Nin aan dhul marin dhaayo maleh
He who has not traveled has no understanding
Chxpter 7
The door to Levi's house swung open with the familiar creak I'd known since childhood—a sound that once signaled afternoons of laughter and safety, now a threshold to a refuge from a terrifying reality. I helped Levi across it, his weight heavy against my shoulder, his blood warm and sticky on my hands. The metallic scent of it mingled with the earthy musk that always lingered in the Hoffman home—a blend of old books, soil from countless potted plants, and the ghost of Genevieve's herbal teas that somehow persisted years after her absence.
"Couch," Levi grunted, his face ashen despite his attempts to maintain composure. The sickly green tendrils beneath his skin had spread further from the wound. Each pulse seemed to carry the poison deeper, mapping veins and arteries in a toxic glow.
The living room stood largely as I remembered it—the worn beige couch facing large windows rather than the television tucked in the corner. Plants still dominated every available surface, though fewer than when Genevieve had been alive. Back then, the house had been a veritable jungle, greenery spilling from handmade ceramic pots, climbing trellises against the walls, hanging from macramé holders near the windows. Their leaves still reached toward whatever light filtered through the curtains, but without the vibrancy they'd once possessed under Genevieve's tender care.
I reached for the knitted blanket draped over the edge of the couch, one of Genevieve's creations, its pattern reminiscent of intertwining vines, and quickly spread it over the cushions to protect them from the blood seeping through Levi's clothing. As I helped him down, his face contorted with a pain he was clearly trying to mask, the muscles in his jaw clenching. My hands shook as I switched on the lamp beside the couch, bathing the room in a soft amber glow. In the light, I could see the full extent of the dark magic working through him. Each throb seemed to travel further from the entry point, the tendrils reaching toward his heart with malice.
Levi inhaled sharply, his gaze suddenly fixed on my face. His eyes traveled down to my throat, widening slightly at whatever he saw there. He reached up, fingers hovering just above my skin, not quite touching the tender flesh where unseen hands had squeezed. The air between his fingertips and my bruised skin seemed to thrum.
"I'll kill every last one of them," he whispered, fury in his voice transforming the familiar timbre.
The vehemence startled me, so unlike Levi who had always chosen jokes over threats, deflection over confrontation. How many more are there? The question flashed in my mind before I pushed it away—one impossible revelation at a time.
"First aid kit still under the bathroom sink?" I asked, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.
A framed photograph on the side table caught my eye—Genevieve, Levi, and his father Steven, their faces sun-kissed and laughing during some forgotten summer day. Genevieve's smile was radiant, her hand resting on Levi's shoulder with the casual affection that had characterized their relationship.
"Yeah," he replied, wincing as he settled against the cushions. "And grab the gray box from the hall closet. We need stronger herbs for this—" he gestured to the green veins spreading from his wound, "—before it gets worse." His fingers traced the toxic lines with clinical detachment.
I moved through the house with the intimacy of someone returning to a childhood haunt, every step sending dull spikes of pain through my body. The photographs lining the hallway tracked the progression of years—Levi growing from a bright-eyed child to the teenager I knew, while his father's smile grew progressively more strained after Genevieve's absence. In the earliest photos, Steven's eyes crinkled at the corners with genuine happiness; in the later ones, his smiles never quite reached his eyes.
The bathroom light flickered twice before steadying, revealing a stranger in the mirror. I froze, staring at the ghost of myself.
Soot blackened my face in uneven streaks, tear tracks cutting pale rivers through the grime. My clothes hung in tatters, fabric singed and torn, the familiar shirt transformed into something from a war zone. But it was my throat that made my stomach lurch—an ugly necklace of purple bruises forming, punctuated by crescent-shaped cuts where my own nails had clawed at the invisible force crushing my windpipe.
My hair was a wild tangle of knots and ash, bits of debris caught in the curls. Blood had dried at the corner of my split lip, and a shallow gash ran across my shoulder where the dagger had grazed me. The cut wasn't deep, but the skin around it was tinged with a faint greenish hue—nowhere near as severe as Levi's wound, but a chilling reminder of the poisoned blades. I couldn't see the bruises blooming across my ribs and back, but I felt them with every breath, every movement—a map of pain charting the night's violence.
