The rift in the Ash
Lucien
Madeline had fallen asleep, draped over me, her breath warm and steady, a rhythm I could feel against my chest. Everywhere her skin touched mine, my tattoos stirred, shifting beneath her fingertips as if they were aware of her presence. The silver ink flickered, tendrils of sigils winding, flowing toward where her hand lay in a slow, deliberate motion—not merely responding—but reaching.
I had lit the fire right after she had fallen asleep, but it had burned low now, its embers fading into soft coals, their light being swallowed by the growing shadows. I let out a slow breath, and with only a thought—or maybe something deeper than thought—my shadows stirred, curling toward the hearth.
They moved unnaturally, folding into themselves before spilling outward and
