Visions | OC Writing
Okay, final dump for the night. Here is another chapter from my story with Seren and Marcel. Enjoy~
Seren felt the vision coming long before it struck.
She had sensed its arrival that morning, the ache in her head blooming like a slow-building storm the moment she woke in the comfort of Marcel’s arms. Now, as she lounged in the courtyard, wings fanned out under the mid-afternoon sun, she knew she had an hour—at most—before it took hold. And when it did, chaos would surely follow.
Premonitions were nothing new. As a child, she had them now and again, though they always came more frequently in the warmer months. Vahn had been the one to see her through them, holding her steady through the pain and confusion that stretched on for what felt like an eternity. The fog that followed could linger for days, sometimes even a week.
But after his passing, she had weathered the storm alone.
She did not care to recall the close calls—the times she collapsed in the wrong place, lost in the vision’s grip, barely aware of herself. More than once, she had an accident in her delirium.
Seren sighed, rubbing at her temple. She supposed she should warn Marcel before it was too late. The only issue was that he was nowhere to be found.
After breakfast, she had knocked on his study door, but there had been no answer. She might have barged in on her own, but she still remembered what happened the last time she did that—Marcel’s anger had left her sore and walking funny for a week.
Wandering the castle in search of him had been useless, and questioning the guards got her nowhere. Was he hiding on purpose?
She bit her thumb in frustration. It wasn’t as if she’d be helpless when the vision overtook her—there were attendants who would see to her needs. Still, she disliked the idea of them worrying.
Then again, perhaps they should worry.
They were her captors, after all. They deserved no sympathy.
With a resigned huff, Seren rose from the garden bench, folding her wings behind her as she stood, and made her way inside, following the tiled walkway back toward the west tower of the stronghold.
Her time was running out. She could feel it—the creeping fog, the feverish heat coiling deep in her bones. Soon, she would be nothing more than a senseless heap on the floor she surmised.
Seren barely made it to her room before the first wave of nausea struck.
The walls lurched around her, tilting violently as her knees buckled. The floor rushed up to meet her, pain bursting through her arms as she hit the cold wood—hard.
She barely had time to take a breath before her stomach twisted savagely. A choked gasp left her lips as bile surged up her throat, spilling onto the floor before she could so much as crawl toward the bathing chamber.
Dizziness clouded her senses. The confusion was setting in now, thick and inescapable, dragging her mind into a disoriented haze.
Then came the second wave.
This one swallowed her whole.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
Speckled sunlight wove through the trembling leaves, casting shifting patterns across Seren’s small hands as she carved a rune into the dark oak’s rough bark. The texture was familiar beneath her fingertips, grounding her in the moment, though something about it felt distant—hazy, like a half-forgotten memory.
Somewhere nearby, Vahn’s deep voice rumbled, comforting yet indistinct. He was speaking to someone, but the words blurred together, lost in the rhythm of the blade etching the rune’s twisting form. Were they hunting today? She couldn't quite recall. Only the rune mattered.
What had it meant again? Vahn had taught it to her once, though she hadn’t cared much for his endless lecture. And yet, something compelled her to keep going, to carve every curve and line with quiet precision. The rune twisted into completion, enclosed by a circle.
A god’s rune.
For protection? A summoning?
Why would she need to summon a god?
A sharp shift in the air made her pause. Vahn’s voice, once distant, was suddenly clear—too close.
"Starling," his tone soft, edged with something unreadable. "Who are you trying to call?"
Seren turned sharply, heart pounding—but before she could see his face, the world tilted, blurred at the fringes, and she was falling.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
Marcel found Seren collapsed in her own vomit late that afternoon. He had been trapped in a grueling trade meeting with a northern kingdom, his advisors determined to keep him there indefinitely. When he was finally free, his first thought was to get his godling alone—she had been in a mood all morning, and he intended to demand answers.
But the moment he stepped into her chambers, all thoughts of confrontation vanished. Seren lay unconscious, her body burning with fever. Sweat clung to her skin, and her breath came in harsh, ragged pants between clenched teeth.
What followed was pure chaos. Within minutes, Seren’s room was teeming with bodies—healers and sorcerers alike, all bent on uncovering the cause of her affliction and finding a cure.