I looked away, unable to reconcile this battered survivor with the girl who'd left for school this morning, whose biggest concern had been avoiding conversation about prom.
The bathroom was exactly as I remembered—subway tiles in muted blue, a collection of smooth river stones arranged along the edge of the tub, the lingering scent of cedar soap. I rummaged beneath the sink, my hands finding the familiar plastic first aid kit without needing to look. Levi had injured himself enough over the summers that my fingers knew exactly where to search.
In the hall closet, I found the gray box Levi mentioned—heavier than I expected, its metal surface cool to the touch. Strange symbols had been etched into its sides. Curiosity flared, but urgency pushed it aside. Questions could wait; Levi's pallor couldn't.
I returned to find Levi with his shirt off, examining the wound. The gash curved from just below his ribs toward his hip, the skin around it already blooming into watercolor bruises of violet and indigo. The network of green veins radiating outward were further up now and it made my stomach turn. The dark magic was spreading by the minute.
My eyes caught on his exposed torso, and I was transfixed, momentarily distracted from the task at hand. In the soft lamplight, I could see how dramatically his body had changed. Lean muscle wrapped around his frame like a sculptor had methodically carved away every unnecessary ounce—defined in ways I'd never imagined beneath those baggy hoodies and shirts he practically lived in.
His abdomen was etched with subtle ridges that tensed with each careful breath he took. Even his arms, which I'd seen countless times, now appeared different to me—corded with sinew that spoke of purposeful training.
My gaze traveled up to his shoulders, broad like they'd always been but now dense with muscle. A scattering of old scars mapped his skin like constellations—small reminders of battles fought in secret while I'd believed we were simply growing apart. As he shifted slightly, the light caught them at an angle, and I noticed something strange—an unnatural silver hint that seemed to shimmer beneath his skin, as though the wounds had been sealed with silver rather than ordinary tissue.
My eyes flickered to each mark: a thin line tracing his rib cage, a starburst pattern near his right shoulder, a faded crescent shape along his forearm. Several of them bore that same silver sheen. His entire body told the story of a life that had run parallel to mine without ever truly intersecting.
“How bad?” I asked, setting down my supplies, wincing as my bruised muscles protested every movement. The simple act of bending sent ripples of pain cascading through my ribs.
“I’ve had worse paper cuts,” he quipped, though the tightness around his eyes betrayed him. His fingers traced the green lines spreading from the wound. “It’ll keep spreading until it reaches vital organs, and then it knocks you out until it reaches your heart.” His finger stopped at his chest. “It eventually reaches your heart and then you die, but… you don’t stay dead.”
My hands froze above the first aid kit. The words clanged in my head like something heavy dropped down a well. Part of me wanted to shove the kit back under the sink, slam the box shut, pretend I hadn’t heard him. Pretend this was just Levi with another broken bone or scraped knee—the kind of wound I could fix with gauze, patience, and stubbornness.
But the silence between us demanded a question, even if my throat went dry at the thought of asking it. “You become one of them?” I whispered, the words trembling out before I could stop them.
“Worse,” Levi hissed as I began cleaning the wound, his jaw clenching. “You become one of their pets.”
His muscles tensed beneath my touch, each shudder under my palm reminding me he was still here—still Levi. Yet the thought of him not being Levi, of him existing as some hollowed-out version, twisted my stomach until I thought I’d retch.
I’d patched him up after skateboarding accidents and reckless climbs, when danger was simple—broken bones, scraped skin. But this? This was terror made real, danger that didn’t just break you, it changed you into something else.
My mind grasped for steadier ground and landed on fragments of summers in this very living room—Genevieve moving through the kitchen, her laughter like wind chimes, the scent of rosemary and mint clinging to her fingertips. She’d taught me to identify medicinal herbs while Levi pretended not to listen, his eyes fixed on a video game. But now I wondered—had he been listening all along? How many things had I missed? How many clues had been right before me, disguised as mundane moments, while I clung to the safety of a world that never truly existed?
I was so lost in these thoughts that the sharp knock at the door startled a gasp from me.
"Expecting company?" I whispered, instinctively reaching for the nearest weapon—a heavy ceramic vase that had once held Genevieve's favorite peonies. The glazed surface was cool and smooth beneath my palm, its substantial weight both reassuring and likely inadequate against whatever might wait beyond the door.
