Chapter 10: The Warmth of Sunlight
The salt-wind hit her first, a slap of clean, chaotic life after the tomb-stillness of the throne room. Y/n stood at the edge of the gravel path, the taverna’s warm light spilling out into the purple twilight. She could see her through the window, a splash of golden hair bent over a notebook, a half-empty glass of red wine at her elbow.
Milly.
Alive. Uncut. Just sitting there, doodling in a margin, completely unaware of the cosmic accounting that had just been settled over her soul.
Y/n’s hands were still cold. She flexed them, feeling the phantom grip of the hydra-skin pouch. It was still on her belt, the smooth, worthless stone inside. The relief was there, a solid, warm weight in her gut, but it was tangled with a vibrating wire of anger. He’d made her choose. He’d made her believe she had to choose. She pushed the taverna door open.
The buzz of mortal conversation, the clatter of plates, the smell of oregano and grilling meat—it was almost overwhelming. A few locals glanced up, their eyes lingering a fraction too long on her height, her stillness, the otherness that no amount of mortal clothing could fully disguise. She ignored them.
Milly looked up as the shadow fell across her table. Her blue eyes widened, then narrowed instantly with pragmatic concern. “You look like shit. And you smell… weird. Like ozone and old books.”
Y/n slid into the chair opposite. “It’s been a day.”
“Three days,” Milly corrected, closing her notebook. “You vanished. No text. No ‘hey, just popping to the underworld, back for tea.’ Nothing.” There was no real accusation in her tone, just a blunt recital of facts. It was more grounding than any sympathy.
“I’m sorry.” The apology felt inadequate, mortal. “It was… complicated.”
“Complicated.” Milly took a slow sip of wine, studying her over the rim of the glass. “Right. So. Did you fix it? Whatever ‘it’ was?”
Y/n reached for the wine bottle, poured herself a glass without asking. She took a long drink. The fruity tang was a shock to a system more accustomed to the metallic water of the Lethe. “Yes. And no.”
“Cryptic. Fantastic.” Milly leaned forward, her voice dropping. “Look, I’m not an idiot. I fell through a crack in the world and met the god of death. My suspension of disbelief is currently holding on by its fingernails. So just give it to me straight. Am I… am I okay?”
The directness was a lance through the fog. Y/n met her gaze, letting the mortal see the faint, unsettling glow in her own. “You’re okay. Your thread is intact. No cuts, no extensions. You get your one and only life, start to finish.”
Milly exhaled, a shuddering breath she seemed to have been holding for days. “Okay. Good. Great.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “And what was the catch?”
Y/n barked a laugh, a short, sharp sound that had the couple at the next table glancing over. “The catch.” She pulled the pouch from her belt and dropped it on the table with a soft thud. It lay between them, a little piece of worn-out horror. “The catch was this. I was told it was a fragment of primordial darkness that could save you, but that it needed a soul to bond with. A vessel. That it was you or me.”
Milly’s face went very still. Her eyes flicked from the pouch to Y/n’s face. “You believed that?”
“Yes.”
“And you went and got it anyway.”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“And then my father sprung his little lesson. My mother showed up and called him on his bullshit.” Y/n untied the pouch, tipped the stone into her palm. It was just a black, glossy pebble, catching the candlelight. “This is it. It’s a rock. A souvenir. The whole thing was a test.”
Milly stared at the stone. Her expression cycled through disbelief, dawning comprehension, and then a blazing, righteous fury that was magnificent to behold. “Are you fucking kidding me? He put you through that… that existential horror show… as a test? What was he testing? How much trauma you can cram into a long weekend?”
“He was testing my choice,” Y/n said quietly, rolling the stone in her hand. “Whether I’d sacrifice myself for a mortal. Whether I’d ask you to sacrifice yourself. Whether I’d find a third option. He wanted to see what I’d do at the edge.”
“And what did you do?”
“I chose me.” The words hung there. “For you. I was going to take it. I was going to say it should be me.”
Milly was silent for a long moment. The fury cooled, replaced by something more thoughtful. She reached across the table, not for the stone, but for Y/n’s hand. Her fingers were warm, ink-stained, solid.