Marcel paced in restless circles on the floor of the space, heavy curtains had been drawn to block out the sweltering summer heat. Every few steps, his fingers raked through his hair, his frustration mounting with each unanswered question. Callan, his most trusted second, had long since abandoned any attempts to calm him. If anything, he looked just as pale and unsettled.
It was common understanding that a god-born could not be afflicted by sickness—Seren herself had insisted on it countless times. Yet as another pained whimper escaped her lips and she curled in on herself, trembling, it was hard to consider any other possibility.
Minutes bled into hours and the sun now slept below the horizon. Still, no answers emerged. Marcel’s patience, already frayed, snapped entirely when Seren let out another anguished groan. His frustration erupted into shouting, his voice a storm within the chamber—until the lead healer, Leah, had him forcibly removed.
Now, he and Callan stood in the corridor, silence thick between them. The air was heavy, suffocating. Marcel clenched his fists, jaw tight, but he said nothing. There was nothing left to say.
A faint click of the door had the two sullen men pulling away from the cold wall they had been leaning against. Leah, her tan face drawn with exhaustion, quietly exited the room. With a deep sigh, she spoke. “It isn’t sickness, that much we can confirm. After consulting with the sorcerers, it's difficult to say for certain, but these may be symptoms of a premonition.”
“She’s having a vision?” Marcel asked, his tone flat.
Leah hesitated before meeting his dark gaze, then nodded sharply. The ashen bun on top of her head bounced with the motion. “Seren reacts to touch, responds to pain, but she’s unable to wake. If we continue to assume that children of gods cannot fall ill, then there’s really no other explanation. The sorcerers agree. History has documented symptoms of premonitions that align with what she’s experiencing.”
Marcel’s body relaxed for what felt like the first time in hours. Callan clasped a hand over his shoulder. Their eyes met, a silent conversation exchanging between them before he started off down the hall.
“The best thing for Seren now is rest and to keep her fever down. We’ll reassess in the morning. A healer will be on standby and check in throughout the night,” Leah finished.
Marcel nodded, his face set in grim lines.
The lead healer left just as swiftly as she had arrived, her disciples trailing behind her. They had promised to return in a few hours to ensure Seren’s condition hadn’t worsened.
Now, Marcel sat alone in the dark chamber. He had pulled a reading chair—gone unused by Seren—to her bedside and lounged there, absently caressing her pale arm.
She was quiet now, no longer in pain. Leah had mentioned administering medicine for the discomfort, and it seemed to be working, offering a temporary relief.
"You truly do enjoy frightening me, Sunbeam," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "What is it you're dreaming of?"
But the godling gave no answer, lost in the grip of her restless sleep.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
Soft spikes of golden wheat brushed against Seren’s outstretched hands as the vast field swayed beneath the warm summer sun. This was home, she thought—among the chatter of birds and the endless sea of yellow. She wandered on, unhurried, letting the land embrace her. She was here for a reason, though she couldn’t quite place it.
Glancing over her folded wings, she saw only more fields stretching endlessly behind her, with green, stony mountains looming in the distance. Her thoughts drifted like the wind through the stalks, and so she walked, untroubled. Content.
“You’ve been misguided, Sterling.”
The gruff voice shattered the quiet. Vahn strode beside her, his arms relaxed at his sides. His gray hair, kissed by the sunlight, almost looked gold. Had he always been there? Seren couldn’t recall.
She smiled at his comment. “Have I? You haven’t been here to guide me.”
“You stopped needing me the moment you learned to fly,” he teased, giving a light tap to her fawn-speckled wings. “You were always restless—I never took you for the type to be idle for so long.”
Seren frowned. What was he getting at?
“It’s not like I have much of a choice. My wings are clipped,” she muttered. “I haven’t tasted the sky in months.” She hated the sound of her own excuses, but Vahn’s gentle ridicule was getting to her.
“Good,” he said, striding ahead. “Then learn to walk like the rest of us.”
Seren huffed but hurried forward to match the older man’s pace.
“What are we doing here?” Seren asked, glancing at Vahn.
Her father turned to her then, and a chill prickled down her spine. Something was wrong. The wheat field, the mountains, even the warmth of the sun—it all felt distant now, slipping away.
Vahn’s eyes were white, glowing like embers in the dark. The world tilted beneath her feet, and a sudden weightlessness gripped her. She was falling.
“Reminding you of your role,” his voice echoed, not just in the air but inside her skull.