Levi's mouth quirked into that familiar, infuriating smirk. "Evil villains don't usually knock, Risa."
Still his irritating self, even after knocking at death's door. Something twisted in my chest, a complicated knot of frustration, fear, and the unbearable tenderness that comes from seeing someone you love suddenly vulnerable. I wanted to shake him for keeping secrets. I wanted to protect him from whatever had left its mark on his skin and was now poisoning him from within.
With an exaggerated eye roll, I approached the entrance cautiously, peering through the peephole before letting out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
Ms. Bellagio stood on the porch, her elegant posture unmistakable despite the disarray of her usually immaculate appearance. A deep cut ran along her high cheekbone, still gleaming with fresh blood. Her tailored blouse was torn at the shoulder, revealing a glimpse of olive skin marred by what looked like burn marks. A faint green tinge surrounded one of the wounds on her arm, smaller but similar to Levi's—another mark from those poisoned blades. Her dark curls, normally swept into a perfect bun that never seemed to move even during the most intense sessions at her studio, had come partially undone, wild tendrils framing her face.
Up close, she looked different, her dark eyes scanning the area with quick, assessing glances. I'd always known Ms. Bellagio was beautiful—it was something the boys at school never failed to comment on—but there was something magnetic about her now that took my breath away. Her jaw was set tight, her full lips pressed into a thin line, the intensity in her expression only enhancing her striking features. The polished school counselor was gone; she was breathtaking.
When I opened the door, her eyes scanned over my injuries, letting out a small gasp as she took in my battered state. Before I could speak, she stepped forward and pulled me into a tight embrace. The unexpected gesture froze me in place, my arms hanging awkwardly at my sides.
"Thank the ancestors," she murmured against my hair before releasing me. Without another word, she swept past me into the house, heading directly for Levi.
"There were four of them," she announced, her eyes immediately moving to Levi's wound, examining the green veins with intense focus. "Four Ministers at the warehouse, drawn to the artifacts we set across the district. All bearing those cursed blades." She gestured to the green-tinged wounds on her arm, smaller than Levi's but still pulsing with the same unnatural glow.
Artifacts? The word caught in my mind like a burr. I flashed back to her car trunk, filled with ancient texts and strange objects I'd glimpsed.
"Edna," Levi greeted her, the familiar use sending a jolt of small betrayal. "I stretched some mist to her house from the warehouse. I had a bad feeling." His eyes dropped momentarily, shame flickering across his features. "I know I was supposed to wait at the east entrance, let them follow the signature, but I sensed Ministers moving through my mist toward Waris. I ran without thinking. I couldn't afford to lose any time."
"And weakened yourself with overextension," Edna clicked her tongue disapprovingly as she examined his wound, her fingers hovering over the green tendrils with concern written across her face. "The dark magic is spreading quickly. These blades are stronger than the ones we've encountered before. Though I must admit—" she moved swiftly around the room, fingers plucking leaves from various plants with the familiarity of someone who had done so countless times before, "—your control is improving. The mist was quite impressive—dense enough that I could barely see through it myself."
The pride in her tone was unmistakable, as was the easy familiarity between them—a relationship clearly built over years. Every gesture, every exchange spoke of shared battles and mutual understanding, of a history I'd been excluded from even as I'd considered Levi my closest friend.
"I disposed of them easily enough," she continued, crushing leaves between her fingers before dropping them into a small mortar she pulled from a shelf. "But it took time to reach Risa's house—"
"Which was already in ashes when you arrived," Levi finished, wincing as the green lines pulsed beneath his skin.
"Exactly." Her eyes flickered to me, then back to the herbs she was grinding with increasing intensity. "I found the blood trail—"
"And assumed we'd come here," Levi nodded, grimacing as a particularly strong pulse of green emanated from his wound.
I flinched at the nickname—Risa. She was using it as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Another small betrayal. I bit the inside of my cheek, tamping down the flare of anger that threatened to rise like floodwaters.
Edna arched an eyebrow, the rhythm of her pestle never faltering. "I'm surprised only one of them managed to get a piece of you. All that training and you still can't—"
"Actually, there were two of them," Levi cut in with a pained smirk. "Risa turned one of them into a kebab with its own blade."
