The scent of smoke and wildflowers pulled Rhodanthe back from the abyss.
Not the smoke of ruin, nor the scorched incense of temples long abandoned. No—this was something gentler, older. Like embers that refused to die. Like spring after the end of the world.
She stirred.
Pain lanced through her body in molten threads, but it was distant now, muffled by something warm and soft cradling her. Furs—thick, heavy, and perfumed faintly with lavender.
Her eyes cracked open.
The ceiling above her was hewn from black stone, rough and ancient, carved through centuries by nothing but wind and stubbornness. A small fire crackled in a hollow of the wall, casting long, sinuous shadows across the chamber.
A figure sat beside her, perched elegantly in a battered wooden chair.
The woman from the forest.
She was peeling away the ruined remnants of Rhodanthe's gown with careful, unhurried fingers. Every touch was deliberate, reverent, avoiding the worst of the torn flesh, the twisted veins still throbbing with the wolf's venom.
Seeing her now, without the chaos of battle between them, was disorienting.
The woman's beauty was not fragile or ethereal like a goddess'—it was something fierce. Solid. Real.
Her black hair fell loose down her back, glinting with threads of fire when the light caught it. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing strong forearms dusted with faint golden freckles, as if kissed once by a sun that no longer rose.
But it was her presence that struck Rhodanthe hardest.
It wasn't human.
Or rather—it wasn't only human.
Something slumbered beneath that mortal skin. Something ancient. Something burning.
She smelled faintly of scorched feathers and summer storms.
A phoenix.
Not a god. Not a vampire.
A creature as cursed—and blessed—as Rhodanthe herself.
The woman noticed her watching.
Their eyes met.
Violet against garnet.
Fire against blood.
"You're awake," the woman said, her voice a low hum that made the air shiver. Relief flickered across her face, briefly cracking the calm mask she wore. "Good."
Rhodanthe tried to sit up. Pain flared in her side, sharp and immediate, and she hissed in frustration.
The woman was beside her in an instant, firm hands pressing gently against her shoulders.
"Don't move yet," she murmured. "You're still healing."
Rhodanthe bared her teeth. "I do not…heal like mortals do."
A smile ghosted across the woman's mouth—half amusement, half something tender and aching.
"No, I suppose you don't," she agreed. "But even an eternal rose can bleed."
Something twisted inside Rhodanthe—something old and raw and terribly fragile.
She turned her head away, furious at the weakness pricking behind her eyes.
The woman didn't press. She moved instead to the fire, gathering a bowl of thick, sweet-smelling liquid.
She returned, kneeling by Rhodanthe's bedside with a grace that was almost reverent.
"This will help."
Rhodanthe stared at the bowl suspiciously. The scent was familiar, but she could not place it.
The woman must have read the question in her gaze.
"Myrrh," she said simply. "And phoenix ash."
Rhodanthe froze.
Myrrh—the cursed perfume of her mother's tears.
Phoenix ash—the dust of rebirth.
An elixir born from grief and fire.
With trembling fingers, Rhodanthe accepted the offering.
The liquid burned down her throat like molten gold. Her body convulsed, but not in pain—in something deeper. As if old scars, old hungers, old memories were being torn open and stitched anew at the same time.
When the fit passed, she lay gasping, her body blazing with renewed strength—and something else. Something foreign and terrifying.
Hope.
The woman watched her, silent and patient.
After a moment, she spoke again.
"My name is Lysandra."
Rhodanthe's voice was barely a whisper.
"Why…why save me?"
Lysandra tilted her head, studying her as one might study a dying star, wondering whether to mourn it or wish upon it.
"Because I heard your heart breaking," she said simply. "And it sounded like my own."
Silence fell between them, heavy and shimmering.
In that silence, Rhodanthe felt something ancient stir.
Not hunger. Not rage.
But the faintest, most terrible thing of all.
Longing.
Outside, the full moon rode high, washing the crumbling castle and the two broken souls within it in argent light.
And deep within Rhodanthe's hollow chest, where once only hatred and sorrow lived—
a spark caught.
And refused to die.
~~~~
Days bled into nights.
The moons waxed and waned over Delphi's crumbling castle, and still Rhodanthe lingered in the half-light between healing and despair.