Everything faded to black.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
Seren woke the next afternoon, though she was not herself. The healers had warned Marcel that while she had regained consciousness, she remained in a catatonic state—unresponsive to commands, barely reacting to touch or sound.
His heart twisted when he came to see her. The fierce, radiant godling he knew was reduced to a hollow shell.
She was propped up in bed, dressed in a fresh gown the healers had given her after she’d fallen ill again upon waking. Though her fever had finally broken, she sat motionless, her arms limp in her lap, staring at nothing in particular.
Marcel brushed a lock of blonde hair from her temple, his fingers lingering against her too-cool skin. Seren did not react. Her golden eyes, usually burning with life, were pale and distant.
“Hello, Sunbeam,” he murmured, his voice soft, coaxing. “Are you still dreaming?”
Seren didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just stared in a daze.
Leah had warned him that lingering confusion was common, that she was likely still lost within the premonition. There was no forcing her back—only waiting. For now, all he could do was ensure she received care, nourishment, and time. Until she was ready to return. Until then, all he could do was wait for her.
And so he did.
Marcel stayed by her side as much as he could, tending to her like she was made of glass. He brushed out her tangled hair, wiped the sweat from her brow, and coaxed warm broth past her parted lips when she was lucid enough to swallow. When she refused to drink, he pressed the cup to her mouth, whispering gentle reassurances, urging her to take just a little more.
He would never be soft, never be kind in the way others were—but for Seren, he would try. She was light where he was shadow, warmth where he was ice. She burned, and he was drawn to her flame despite the knowledge that it could consume him whole.
Marcel had never cared for softness before. It was a weakness, a liability. Mercy had no place in his world, nor did tenderness. Yet, when it came to her—his sunbeam—he found himself hesitating. His hands, stained with the weight of his past, hovered over her skin as if afraid to taint her radiance.
But Seren was not fragile, and she was not afraid of the dark places he called home. She stood in defiance of them, daring him to believe that there could be something more. That he could be something more.
For her, he would endure the ache of peeling back the iron cage around his heart. For her, he would let himself feel. Even if it destroyed him. So, he became what she needed.
Each night, he dampened a cloth with warm water and carefully wiped her down, running the rag over her arms, her neck, the delicate slope of her collarbone. He was meticulous, gentle, never rushing—ensuring she was clean and comfortable. When she shivered, he warmed her hands between his own, pressing soft kisses to her knuckles as if his touch alone could draw her back to him.
At night, when the castle was quiet, he held her to his chest, tracing circles into her palm as if willing her back to him. And when the cold crept in, he tucked the blankets tighter around her, pressing his forehead to hers with a whispered, “Come back to me, Seren.”
He didn’t know if she could hear him. But he stayed, unwavering, until she was ready to wake.
In the quiet moments when they were alone, Marcel softly recounted stories of their younger days. His voice was a low murmur, meant only for her ears, as if the words themselves could tether her back to him.
He told her of the first time he ever laid eyes on his godling. He had been just a boy, no older than fifteen, on a hunting trip with his father. His first thought had been that she was a golden eagle, circling high above the trees, watching them with sharp, knowing eyes.
Eagles weren’t known to appear in the region, but he had convinced himself it was a sign from the gods—that their hunt would be successful.
He hadn’t known then that the creature soaring overhead wasn’t a bird at all. It was her.
“You were stalking us, weren’t you?” he mused, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “Watching from above like some silent sentinel. I wonder, even then, did you know we would meet?”
Seren gave no sign that she heard him, but he spoke anyway, letting the memories fill the empty silence between them.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
Seren came to in the center of a shallow, black reflective pool, surrounded by a dark, mist-laden forest. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and something rotten just beneath the surface. She was cold—so, so cold—and a terrible sense of doom settled deep in her bones, gnawing at the edges of her mind.
She gasped, struggling to catch her breath, her chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. Her golden eyes darted in every direction, taking in the endless sea of twisted trees that loomed around her, their skeletal branches clawing at the sky.
“Vahn?” she called, her voice barely above a whisper.
A gentle breeze stirred the mist, curling around her like ghostly fingers. It carried no warmth—only a hollow, unsettling emptiness. A shiver wracked her spine.
“Vahn?” she tried again, louder this time.
Silence pressed in around her, thick and suffocating.
