The river sighed beneath her touch, light rippling outward until it gathered at the feet of the man in black.

Her heart stuttered, as it always did when he came.

The bond between them defied reason. She couldn’t recall when it began, only that life before him felt distant, half-forgotten, as if he had breathed her into being…

…as if he had called her from the dark.

Sapphira stepped forward, her blush gown trailing through the silver water, lace drinking the glow. An off-white veil fell from the braided crown of her red-gold hair, jeweled and threaded with flowers. For a moment, she imagined him waiting at the end of the aisle, instead of the prince she was bound to marry.

The thought was absurd, yet an ache rose in her chest at the vow she could never make to him.

The man in black watched her through his mask with an eerie calm, like death itself keeping vigil.

The mask always gave her pause – glass swirling with smoke and shadow, its edges lined in silver, its lips painted in muted gold. It was almost human, and once she might have believed it was his face, until one dewy morning she glimpsed the truth beneath: eyes the color of polished obsidian, kind and weary, burdened by centuries.

Beneath the mask, she could feel those same eyes tracing her now. Each step drew her closer. Every time he looked at her, she felt he could see something she could not about herself, as if he carried a secret locked away behind the mist and smoke.

Stillness followed, as if the world held its breath. The air around him carried the faint scent of amber and rain on stone, a whisper of night caught between warmth and cold.

“What are you doing here, Little Flame?” he asked, his voice low and deep, every word caressing the air around her. The faint scent of amber deepened as he spoke, warm and soft, like breath against the skin.

She stopped inches from him, looking up into his veiled face, hoping for one last glimpse. There was so much she wished to tell him, but the words had built up so long that they remained locked in her chest.

He sensed her hesitation and took her hands, lifting them to his gold-painted lips for a chastising kiss. The touch was cold and distant, grounding her enough to find some of what she wanted to say.

“I can’t marry him.” The words felt like a betrayal of her duty.

“He’s a good man,” he said quietly. “The prince is known for his kindness, unlike his father.”

“Is that all it takes to be a good husband, Omen?”

“It is something one entering an arranged marriage might prefer,” he replied, his tone snarky.

She sighed, pulling her hand from his grasp. She turned toward the river, where the rust-colored sun brushed against Eden’s banks one last time for the day. Birds settled into their nests, while tiny pixies emerged from their hollows, their glow shimmering across the darkening water.

A burning gathered behind her nose. She could so easily have given in and wept, but instead she squared her shoulders and took a long breath. It was easier to be strong when he was near; somehow, he steadied her.

Inhale.

Exhale.

When the ache finally subsided, she turned back to him, only to find he was gone, swallowed by mist and shadow with the setting sun.

A hollowness rang through at finding him gone.

The silence he left behind followed her back to the palace. That night, sleep felt like it never came. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the river’s light and the place where he had stood. The scent of amber lingered in the air, faint and fading, as if the night itself had taken a breath and held it.

II.

Sapphira sat cross-legged on her bed, staring at the wedding gown hung before her. It was lovely. She had been granted the rare privilege of choosing its design. The base was the color of watered champagne, overlaid with intricate white lace.

In every sense of the word, it was stunning. She would look every part the blushing princess bride.

Yet it felt wrong.

Her gaze drifted to the window and the river beyond. Fog rolled in thicker than usual, and a hollow stillness settled outside. On the wind came a faint hint of rain. Dawn would come soon. With every passing heartbeat, her chest tightened, as if a thread pulled her toward the water.

It called to her in a way she couldn’t explain. At night, she sometimes heard whispers along the river, soft and coaxing, speaking of home in a place she had never seen.

In her dreams, she lay in a boat while Omen guided it through darkness. Her fingers skimmed the water’s surface as it shimmered gold. From the depths rose white and gold flowers, blooming where her touch had passed.

A feeling of clarity rang through her.

If she went through with the arranged marriage, she would be dragged down, smothered beneath duty until she couldn’t breathe. If she left, she would drown. Either way, the end was the same. But with Omen, there was no fear, no hesitation. Being with him was more than enough.

“It would be enough,” she whispered to herself.

Before her mind could catch up with her heart, she was running. Out of her chambers, past startled servants and shouting guards. The thunder of armor echoed behind her, but she didn’t stop. Her pale blue nightgown streamed behind her as she pushed open the great doors and sprinted barefoot across the pebbles. The stones bit into her feet, but she barely felt them.

Relief coursed through her as the trees came into view, and the sound of rushing water filled her ears.

She broke through the brush and fell to her knees on the riverbank, reaching toward the water. The ripple shone brighter than she had ever seen.

“Omen,” she whispered.

Shouts echoed in the distance, her name carried on the wind and growing closer.

The overpowering scent of amber and a sudden coldness washed over her.

“Sapphira,” Omen said, concern in his voice. “What are you doing?”

