✓ | 𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘂𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀, luke castellan

ꜱɪxᴛʏ-ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ

His Mortal Thread.

🧶

    With one last, lingering glance back at her, Luke took a deep breath. His expression was resolute, his jaw set, though Rory thought she caught the faintest flicker of fear in his eyes before he turned away. Then, without hesitation, he stepped forward into the Styx.

    For a fleeting moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Rory’s pulse thundered in her ears as she watched the dark, unforgiving water lap at his boots and then rise to his ankles. The river’s current swirled and eddied around him, its motion eerily deliberate, as though it recognized the intruder in its domain.

    And then, without warning, Luke plunged fully into the Styx.

    Rory’s heart seized. He vanished beneath the surface in an instant, the water folding over him with a chilling finality. The river erupted into chaos, its surface churning and frothing violently, as though the Styx itself was protesting his intrusion. The inky black water rippled with malevolence, and Rory thought she could almost hear it—a cacophony of whispers and cries, the anguished wails of countless souls who had succumbed to its pull.

    A tight knot of panic formed in her stomach. Her feet shifted forward instinctively, her body screaming at her to follow him, to dive in and pull him back. But logic kept her rooted in place. Jumping in after him wouldn’t save him. It wouldn’t accomplish anything but condemning them both. What could she possibly do against the Styx?

    Her hands curled into fists, nails biting into her palms with a sharp sting that she barely registered. The pain was grounding, a reminder that she was still here, still powerless on the edge of this ancient river. She forced herself to stay put, though every fiber of her being fought against it, screaming that this was wrong, that she had to do something. The tension in her body was unbearable, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps as she fought to keep from falling apart. She clenched her jaw tightly, grinding her teeth against the surge of helplessness crashing over her like the waves of the Styx itself.

    He could do this, she told herself, clinging to the thought like a lifeline. He had to. He couldn’t possibly die now—not after everything they had been through, not with so much still left undone. The world wouldn’t take him from her now. It couldn’t. Not like this.

    But doubt crept in, insidious and unrelenting. The seconds felt like hours, each one stretching endlessly as the river continued its violent protest. Its surface churned and thrashed, dark tendrils of water writhing as if they were alive, determined to drag him deeper into the abyss. Rory’s heart raced, pounding painfully against her ribs with every ripple that broke the surface. She couldn’t shake the terrible feeling that he was losing the fight, that the Styx was winning, pulling him further and further away from her.

    Her breath hitched, her throat tightening as the thought struck her—what if he didn’t come back? What if the river consumed him entirely, leaving nothing behind but an empty space where he once stood? The possibility was too much to bear.

    And then, just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, the water erupted in a violent burst. Rory’s heart finally stopped as Luke surfaced, gasping for air. For a moment, relief flooded through her, so intense it almost brought her to her knees. He was alive. He had made it. But the feeling was fleeting, vanishing almost as quickly as it had come.

    Her stomach twisted as she truly saw him. His face was a mask of agony, his features contorted beyond recognition. It was him, and yet it wasn’t—the boy she knew seemed to be buried beneath the raw pain etched into every line of his expression. His skin was a sickly, unnatural red, glowing faintly as though he had been set aflame from the inside. It pulsed with an eerie light, like molten lava coursing through his veins.