She moved to stand, but the moment she shifted, something below the surface tightened around her legs. Panic surged as she clawed at the water, her fingers sinking into the inky depths. Something unseen had ensnared her, keeping her in place.
The fear of what lay beneath the surface twisted and grew. She sobbed, hands diving beneath the water, grasping at whatever held her, but there was nothing to seize—just endless, unyielding black.
A sharp crack echoed from deep within the forest.
Seren froze, her head snapping up. The mist curled around the trees, obscuring whatever lurked beyond the veil, but she knew—she felt it.
Something was watching her.
And it was waiting.
Desperation clawed at Seren’s throat as she continued to grasp at the nothingness beneath the surface of the dark pool. Her fingers tore through the cold, viscous water, searching—pleading—for anything to hold on to. But there was nothing.
Desperate, she reached inward, searching for the familiar warmth of her essence, the divine fire that had always been hers to command.
There was nothing.
A void yawned inside her where her power should have been. The golden flames that once burned so fiercely had been snuffed out, leaving her hollow.
Another snap echoed from the shadows of the trees. Closer now.
Seren’s breath came in frantic gasps. She felt like a snared animal, trapped and helpless, all hope of breaking free slipping through her trembling fingers. But still, she fought.
She thrashed against the unseen chains, splashing, pulling, struggling against the black muck that held her down. Minutes stretched into hours, her body aching with the effort. But no matter how hard she fought, she gained nothing. The water soaked through her tunic and pants, chilling her to the bone, leaving her weak and shivering.
Her strength was gone. Her breath came in ragged, uneven weeps.
And then, with a quiet whimper, she stilled.
She had nothing left.
The forest loomed around her, silent and waiting.
Seren closed her eyes, her shoulders trembling. I give in, she thought, her final shred of resistance fading.
“Well, finally,” a deep, arrogant voice boomed around Seren, echoing from every direction at once. It was as if the very trees whispered his words, the earth itself vibrating with his amusement. “I thought you’d never tire.” He sighed, the sound dripping with feigned exasperation.
Seren stiffened. She squinted into the dark expanse before her, searching for the speaker.
“Who are you?” she demanded, her voice steadier than she felt.
The male only laughed—a sound that sent ice crawling down her spine. It wasn’t just one voice but many, overlapping and shifting, as though a chorus of unseen mouths spoke in perfect unison.
A million voices. A single presence.
Seren swallowed hard. The sound was wrong, something that did not belong in this world. And yet, it was here.
“I am all things. Every shadow, every whisper. I am both what you were, and what you will never become. Time bends to me, and you, little godling, are nothing more than a fleeting thought.” The man laughed.
Perhaps he wasn’t a man at all.
“What do you want?” Seren screamed, frustration cracking through the exhaustion in her voice. This was not a game she wanted to play—not with this unseen tormentor. Her body ached, the cold water leeching the last of her strength.
Then—time shifted. Or perhaps it froze.
The air thickened, charged with something unnatural. The already stagnant world seemed to pause, holding its breath. Seren’s skin prickled. A presence had entered the space—no, it had always been there, simply waiting for the moment to make itself known.
A shadow loomed over her.
Heart hammering, she turned sharply from where she knelt, breath catching as she found herself staring at a pair of shoes standing on the water’s surface before her.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze.
A man stood before her—tall and lean, his presence effortless yet suffocating. His long, dark hair hung like a curtain, casting fractured shadows over his sharp features. A long, straight nose gave him an air of quiet severity, accentuating the unnatural symmetry of his face. And his eyes—a sickly, hypnotic gold—gleamed with something between amusement and hunger.
A slow, knowing smile stretched across his lips.
Seren’s blood ran cold.
“Hello, birdy.” The man’s smile was all teeth, his glowing eyes squinting with amusement. “Quite the show you put on there.”
Seren shuddered. Deep in the marrow of her bones, in the very essence of her being, she knew—this was no man. This was a god. An ancient one.
He crouched before her, his movements fluid, almost leisurely, resting his arms on his thighs as he leveled himself with her. The proximity made her breath hitch. Even without touching her, his presence coiled around her like smoke, inescapable.
“Nothing to say, sweet birdy?” His voice dripped with mock disappointment. “Pity. I was hoping you would be... more.” He shrugged, utterly indifferent, as if she were a minor disappointment in an otherwise dull evening.
Seren glared—a weak, defiant flicker—but she had no fight left in her, and she knew it. She was outmatched in every way.