His mask looked different now, the shadows within it twisting like a brewing storm. “Sapphira,” he said again, grasping her shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head and pressed herself against him, burying her face in his chest. There was no heartbeat beneath his ribs, only the sound of his uneven breathing and the quiet pulse of the river.

The cold seeped through his clothes, but she breathed him in. The all too familiar scent of amber, the faint sweetness of rain, the stillness that always followed him. In all the years she had known him, this was the most she had ever touched him. He never held her, except in fleeting moments, when he would take her hand in comfort or farewell. The memory of those touches lingered in her palms, warm ghosts against the chill.

Her father’s voice cut through the night, furious and frightened.

Omen tensed. He tried to push her away, but she clung to him.

“Take me with you,” she said. Her voice sounded small, childlike.

“Sapphira,” his voice broke on her name, “my world isn’t meant for breathing.”

She only held tighter. “And when I leave here without you, I won’t be able to breathe.”

Footsteps crashed through the underbrush behind them.

“Please,” she whispered, barely a breath.

“Sapphira!” her father’s voice roared. “Get away from that thing!”

The world seemed to hold its breath again.

Then she and Omen fell backward into the river.

Sapphira expected the water to bite into her skin and her lungs to burn for air, but instead she felt only release. As they fell, she couldn’t tell if the sigh came from her own lips or from the river itself.

As if something had been returned to it, once lost.

The world inverted, folding into a cascade of dark blue silk.

A world behind the veil.

III.

The world swayed.

Sapphira blinked several times, trying to make sense of what she saw above her. The sky hung in perpetual twilight, with no sun, moon, or stars. It moved and flowed like a river, rippling with faint light.

Her brows knit together. Was she upside down? She tried to remember, but memory felt far away and unimportant.

“You’re awake,” Omen said, his tone unreadable.

She pushed herself upright, the world around her weightless, as if gravity had forgotten her. When the motion made her tilt, Omen caught her and drew her into his lap. His hold was firm, grounding.

She should have been afraid. She was somewhere she couldn’t name, held by something she couldn’t understand. Yet peace dulled the edges of fear until none remained. Not when she was with him. She had never felt so safe.

She looked up at him. Through the faint mist behind the glass of his mask, she sensed his gaze upon her. When her fingers brushed the edge, the surface was cool, slick as water. He leaned into her touch, and something inside her stirred.

She ached to see the face he kept hidden. Her fingers curled beneath the edge, but he gently caught her wrists, bringing her hands to his gold-painted mouth.

“Not now, Little Flame.”

She frowned. “Are Ferrymen not allowed to take off their masks?”

He laughed softly and threaded his fingers through hers. “You think I’m one of Death’s Ferrymen?”

Uncertainty curled in her stomach. “You’ve never told me what you are. What else would you be, since you haunt rivers and streams, a worm? A frog prince?”

“I could be a kelpie,” he teased, the smile in his voice unmistakable, “dragging you down to my depraved depths.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she said with narrow eyes, feigning outrage.

“Wouldn’t I?” His head tilted slightly, playful.

He seemed at peace here, relaxed. On the riverbank, he had always been still and solemn, as if something held him in place, but here, wherever here was, he moved with quiet ease. It brought a softness to him she had never seen.

A softness she wanted to know.

The small boat shifted beneath them. Sapphira looked up to see a long black dock veiled in mist. Beyond it, everything was obscured.

“Where are we?” she asked.

Omen didn’t release her hand as he stood and lifted her easily from the boat. Once they were on the dock, he set her down, but kept her fingers intertwined with his. With a quiet motion of his free hand, the mist thinned, unveiling a grand manor of dark stone and stained-glass windows. Trees and flowers surrounded it, their colors muted yet radiant, like reflections on still water.

It was breathtaking, like something she had once dreamed.

“Home,” Omen said, breaking her trance. “Welcome home, Sapphira.”

IV.

Home. The word lingered in her mind as they climbed the steps.

The sound of it felt too soft for a place like this. Mist thickened the air, carrying the hum of unseen water and that familiar trace of amber. She turned slowly in the doorway; the river-light from the stained glass washed her gown in shifting color.

It didn’t feel like entering another’s house, it felt like stepping back into a dream she had forgotten.

She glided through the halls, the walls alive with light from the river outside, drawing her deeper until she reached a grand ballroom crowded with figures in glass masks like Omen’s.

A pulse thudded through the floor; déjà vu rippled over her.

How do I know this place?

“Omen?” she called. He stood a few paces behind, no longer in black, but in a tailored suit of deep blue silk, dark hair swept back. Curiosity flickered in him.

She blinked and looked down. Her nightgown had become her wedding dress, its angel sleeves billowing as she reached for him. “How do I know this place?”

The mist inside his mask darkened.

“Have I been here before?”

He shook his head, closing the distance to take her hands. “No. Not in the mortal sense.”

She waited, breath held.

