Beyond His Evil

EPILOGUE.

The Half Demigod.

The chamber was silent.

Not the kind of silence that follows sleep, but the kind that comes after slaughter. Stone floors soaked with blood. Bodies scattered like discarded offerings. The air itself felt stunned, as though the world had paused to take in what had been done.

Everyone was dead.

The Half Demigod almost laughed.

He had known the plan would fail. It always would have. Prophecies rotted when too many hands tried to shape them. His decision to stay had never been about helping. He had stayed because he wanted to see her.

The Chosen One.
The hunter destined to end evil.

She was nothing as he had imagined. He expected a warrior in mind and heart, but she was young, too young, too fragile, and too small for the weight fate had placed upon her shoulders.

What kind of god entrusted the balance of the world to a girl?

His gaze settled on her lifeless body. She lay draped over the demon she loved, her limbs still tangled in his, as if death itself had failed to pry her away. The image struck something old and bitter inside him.

Tragic.

She had possessed the power to save everyone and yet she could not save the one she loved. He had been the sacrifice. The price demanded for her powers' awakening.

Darkness and light shared nothing in common. But without darkness, light could not exist. Thus, the prophecy had been fulfilled.

Now, standing among corpses and broken destinies, he understood. This had never been a choice. It had always been fate. He wondered what fate still had planned for her, if she survived this.

He turned to leave.

A whisper brushed against his mind, gentle and commanding all at once.

Help her.

He froze.

That voice.

Soft, feminine, and familiar in a way time could not erode.

He had heard it for millions of years; appearing without warning, offering only a sentence, then vanishing. In his earliest days, he had believed it madness. Later, he had dared to call it Mother—until he realized he did not deserve that mercy.

The voice had never been wrong.

“She’s dead,” he said quietly, more statement than protest.

She is not. She was marked.

The voice vanished, leaving its words echoing in his mind. Understanding struck with brutal clarity.

When she had ripped Zethar’s heart from his chest, she had begun to die, not from the act, but from the bond Zethar had forged through his mark. It was draining her now, but she was not truly dead.

She couldn’t be.

Death followed rules, and she was beyond them.

He crossed the chamber and knelt beside her. His ancient senses reached instinctively and there it was.

Faint, uneven, real breath.

His eyes traveled to her neck and there was Zethar's mark. A growl rolled low from his chest, vibrating the stillness around them.

There was only one way to save her.
Another mark would have to replace Zethar’s; one strong enough to sever the bond. But marking her meant more. It meant binding their souls. Permanently. An ancient madness even he did not fully understand.

They would be one.

He straightened.

He couldn’t do it.

He shouldn’t.

But the voice had asked him to help her. And it never spoke without reason.
With a frustrated snarl, he moved before doubt could root itself. He lifted her from the demon’s body, her weight lighter than it should have been, and drew down his mask. Tilting her head gently, he exposed the corrupted mark on her neck.

His fangs descended. He hesitated just a fraction of a second, then he bit.

She gasped violently, a scream ripping from her throat as pain and power collided inside her. She thrashed, kicked, and fought him with everything she had left. He held her fast.

Did she truly believe this was something he desired?

The bond snapped into place as her blood spilled into his mouth. Power surged breaking her previous bond, recognition blooming between them like a wound reopening across centuries.

Her body stilled. She went limp in his arms, breath evening as unconsciousness claimed her.

He withdrew his fangs and licked the thin line of blood trailing from the mark. It took every ounce of control not to drain her dry. Her blood was unlike anything he had ever tasted. It tasted sacred, and dangerous in every way.

He hoisted her over his shoulder and prepared to teleport. Then he looked back at the demon, the body she had loved.

He sighed.

She would want to bury him properly.
The realization irritated him.

Why did he care?

The bond answered for him. Her grief slammed into his chest, raw and suffocating. It clawed through centuries of ice, tightening around a heart that had long forgotten how to ache.

He groaned, the sound echoing through the bloody chamber.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered.

Placing a foot on the demon’s body, he teleported, taking them both.

As the world folded around him, one truth settled heavily in his mind:

Nothing would ever be the same again.

A vote please ❤️❤️.