The air around him felt wrong.
It wasn’t just his presence—it was the way the dark mist curled at his feet, the way the black pool barely rippled despite her struggle. It was the way his voice had surrounded her before she even saw him, slipping into her mind like ink bleeding into parchment.
Her stomach twisted violently. She knew this feeling.
She had felt it in the rotting fields, in the blighted land where crops withered before they could bloom. She had felt it in the temples swallowed by creeping shadows, in the whispers that licked at the edges of her mind, calling her deeper, deeper…
The realization struck like a blade between her ribs. This wasn’t just a god. This was the god.
The one cast down. The one locked away. The one whose essence had festered in the world like an untreated wound—who sought to consume everything.
Seren stilled, she wasn’t sure she was even breathing. Her hands curled into fists, though she had no power left to wield.
The disgraced god only smiled wider, tilting his head, as if he could see the moment her mind put the pieces together.
“Ah, there it is.” His voice slithered through the air like silk. “That lovely little spark of recognition.” He reached out, fingers hovering just beneath her chin, not touching—not yet. But the promise of it made her skin crawl.
“Go on,” His voice lowered to a purr, dark amusement curling around each word. “Say my name.”
She had never known the disgraced god’s name. It was rumored that to say it would bring a curse upon the land in which you stood. But in this moment, the words came to her as if she had known them all along. “Kaelthas.” Seren spoke, nausea twisting deep in her stomach. The name tasted like ash on her tongue, bitter and wrong, as if merely uttering it had summoned the abyss.
Before she could draw another breath, Kaelthas’ hand shot forward, cold fingers wrapping around her throat like iron shackles. Then, he shoved her under.
The dark water swallowed her whole, freezing and thick like tar, filling her nose, her mouth—her lungs. Seren thrashed, her instincts screaming for air, but the pressure against her throat never relented. It wasn’t just his hand holding her down—his will itself was a crushing force, seeping into her very soul.
She wasn’t just drowning. She was unraveling.
Images exploded behind her closed eyes, flashing so fast her mind could barely keep up.
Marcel, a sword piercing through his stomach, his face twisted in agony as the Black Wake coiled around him like living chains, consuming him inch by inch.
Callan, his body sunken into a pool of rotting mud, his flesh peeling, eyes vacant, his voice—calling for her in a ragged whisper before the earth swallowed him whole.
A kingdom in ruins. The sky split open, fire raining down upon the land as monstrous shadows writhed in the flames, feeding, growing.
And then—herself.
Bound in chains, her body broken, golden blood pouring from gashes carved deep into her flesh. Her wings, torn and mangled, pinned like a butcher’s prize. Her voice a silent scream.
It was too much. The weight of it all bore down on her like an ocean of despair, sinking into her marrow, poisoning her thoughts. The pain, the sorrow, the utter helplessness of it all—it was real.
It was real.
A force wrenched her upward.
Seren gasped, coughing up water as she was dragged from the abyss, her body convulsing with shudders. But the air did nothing to soothe her. She was shaking, her breath coming in ragged sobs as Kaelthas held her aloft by her throat.
“You bastard,” she choked, tears blurring her vision. “What have you done? What did you show me?”
Kaelthas only laughed, a deep, resonant sound that sent tremors through the air.
“Oh, sweet birdy,” he crooned, tilting his head, his golden eyes glinting with amusement. “Don’t you see? There is no stopping me.”
Seren’s fury burned hot through the horror clawing at her mind. “You—”
Pain.
It began as a sharp tug at the base of her wings, a foreign, unnatural force wrapping around them like unseen chains. She barely had time to register the sensation before it turned into something far worse.
A searing pressure yanked at the joints where her wings met her back, stretching them past their natural limits. Sinew and muscle strained, pulled taut like fraying rope. A sickening pop reverberated through her body as the first joint gave way, white-hot pain exploding in her nerves.
Seren screamed.
Her body jerked involuntarily, hands clawing at Kaelthas’ wrist, but his grip on her throat was unyielding. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think beyond the agony carving itself into her very being.
Kaelthas took his time.
He didn’t simply tear—he wrenched, twisted, savoring every moment as he dismantled her. The tendons anchoring her wings snapped one by one, each break a fresh wave of torment that sent fire racing down her spine. Blood, thick and golden, trickled in slow, warm rivers down her back, seeping into the tattered remains of her clothes.
