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

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

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

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

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

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

We advance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The worst is yet to come.

Chapter 32