Chapter Ten: Between Worlds
1393 Words
Everything was water.
Not like drowning—more like floating in the womb of something ancient. Warm, rhythmic, and humming with memory.
Waiya blinked.
But her eyes weren’t open.
She wasn’t in the Grove anymore.
No—this was somewhere else. A place without time, only echo. She stood barefoot in shallow water, silver ripples stretching out in every direction beneath a sky that shifted colors like breath—deep indigo, then burning orange, then a sharp, sacred white.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t have to.
The water began to part ahead of her, just slightly, and from its depths rose a staircase carved from obsidian, bones, and burnt wood.
Her heart stuttered. The bones were human. Still glowing faintly with embers, as if some pain still lingered.
A whisper slid across her ear. Not outside. Inside.
“You came for truth. Walk, daughter.”
She stepped onto the first stair.
And it began.
Each step brought her deeper—not downward, but inward. Scenes flickered in the water’s surface as she passed them: her as a little girl chasing fireflies outside her grandmother’s house, her father showing her how to bind sage, her mother’s back turned—always turned.
Then she saw him.
Donquavious.
Laughing. Dancing with her in a basement. His hands on her hips. His lips at her ear.
It had felt like magic.
But it wasn’t.
Waiya kept walking.
The next vision struck harder—Donquavious kneeling in front of a bloodstained altar, his voice trembling as he spoke in some corrupted tongue. Shadows coiled around him like snakes, feeding on the words, feeding on him.
And in the center of the altar…
Her name.
Carved into a slab of stone.
“No,” Waiya whispered, stopping in her tracks. “That ain’t real.”
But it was.
A figure stepped out of the vision. Not Donquavious—another. A masked being with no face, just flickering embers where eyes should be.
“You loved him,” it said in a voice like burning wood. “And he traded your spirit for power.”
Waiya clenched her fists. “Why me?”
“Because your blood sings. Because you carry light. And because you made him feel like a man… when he wasn’t.”
The being raised one hand.
Suddenly, her back ignited.
Not with flame, but with sensation—heat pouring out of the scar carved between her shoulder blades. She dropped to her knees, teeth gritted. The sigil was alive here, too. Hungrier.
“It is not just a mark,” the voice said. “It is a doorway. One he failed to open… but others still might.”
Waiya’s breathing sharpened.
A pulse of rage burned through her. Not just from betrayal—but from the weight of always being the one expected to survive everything.
“I didn’t ask for this!” she shouted.
“No one ever does,” the voice replied. “But what will you do with it?”
Waiya rose.
Shaking. Trembling.
But rising.
The scar still glowed—but she faced the masked spirit, breath ragged, and said, “I bind what was done. I reclaim what’s mine.”
And with that, the water below her cracked like glass. Light burst from the fissures, and the world shattered.
⸻
She awoke with a gasp.
Cold dirt beneath her. The scent of moss and woodsmoke in her lungs. Her back was damp with sweat, but the pain had dulled.
Justin was still kneeling beside her, eyes wide, hands on either side of her shoulders like he’d been guarding her with more than just flesh.
She blinked.
“You didn’t leave,” she whispered.
His voice was low, full of something old. “I told you. I can’t.”
And though she didn’t trust the world right now—didn’t even fully trust herself—something in her chest loosened. Just a little.
She was still in the Grove.
Still marked.
But no longer a victim.
Waiya sat up slowly, her body aching in unfamiliar places—as if the fight she fought wasn’t only spiritual, but carved through muscle and marrow. Her fingers dug into the moss below her, grounding her, steadying her.
The Grove had shifted.
The trees around them now pulsed with a deeper hum, older and more alert, like they’d been watching and waiting for her to pass whatever test had just unfolded. The spirits hadn’t disappeared. No—now, they stood clearer, less wreathed in mist and more defined by purpose.
One of the ancients—tall, with twisted antlers growing from a skull-faced head—stepped forward.
“You chose reclamation,” it said. “Few do.”
Waiya didn’t know if that was praise or a warning. She rose to her feet anyway, brushing the dirt from her thighs. “It wasn’t a choice,” she muttered. “It was survival.”
The spirit tilted its head, its antlers glinting like obsidian under moonlight. “Same thing.”
Justin stood beside her now, silent but close. Too close, maybe—but she didn’t pull away.
He studied her, eyes dark and unwavering. “Whatever you saw… you’re still here. That means you stronger than whatever tried to break you.”
Waiya met his gaze, her voice hoarse. “I ain’t strong. I’m just tired of bleeding.”
Justin smiled at that, faint but honest. “That’s the same thing.”
A sharp gust of wind rushed through the Grove then, scattering petals that hadn’t been there a second before—ghost blossoms that shimmered before they hit the ground, vanishing like breath. The ancient spirits began to retreat, one by one, fading back into the trees, their work complete—for now.
Waiya and Justin stood alone once more.
“Well,” she muttered, trying to shake the lingering weight of what she’d seen. “That was some next-level therapy.”
Justin chuckled. “Right? s**t makes talkin’ to my auntie’s tarot cards look soft.”
That pulled a real laugh from her, a short one, but sharp and needed. The tension cracked, even if only a little. She turned to him and nudged his side with her elbow. “So what now, Mr. I-Don’t-Run?”
He shrugged, but the look he gave her was anything but casual. “Now we learn how to shut that scar down. Lock that door before anybody else tries to kick it in.”
Her smirk softened. “And you’re just… down to ride with me through all that?”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You serious right now?”
She raised a brow. “What?”
Justin stepped a little closer, heat rolling off him like the Grove itself had given him permission to move with intention now. “Waiya, I didn’t meet you by accident. I didn’t follow you into this Grove by mistake. I don’t care what’s chasing you, what tried to claim you, or what’s burnin’ inside that scar—none of it changes the fact that my soul feels like it woke up when you came around.”
Her throat caught. The weight of everything she’d carried suddenly felt… lighter. Not gone. But shared.
“I don’t need a protector,” she said.
He nodded. “Good. I’m not tryin’ to save you. I’m just walkin’ beside you.”
Waiya stared at him a beat longer than she meant to. Then her hand reached out—instinctive, unsure—and brushed lightly against his forearm. His tattoos shifted slightly under her touch, like ink reacting to heat. She pulled back, not afraid. Just… aware.
The moon had dipped slightly now, casting longer shadows through the Grove.
“We should go,” she murmured. “Before the spirits decide we talk too much.”
He smirked. “Or before they start charging us rent.”
They turned, walking slowly toward the path that had once been obscured—but now revealed itself through rows of glowing stones, like the Grove had acknowledged them as something more than intruders. Maybe even kin.
As they walked, their shoulders brushed. Neither moved away.
And behind them, the scar on Waiya’s back glowed once—softly, like an ember held between breath and fire.
The door wasn’t closed.
Not yet.
But now she held the key.
- Writer