Then came the tearing.
Flesh peeled away from bone with a wet, sickening rip. Her nerves roared as Kaelthas pulled harder, and her body spasmed in protest, instinctively trying to keep what was being stolen from her. The raw, exposed muscles burned as if her skin had been flayed from the inside out, her entire existence collapsing into a vortex of suffering.
Another vicious yank—
And then the world shattered.
The final, brutal tear sent agony so deep through her body that for a moment, she thought she had died. A shriek ripped from her throat, raw and broken, as the last of her wings was torn from her body.
She was left gasping, her mind drowning in the unbearable absence where they had once been. It was as if a part of her very soul had been severed.
Kaelthas still held her aloft, his fingers digging into her throat, keeping her from crumpling into the black water below.
Golden blood dripped from his fingers—her blood. He lifted one of her ruined wings, holding it up between them as if admiring a delicate trophy. The feathers were soaked in golden ichor, trembling from the sheer force of their violent separation.
Seren sobbed.
Not from fear. Not from helplessness. From loss. From pain so deep it hollowed her out from the inside.
Kaelthas leaned in, his voice a silken whisper against the shell of her ear. “So dramatic.” he murmured, his breath disturbingly warm against her trembling skin. “This is just a reminder of what’s to come. Of what you’ll lose.”
She couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe. Her body trembled violently, her vision blurred with tears.
Kaelthas smiled.
“You should thank me,” he said, his voice dripping with mock kindness. “Now you understand.”
He let go of her neck, and Seren felt herself fall. Her body, limp and battered, was consumed by the inky depths of the pool once more. She sank into the water, her broken wings trailing behind her like discarded weight, the sting of the loss still searing through her. The cold swallowed her whole, wrapping around her limbs, numbing her.
Her mind, too, began to drift, slipping into the familiar embrace of darkness. It was the only thing that made sense now—the only thing that could hold the fragments of her shattered self together.
The weight of the world pushed down on her chest, suffocating. The darkness surrounded her, pressing in from all sides. It offered her nothing but fear and pain.
She let go.
Seren’s eyes shut, surrendering to the terror that had claimed her mind and body. The ache in her heart, in her back, in her very soul, faded as she drifted deeper. Perhaps this was the end. Perhaps this was what it meant to be empty, to be nothing.
And so, she let the blackness take her.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
Marcel had been awake when the screaming began.
Lounging on the settee, a book about various deities resting open in his lap, he had been lost in thought when the first wail shattered the silence. The sound cut through the night like lightening, raw and agonized, tearing straight through his chest.
He was at her side in an instant.
Seren thrashed against the sheets, clawing wildly at her back, her sobs violent and unrelenting.
“He took them! He took them!” she wailed.
Marcel caught her wrists, restraining her flailing movements before she could tear into herself. “Seren! Seren, wake up!” His voice was urgent, pleading, but she was lost in the throes of whatever horror gripped her mind.
She fought him, her strength fueled by pure desperation. “My wings! He took my wings!”
Marcel’s gut twisted.
“Seren, look at me!” He poured his power into the command, his voice edged with the dark force woven into his very being. “Seren.” The air around them thickened, his essence coiling through the space between them, grounding her—pulling her back.
Seren stilled.
Her eyes snapped open, wide and glassy, but unfocused. The room was bathed in moonlight, but she looked past it—past him.
“Vahn?” she whispered, her voice small and trembling.
Marcel froze.
A sharp, unwanted bitterness curled in his chest. He knew the name. Knew what Vahn meant to her. Her father, her protector. The man she reached for in her darkest moments.
Not him.
He swallowed down the sting and forced himself to exhale slowly. This wasn’t about him. It was about her.
Marcel loosened his grip on her wrists, shifting his hands to cradle her face instead. His calloused fingers brushed away the dampness of her tears, tilting her chin just enough to force her to meet his gaze.
“Seren,” he said, his voice low, steady. “Look at me. See me.”
Her lips parted slightly, her breath still uneven. For a moment, the distant fog in her golden eyes wavered—but then fresh terror flooded in.
“My wings,” she choked out. “They’re gone.”
Marcel’s throat tightened at the sound of her anguish.
“No, Sunbeam,” he murmured, his hands sliding down to grasp her shoulders, steadying her. “They’re still there. No one took them from you.”