The pride in his voice struck a chord somewhere deep in my chest. For a heartbeat, our eyes met across the room, and something electric passed between us—recognition, respect, something more complicated than either. In that moment, the distance that had grown between us over the years seemed to shorten.
Edna's hand froze mid-grind, her eyes widening at me. "You killed a Minister?" The surprise in her voice was unmistakable, a crack in her composed façade.
"Yeah," Levi nodded, a flash of genuine pride breaking through his expression.
Edna resumed grinding, but faster now. "Two at Waris' home and four at the warehouse." The teasing vanished from her voice. "Six Ministers. That's almost—"
"A full coven," Levi finished, his face draining of color.
The air in the room seemed to thicken. I caught only fragments, enough to know it was bad, really really bad.
"Six," Edna whispered, grinding the herbs so violently I feared the mortar might crack. "They split their forces. Four to me, and two for—"
"For Waris," Levi said quietly, his eyes finding mine.
A chill scraped down my spine. They were speaking about me, around me, as if I were an object on a battlefield, not a person standing three feet away.
"They shouldn't have known to look for her there," Edna’s words tumbled faster now. "Your mist creates a barrier that should have made it nearly impossible to detect her magical signature. On top of the—"
"Protection sigil you placed. And even that—"
"Was only reinforcing the original incantation," she cut in. "The one that's been there since birth."
Their words overlapped, weaving into one another. My ears caught the syllables, but my mind couldn’t follow their meaning. It was like watching two people play a game only they knew the rules to.
"Which shouldn't have degraded that poorly anyway," Levi muttered, tracing the green lines climbing his chest.
"Fifteen years is a long time for ancient magic to hold in this realm," Edna said grimly. "But still, it shouldn't have—"
"Failed so completely," Levi trailed off.
I clenched my fists. The names and phrases swirled like smoke—sigils, incantations, Harbingers, Ministers—and none of it belonged to me. The pressure in my chest built hotter.
"Someone's gotten a lot better at tracking," Levi suggested.
"Or they knew exactly where to look," Edna countered. "But the real question is—"
"Why Ministers?" Levi’s eyes widened. "Why not send Harbingers to Waris? Why commit such valuable—"
"Resources," Edna finished, their thoughts colliding in perfect synchronization.
"Because they weren't just tracking," Levi whispered. "They were hunting for ceremony. Why else would they need a full coven?"
I couldn’t breathe. They weren’t even speaking to me anymore; I felt like a ghost in the room. I was just a variable they were calculating, my fear mounting with every phrase I couldn’t grasp.
The heat rose higher, sharp and suffocating, until I thought my skin might split. My chest tightened, the words clawing their way up my throat. I knew if I opened my mouth, I wouldn’t be able to stop them—
"Will someone tell me what the fuck is going on?!" The words burst from me.
Both of them turned to me with startled expressions, as if they'd momentarily forgotten my presence. Levi tried to stand, clutching his side and wincing before sinking back onto the couch. The green lines had spread further up his torso, reaching nearly to his collarbone. His azure gaze held a mixture of pain and concern as he looked at me. I felt myself taking an instinctive step toward him, my anger momentarily softened by the vulnerability in his expression.
"Risa," he said. "Take a deep breath."
"You're going to set the place on fire," Edna said, her eyes fixed on my hands.
I looked down, confused, and froze. Tiny flames danced along my fingertips, casting trembling shadows across my palms. I stared, transfixed by the impossibility, feeling neither pain nor heat—only a strange, comforting rightness. The fire moved, curling around my fingers like affectionate creatures responding to my emotional state.
"I promise," Edna continued, approaching me slowly like one might a frightened animal, "we'll tell you what you need to know."
The flames flickered out as shock replaced anger, leaving only the lingering memory of their warmth.
"Not what I need to know. Everything," I repeated, looking between them, my eyes resting longer on Levi. The depth of his deception suddenly hit me anew—how long had he known about this? About me?
His eyes met mine across the room. "Everything," he echoed, and in that moment, I could see the weight of secrets in his gaze. There was fear there too—not of the Ministers or the poisoned blade slowly working through his system, but of what his truths might do to the fragile thread still connecting us.
xoxo
Until your shadow meets mine again—
Simxn
Author, Crown of Thorns: Desert Rose • Editor, The Alchemxst
