The bathroom was an altar to opulence. Polished copper pipes, intricate as creeping vines, traced paths across walls of veined marble. Even the showerhead was a work of art, a roaring lion's head cast in bronze, its mouth agape. Mola reached for the paw-shaped valves, her fingers tracing the inset ruby on the hot tap. She twisted.

  Water, scalding and pure, poured from the lion's maw. Steam bloomed instantly, filling the chamber with a thick, cleansing vapour that fogged the mirrors and softened the hard edges of the world. As the water cascaded over her, it sluiced away the grime of the road and the sticky residue of bloodshed. Dark, sullied streams ran down her body, spiralling into the drain, a physical exorcism of the past few days.

  Mola: "Ugh..."

  She sighed, a sound of profound relief, letting her head fall back into the torrent. It was a moment of respite so total, so absolute, that it felt like a betrayal.

  A voice, soft as silk and cold as the grave, whispered directly behind her ear.

  Purdamma: "Such smooth skin you have, my dear..."

  Mola's eyes snapped open. She felt it before she saw it -- a pair of cold hands wrapping gently around her throat, the touch intimate and possessive.

  Purdamma: "Relax... Breathe. It's just the two of us, now."

  Fear, sharp and cold, warred with a desperate, treacherous comfort. Mola did not turn, terrified that the slightest movement would shatter the phantom illusion she both craved and dreaded. She stood perfectly still under the hot spray, a statue in a cloud of steam.

  Mola: "Do you plan to drive me mad...?"

  A low chuckle, the sound she remembered from a thousand lectures and a single, final condemnation, echoed in the steam. The hands slid from her neck, gliding down her back with a feather-light touch.

  Purdamma: "Not at all... I plan to keep you sane. The *other* one is the one who wishes your ruin."

  The spectral presence pressed closer, the ghost of a cheek resting against the back of Mola's neck.

  Purdamma: "The one they call Tentoria. The dark goddess herself... Void mother, who births only erasure."

  Mola: "What...?"

  Purdamma: "She *wants* you, girl. She *needs* you."

  The hands wrapped around Mola's torso, a chilling, protective embrace.

  Purdamma: "Don't you understand...? There are no more limiters. Her power, unbridled, is your own, to command without restraint -- an indulgence with a high price tag. You have already sacrificed more than you know..."

  Where the phantom's hands passed over the brand on her back, the water that touched her skin seemed to vanish, sizzling into nothingness as it was swallowed by the infinitesimal cracks in her flesh.

  Mola: "What do you know... You're just a mirage. You're not real!"

  Purdamma: "Oh, but reality is so, so subjective, my dear..."

  The phantom hugged her tighter, its form becoming more defined, its arms now visible in Mola's peripheral vision, wrapping around her own.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Purdamma: "Refuse her. Use dark magic no more... and you can slow her down. You needn't rely on it any longer."

  A familiar, violent crackle of violet energy danced across Mola's right arm.

  Purdamma: "Her magic may come to you intuitively... But so does my own. Spellbooks needn't be your ball and chain anymore."

  The spectral arms seized Mola's own, guiding her movements.

  Purdamma: "Let that decaying body of yours be your canvas."

  The phantom grabbed Mola's left arm, twisting it so the pale, vulnerable skin of her inner forearm faced outwards. Then, it brought her right hand, now wreathed in the shimmering violet of a spectral claw, closer.

  Mola: "What are you doing...?"

  Purdamma: "... Offering you a way out."

  Mola's body was a prison. The Master's will was absolute. The index finger of the spectral claw, guided by an unseen hand, descended upon the soft skin of her other arm.

  Mola: "Aghh...!"

  A strangled gasp was all she could manage. Searing pain erupted as the claw punctured her flesh. But it was not blood that welled from the wound. It was a thick, black, tar-like substance that oozed slowly, defiantly. Mola's body remained rigid, a puppet in the phantom's grasp, as her own hand, commanded by another, began to carve.

  Xayn: "Mola...?"

  Outside, in the main room, Xayn sat perfectly still in a velvet armchair. Bazren paced, her new body a cage for her restless energy.

  Bazren: "Huh?"

  He held up a hand, silencing her, his head tilted towards the bathroom door. He strained to hear, but there was only the sound of the running shower.

  Xayn: "I could swear I heard her scream..."

  Bazren's brows arched in amusement.

  Bazren: "You heard her scream...? She's right next door, Xayn. I don't think we'd need your supernatural hearing for that."

  She sauntered over, a predatory grace in her movements.

  Bazren: "Y'know... I think you really just want an excuse to join her!"

  Xayn grit his teeth, the expression looking strange on his handsome, bearded face.

  Xayn: "Think I need another heartless, reckless woman in my life...? I've got my fill with you already."

  Bazren: "Hahah! I'd take that as a compliment, but I know you better than that... Plus, you forgot one very important trait."

  She perched on the edge of the bed nearest to him, her pink eyes glinting.

  

  

  Bazren: "... Scarred by the void. That crack on her back is nothing but a bad omen."

  Xayn exhaled sharply through his nose.

  Xayn: "Like a window into the void itself..."

  Bazren: "Uh-huh. And I bet you took one really good, long look at her crack... Just maybe not the same one I focused on."

  Xayn: "Tch...! In her own words, 'grow up', Bazren!"

  Bazren: "Alright alright... I jest. Do you think she... knows about it?"

  Xayn shrugged, the gesture weary.

  Xayn: "No idea. Should we tell her?"

  Bazren mirrored the shrug.

  Bazren: "I dunno."

  A soft knock came from their room's door.

  Maid: "Room service!"

  Xayn rose and opened it. A young maid with a neat bun and a starched black and white uniform stood there, a pile of folded clothes in her arms.

  Maid: "Good morning! Here is the change of clothes that was requested. May I?"

  Xayn: "Of course."

  He swung the door wide. The maid entered, placing the clothes carefully on the bed in three neat piles. As she did, Bazren moved to stand behind her, her gaze fixing on the exposed skin of the maid's back, visible through the cut of her uniform.

  Bazren: "Hm..."

  The maid, sensing the stare, glanced nervously over her shoulder before turning to leave. As she reached the door, Bazren spoke, her voice deceptively casual.

  Bazren: "Hey. Tell me... if a friend of yours had a mark on their back, something truly terrible... would you tell them? Or would you let them live in blissful ignorance?"

  The maid's eyes widened, her hand instinctively flying to her own back. Xayn shook his head, stepping forward.

  Xayn: "Sorry, never mind her. Thank you very much."

  The maid gave a hurried bow and scurried out. Xayn closed the door, a sigh of exasperation on his lips.

  Xayn: "Seriously, you..."

  But Bazren was already running a hand over the new clothes, her attention captured.

  Bazren: "Damn. These are some fine, fine linens...!"