BLEEDING VELVET

She stepped from the mirror barefoot.

No piercings. No tattoos. No bruises.

But her eyes held nothing.

No fire. No ache. No memory of want.

The untouched Almond was silence weaponized.

Everyone froze—like this version of her had entered with a knife already inside their minds.

Almond tilted her head, watching her other self with a calm too cruel to be sane.

"You're not me," she said softly.

"No," the untouched one said. "I'm what you lost."

She raised her hand.

Almond's throat tightened.

Because for a second—it felt like every piece of her that had healed started to rot in reverse.

Velda fell to her knees.

Kairo clutched his chest.

Aren let out a sound like glass shattering.

"STOP," Almond roared, the command crawling with holy venom.

But the untouched one didn't flinch.

She only took a step closer.

"You're a corrupted altar," she whispered. "You burn too much. You love too wrong. You were never meant to be whole."

Almond stepped forward.

"I didn't come this far to be made small by a memory."

"You came this far," the mirror-self said, "because you need to be punished."

Almond's fists curled.

"Then do it."

The untouched one blinked.

And the chamber exploded with fireless light.

The altar shattered.

Mirrors rained from the ceiling like teeth knocked from God's mouth.

Almond flew backward, hit the wall hard enough to make the bones in her shoulder hum.

When she stood—bleeding, furious, grinning—she saw the untouched one wasn't untouched anymore.

She had claws now.

And wings that looked like they'd been sewn from scripture and shadow.

"You're not me," Almond breathed. "You're what he wanted me to stay."

The demon version of her laughed.

"No," she whispered, floating forward. "I'm what he loved."

And that?

That was what broke Almond's restraint.

They collided like sins trying to rewrite scripture.

No weapon but their hands.

No mercy but the pain.

No silence but the thunder between heartbeats.

She bit the demon version's shoulder and tasted betrayal.

She got scratched across the chest and saw all the years she stayed small.

Blood spilled like prophecy.

Velda tried to intervene and collapsed in smoke.

Aren shouted her name—then forgot how to speak.

Only Kairo stayed standing, drawing sigils in the dirt with his own blood.

"I don't know who wins," he muttered. "I just hope one of them does."

Almond pinned her mirror-self down.

She wasn't even breathing hard anymore.

"I bled for men who saw thrones as cages," she hissed. "I kissed gods who mistook my fire for forgiveness. But I never—ever—belonged to anyone."

The demon-self opened her mouth to reply—

Almond tore her throat out with her teeth.

Silence returned like a hymn that forgot how to be sung.

The mirror shattered behind them.

And Almond, drenched in the blood of the girl she could've been, stood tall.

No shaking. No smile. Just stillness.

Then she turned to her companions.

"You've followed me this far," she said, voice low. "But if you follow me past this point—there's no turning back."

Velda crawled to her feet.

Kairo tied off his wounds.

Aren just whispered, "I was never trying to return."

Almond closed her eyes.

Then she stepped through the last mirror—the one made of bone and betrayal.

And behind it, something started breathing.

It wasn't a creature.

It was a room that breathed.

Walls that pulsed like muscle.

Floors that wept heat.

Air so thick with incense and memory it burned to inhale.

Almond didn't speak. She just walked.

Her blood left footprints. The room absorbed them.

Velda followed, slower now, hands trembling like prayer beads.

Kairo lit a piece of parchment and let it burn in his palm.

"I think we're inside the womb," he said. "Of what, I don't want to know."

"Of her," Almond whispered.

A shape appeared at the center of the room—a figure bound in golden chains, lips sewn shut, halo rusted black.

The figure lifted her head.

And Almond fell to her knees.

"Mother," she said.

The bound figure moved—only slightly—but the chains rattled like thunder.

Kairo dropped to a crouch, instincts telling him to run even though his legs wouldn't obey.

Velda covered her eyes.

Aren whispered, "She's not dead. That's not a corpse. That's a god in captivity."

The air twisted, thickened, whimpered.

And the bound woman opened her mouth—threads snapping, blood running like ink.

She spoke without voice:

"One of you must burn for the door to open."

Almond didn't ask what door. She just nodded.

"I'll do it."

The chains pulsed.

"No," the god said, breathless now. "He must."

Everyone turned to Aren.

He was already walking forward.

His shadow stretched behind him like wings.

"Do it," he said to Almond. "Don't flinch. Don't cry."

Almond raised her hand.

Her fingers trembled.

But only once.

Then—she touched his chest.

Fire bloomed from inside him.

And the door made of ribs split open.