He sighed. “Two years ago, after your twenty-third birthday, you were told you would marry Prince Bishop.”

Her brow furrowed. I don’t remember this. The memory slipped away like water through her fingers.

“You ran from your father’s palace,” he continued. “You went to the river and I happened to be on the bank. You brushed past me, and I followed… until you fell. I watched you hit your head…” He trails off for a moment, lost in thought, before he continues. “There was so much blood. Your hair, gold like the sun, turned red.”

His voice faltered. “The river swallowed you before I could reach you. The current dragged you under, and when I finally pulled you out-” He takes a breath in. “You weren’t breathing. Your lips were blue, your pulse gone. The world grew still, as if holding its breath with you.”

He swallowed hard. “I wouldn’t let you die. I hadn’t been mortal in a long time, but I had a little left to give.”

Tears blurred her vision. “And you gave it to me?”

He nodded once, the motion slow, pained. “My last breath. My last heartbeat. They became yours.”

She touched the mask; it melted away.

Light bent around him, unwilling to touch him too harshly. His skin glowed faintly, like moonlight on water. His eyes, black and kind, held the stillness of a sky before dawn. Looking at him felt like standing at the edge of something infinite.

She rose on her toes and brushed her lips to his. The pulse beneath her feet stopped mid-beat.

“Sapphira,” he gasped, horror twisting his face. “What have you done?”

Her heart stuttered; her balance faltered. He caught her as the ballroom trembled.

“Omen… what’s happening?”

“We have to get you back through the veil.”

She tried to resist, but the floor heaved, masked guests scattering around them. “Omen!”

He lifted her easily; she no longer had strength to fight. Holding her tight to his chest, he sprinted through the crumbling manor.

Outside, he didn’t pause, only ran straight for the docks and the black boat waiting in the mist.

Gently, he laid her inside, brushing a hand through her hair. “You weren’t supposed to kiss me yet,” he said, eyes rimmed red.

Sleep tugged at her, heavy and warm.

His breath shuddered, the words breaking from him in pieces. “We hadn’t completed the bond – the last thread between life and death.”

He looked at her then, grief softening his voice. “Sapphira… I am the Omen of Death.”

Her head throbbed; her voice came weak. “I-I don’t understand.”

He cupped her face, voice breaking. “You kissed death.”

V.

Her hand trailed through the river. Every breath came shallow, her heartbeat faint.

She dragged her gaze to Omen, watching him row with frantic precision.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice thin as air.

He didn’t look at her, only shook his head. “No, Sapphira, I’m sorry. I should have told you. I hoped that when you crossed the veil again, it would be after you’d lived your mortal life.”

“So if I die in the mortal world…?”

“I hope,” he said softly, “that you will come back to life. Here, with me.”

She felt herself slipping further into something dark, somewhere kind and endless.

“What if I-” Her words broke off as the edges of her vision blurred.

“Sapphira?”

The world tilted.

She fell into a raging river of dark blue silk, streaks of white and gold racing past her.

“Sapphira!” he called again, his hand outstretched.

She reached for him, their fingers brushing once-

Her last thought was not fear, but want.

I want a life with you. Only you.

And the world toppled.

VI.

Sapphira shot upright in her bed, a deep, life-giving breath tearing from her chest. Her hand flew to her throat, clawing for air, the taste of amber thick on her tongue.

When her breathing steadied, she looked down. Her wedding gown clung to her, the hem stained blue as river silk.

She stumbled to the mirror. Her red-golden hair was braided into a crown, veil fastened tight.

Music drifted from outside – laughter, voices, celebration. A stone dropped in her stomach.

No.

She ran. Down the corridors, through the open doors, past the gardens and to the river. No one followed this time. Only her ragged breaths and the babble of water filled the air.

Lifting her gown, she knelt at the bank and pressed her hand into the current.

There was no shimmer.

No man in black.

Tears blurred her sight.

“Omen,” she whispered.

Silence.

“Omen!” she cried louder, voice breaking.

Nothing.

“I wished for you… As I was falling, I asked for a life. A life with you,” she murmured, and a tear fell, rippling the surface.

The scent of rain and amber filled the air.

She turned-

Omen.

But different. Warmth flushed his skin; life glowed faintly beneath it.

“Omen,” she breathed, his name trembling through her tears. The hem of her gown sank into the water.

He cupped her face gently. “Little flame, they listened,” he whispered, before his lips met hers. A second breath of life surged between them.

A throat cleared behind them. They turned to see her father, resplendent in his formal attire, brow arched. “It’s bad luck to see your bride before the wedding, Sir Omen.”

The world stilled.

Sir. Not Prince.

Sapphira’s eyes widened. Omen looked from her father to her, wonder breaking across his face.

Then he laughed softly, lifted her, and spun her once, before setting her back in the river’s shallows, kissing her again. The river sighed, it carried their love through its depths, sounding like a heart learning to beat again.