She didn’t hear him through the stupor. Her hands moved again, weakly clawing at her back, as if expecting to find only empty space.
Marcel didn’t hesitate. He shifted onto the bed beside her, wrapping his arms around her trembling frame and pulling her against his chest. He held her firm, letting the weight of him anchor her, letting the steady rise and fall of his breath press against her own erratic rhythm. Gently, he began to brush her wings, as he often did to lull her in the early hours of the morning.
“They’re still there,” he murmured, his voice dipping into something deeper, something unshakable. His power curled around them, a dark, protective force. “Feel them, Seren. Breathe.”
She shuddered against him, her body still taut with fear. But slowly—hesitantly—the tension began to ease. Her hands stilled. Her sobs quieted.
Marcel pressed his lips to the crown of her head, his arms tightening around her.
Was this what she saw in her vision? The future that awaited her?
Whatever nightmare had tried to take her—whoever had tried to cause her pain—he would not let them win.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
Marcel awoke to warmth pressed against him, the scent of wildflowers and sunlight lingering in the space between him and his godling.
Seren lay nestled in the crook of his arm, her body still, her breaths slow and even. But she was awake.
His gaze drifted to her face—red-rimmed eyes, lashes still damp from the night before. She wasn’t looking at anything in particular, just staring, lost in some distant thought.
He shifted slightly, inhaling deeply, drawing her scent into his lungs as if to reassure himself that she was still here. Still real.
Golden eyes, dull but present, lifted to meet his. There was a weariness in her gaze, something ancient and raw, as if she had walked through a world he would never know.
“Good morning, Sunbeam,” he rasped, his voice rough with sleep.
Seren blinked up at him, and for the first time in days, she answered. “Good morning,” she murmured.
Marcel stilled. His heart stuttered.
It had been five days. Five days since she had been swallowed by the premonition’s grip. Five days of silence. Five days of waiting. The healers had spoken in hushed voices. The sorcerers had offered theories, none of them certain how long it would take for her to return—if she would return.
Yet here she was.
Cautiously, he reached out, brushing a few strands of golden hair from her face. The concern, all too normal in his heart now, returned when she didn’t react to his touch.
“Do you still dream?” he asked.
Seren’s lips parted slightly. And then—faint, but real—a smile.
It was small, barely there, but it unraveled something deep inside him.
“I’m awake now,” she whispered. “It’s over.”
Marcel exhaled slowly, his fingers trailing from her hair to the curve of her cheek, his touch careful—reverent. He didn’t want to startle her, didn’t want to shatter the fragile moment where she was here, present, with him.
But even as relief settled into his bones, the weight of the past five days lingered.
“You had me worried, Sunbeam,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, rough with something unspoken.
Seren blinked up at him, her golden eyes searching his face as if seeing him—truly seeing him—for the first time since she had woken.
“I…” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, as if trying to find the right words. But what could she possibly say?
She knew Marcel had seen her like this only once before, when the corruption first touched her—the same hollow stare, the same quiet that swallowed her whole. The Black Wake had fed from her essence, leaving her dazed and exhausted. But this had been worse.
When they had encountered the Wake, she hadn’t screamed. She hadn’t thrashed. She had simply stopped—trapped in a world he could not pull her from.
He had been forced to watch, powerless, as she lay unmoving, her breath shallow, her body cold. The memory made something dark coil in his chest.
His thumb traced along the delicate edge of her jaw, grounding himself in the warmth of her skin. “I called your name, but you wouldn’t answer,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “You just… stayed there, lost. No one could reach you.”
Seren’s lips parted slightly, but no words came.
For a moment, she only stared at him, her brows pinching together, something fragile flickering behind her eyes. Then, hesitantly, she lifted a hand, resting it over his.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Marcel huffed a quiet, humorless breath, his fingers curling slightly against her skin. “I don’t need an apology, Seren.” He swallowed hard, his throat tightening. “Just—don’t do that again.”
She let out a shaky breath, her fingers squeezing his in return. “I’ll try,” she murmured. It wasn’t a promise. But it was enough. For now.
Marcel didn’t let go of her, not immediately. He lingered in the warmth of her touch, unwilling to let the moment slip away too quickly. But when her stomach let out a quiet, pitiful growl, he huffed a soft chuckle and pressed a lingering kiss to her temple.