And always, Lysandra was there.
Tending the fire.
Carrying bowls of blood-soaked broth and fragrant ointments.
Changing the bandages Rhodanthe's pride barely allowed her to accept.
Speaking little, but staying.
It gnawed at Rhodanthe's spirit like acid on silk.
She should have driven the mortal away the moment she could stand.
She should have spat in gratitude's face and returned to her endless, hollow reign.
But every time she opened her mouth to speak the words—
Leave me. I do not need you.
I will only bring you ruin.
You will die, and I will remain.
—they caught in her throat, strangled by a pain she could not name.
Tonight, she tried again.
The fire was low, painting Lysandra's face in molten gold and shadows.
She sat cross-legged by the hearth, mending a tear in her own rough cloak, humming something low and wordless under her breath.
Rhodanthe sat stiffly in the grand old bed, swathed in silks that had once adorned queens, now moth-eaten and threadbare.
"You should go," Rhodanthe said quietly.
Lysandra did not look up from her stitching.
"I mean it." Rhodanthe's voice sharpened, a blade against the stillness. "You owe me nothing."
At that, Lysandra's hands stilled.
She lifted her head, violet eyes meeting garnet without flinching.
"I owe you nothing," she agreed. "That's why I stay."
Simple. Final.
Rhodanthe's hands clenched in the sheets.
"You will age," she said, hating how brittle her voice sounded. "You will wither. Fade. I will remain unchanged. Immortal. Watching you rot."
A brutal truth, thrown like a dagger between them.
Lysandra smiled—small and unbearably soft.
"All living things fade," she said. "Even phoenixes. We just…burn a little brighter before the end."
She rose from the hearth and crossed the room.
Her movements were steady, fearless.
She stopped before the bed, close enough that Rhodanthe could smell the smoke and sun-warmed skin clinging to her.
Without asking permission, Lysandra reached out—
and brushed a strand of Rhodanthe's hair behind her ear.
It was nothing.
A touch lighter than a sigh.
And it unraveled something monstrous inside Rhodanthe.
She caught Lysandra's wrist before it could fall away, her grip iron-tight.
Not hurting.
But pleading.
"You don't understand," Rhodanthe said, voice breaking like a storm-lashed wave.
"I was cursed because of love. Because mortals…because they worshiped me, ruined themselves for me. I am a plague of devotion. I destroy everything I touch."
Lysandra's gaze did not waver. If anything, it deepened.
"You don't destroy me," she said simply. "You make me choose."
The silence that fell between them was thick enough to drown in.
Slowly, Lysandra leaned in, so close Rhodanthe could feel the mortal's heartbeat against her own still chest. A wild, vibrant rhythm, defiant of death itself.
"I choose this," Lysandra whispered. "Even if it ends in ashes."
And Rhodanthe—beautiful, broken Rhodanthe—
for once had no defense against such madness.
She released Lysandra's wrist. Let her hand fall useless to the bed.
But she could not look away.
Could not stop drinking in the mortal fire blooming so recklessly in the face of inevitable ruin.
That night, Lysandra did not leave her side.
She sat by the bed, drowsing in the chair, one hand loosely wrapped around Rhodanthe's.
Not in chains.
Not in worship.
But in stubborn, reckless love.
Rhodanthe lay awake until dawn bled gray over the mountains, watching the first silver threads in Lysandra's hair glint in the pale light.
Time was cruel.
It carved its signatures deep into mortal flesh while the cursed and the divine stood untouched, unable to halt the slow, inevitable decay.
Already she could see it—the tiny shifts.
The faint lines beginning to form at the corners of Lysandra's violet eyes.
The slight heaviness in her step when she thought no one was looking.
Rhodanthe ached with it.
She could feel the centuries gathering behind her ribs, a tidal wave she could not hold back.
And Lysandra—bright, fierce Lysandra—would age.
Would weaken. Would die.
And there was nothing Rhodanthe could do.
Because Lysandra had made her choice.
No curse.
No venom.
No divine trickery.
Only love. Terrible, glorious, mortal love.
And Rhodanthe—Queen of Roses, Daughter of Betrayal—
could only sit beside her beloved,
and wait for the slow cruelty of time to tear her world apart once again.