragile but undeniable. It was not a victory. Not yet. But it was a promise; he would not fail. Not again.

Grian wouldn’t let them suffer again. Ever. Even if he died saving them.