“I’ll have something brought up,” Marcel murmured, sliding out of bed.
Seren didn’t move as he padded to the door, speaking briefly with an attendant in the hall before returning. She only watched his muscular frame, silent and contemplative, before sighing and rubbing her face.
“I must look awful,” she mumbled.
Marcel turned back toward her, his gaze sweeping over her sleep-mussed hair and the shadows still lingering under her eyes. Even so, she was radiant, glowing in the soft morning light that spilled through the windows. The warmth in her skin had finally returned. He smirked. “You always look beautiful, Sunbeam.”
Seren snorted but didn’t argue. Instead, she stretched, her tawny wings fluttering slightly, and winced.
Marcel caught the small movement and frowned. “Come,” he said, offering his hand to her. “Let’s get cleaned up before breakfast arrives.”
She let him pull her to her feet, and though she moved slowly, her steps were steady as he guided her toward the adjoining bath chamber. Marcel helped her undress, careful to ensure the fabric didn’t tug on her wings.
The tub wasn’t prepared, much to Seren’s quiet dismay. Instead, Marcel turned toward the overhead piping system—the one she rarely managed to figure out on her own.
A moment later, a steady stream of warm water cascaded down from above. The instant it touched her skin, Seren let out a small, contented sigh, tilting her face into the stream. The heat soaked into her muscles, loosening the tension she hadn’t realized she was holding.
To the side, Marcel reached for the clasps of his shirt, unfastening them with practiced ease. The fabric slipped from his shoulders, revealing the broad expanse of his chest—tan and marked with faint scars, each a silent testament to battles fought and won. Seren’s gaze flickered toward him, cautious yet unable to resist tracing the lines of his physique.
He made no show of it, no deliberate movements to draw attention, but there was something undeniably commanding in the way he undressed. As he loosened his belt and stepped out of his trousers, Seren swallowed, her fingers twitching at her sides.
Marcel caught her staring. His smirk was subtle, teasing. “Like what you see?”
Seren scoffed, turning her head toward the cascading water, though the warmth rising to her cheeks betrayed her. “Hardly,” she muttered, but the way her eyes lingered told another story.
Marcel joined her without hesitation, his hands finding her waist as he pulled her close. He observed the way she relaxed under the water’s embrace. A small smile tugged at his lips. “See? Not so bad.”
Seren hummed in response, eyes slipping shut. Maybe, just this once, he was right.
For a while, there was only silence, the steam curling around them as Marcel ran his fingers through her damp hair, carefully washing away the remnants of sleep. It was easy, natural, the way they moved together. He reached for the soap, massaging the lather into her skin, and she sighed again, leaning into his touch.
But as he traced the curve of her back, his fingers skimming over the tense muscles along her shoulder blades, the memory of the night before returned like a phantom.
“You screamed,” he said quietly, breaking the silence. “In your sleep.”
Seren stiffened.
Marcel continued, his voice gentle but firm. “You were clawing at your back, saying someone had taken your wings.”
Seren swallowed. “I don’t remember doing that.”
Marcel exhaled, turning her to face him, he leaned down and pressed his forehead against her temple. “I do.” His hands held her close, ghosting along her spine, lingering over the place where her wings met her back. “You were inconsolable, Seren. You were trapped in that vision and there was nothing I could do to wake you.”
Seren’s breath hitched slightly, and for a moment, she said nothing. Then, quietly, she murmured, “It was him.”
Marcel went still.
The disgraced god who plagued both their nightmares. Marcel had suspected as much, but hearing it from her lips made his blood run cold.
“He was there,” Seren admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “And he—” She stopped herself, shaking her head.
Marcel pulled back just enough to look at her, his thumb tilting her chin so their eyes met. “Tell me,” he urged.
Seren hesitated, grabbing his arm. For the first time since she woke, he saw something uncertain flicker in her golden eyes. She wanted to speak—he could see it in the way her lips parted, the way her fingers trembled against his wrist.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she shook her head. “Not yet.”
Marcel studied her, searching for the right words. He wanted to demand more. He needed to know what she had seen, what haunted her so deeply that it kept her trapped in a catatonic state for five days.
But he also knew her. And he knew pushing her now would do no good. So, instead, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering there for a long moment. “When you’re ready,” he said, his voice steady. “I’ll be here.”
Seren exhaled shakily, nodding against him.
For now, that would have to be enough.