The girl's breath had grown shallow again.
Despite the old magic pulsing through her veins, despite the talisman anchored to the cage's core, time was running thin. The split thread could only hold so long.
He stood before the cage, arms crossed tight, jaw clenched beneath his calm. Watching—but not without weight behind his stillness.
Inside, Tilda knelt beside the girl's body. Her borrowed hands trembled.
Every flicker of movement betrayed a growing weakness—her possession unraveling at the edges.
"You waited too long," she muttered.
"You didn't want help," he replied. "But you have it now. If you're ready."
Her voice was a whisper.
"She's slipping. I can feel her fading."
"You have to let go."
"I know…"
She placed a hand over the girl's heart. Her eyes, once full of icy resistance, now carried something else. Remorse.
"I wasn't always like this," she said, voice thin like fog. "Before… I used to laugh so hard I'd cry. I used to think love was enough."
He said nothing, just watched her—letting her speak, letting her heart bleed out in the quiet.
"I trusted him," she said. "Gave him all of me. And he gave me a knife in the back… and left me to die alone beneath the bridge where we met."
He stepped forward.
"Tilda," he said, gently now. "It's time."
Tears rolled down the girl's cheeks—not hers, but Tilda's emotions leaking through.
Then—
A long exhale.
And she began to rise.
Not her body.
Her spirit.
Her hands faltered—slipping from flesh that no longer responded.
Then, like breath through broken glass, a cold mist spilled from the girl's chest.
It shimmered as it rose, folding inward, shedding the last remnants of borrowed life.
And then—
She took form.
Translucent.
Floating.
Beautiful.
Her hair spilled like ink across invisible wind, her pale skin glowing with an otherworldly shimmer.
Her eyes—once fierce—now deep pools of old sorrow. She hovered above the cage floor, barefoot, dressed in the same clothes she'd worn the night she died.
A white dress torn at the hem. Bloodied at the side.
She looked at her own hands as if seeing them for the first time in centuries.
So this was what she had become.
He stepped into the cage, gently catching the girl's unconscious body before it slumped fully to the ground.
He laid her out, checking her pulse. Still faint, but stronger now.
He looked up.
Tilda was watching.
"I thought I would feel empty," she said.
"Do you?"
"No." Her voice cracked. "I feel… tired."
He rose, facing her now. "She'll live. You didn't destroy her."
Her voice was barely audible. "I almost did."
"But you didn't." His tone was quiet, almost reverent. "That matters."
They stood in silence.
Then she asked, voice barely a breath, "What now?"
He studied her—this strange, beautiful remnant of grief and rage and heartbreak.
"You're still bound to this world," he said. "But the tether is loose now. No more hosts. No more feeding."
Her ghostly brow arched, faintly luminous. "Then how do I survive?"
"You don't," he said. "You become something else."
She flinched.
"It's not about revenge anymore, is it?" he asked. "It's about not being forgotten."
Her silence was answer enough.
He looked down at the girl's body. "She'll need time. So will you."
Tilda hovered a little closer. "Why are you helping me?"
He looked at her fully.
And then, softly, "Because five hundred years ago, someone helped me when I didn't deserve it either."
Their eyes met.
One filled with centuries.
The other—lost between life and death.
And something wordless passed between them.
Not romance.
Not yet.
But understanding.
A crack in the walls they both had built.
He turned toward the door. "Come," he said. "You're not free. But you're not alone anymore either."
And for the first time since her death, Tilda followed—not as a predator.
But as a soul seeking what comes next.
The girl's breath had steadied, her skin no longer flushed with fever or cold.
She was resting now.
Peacefully.
Wrapped in a thick shawl, she looked just like any other village daughter—a child of sunlight, not something nearly consumed by a ghost.
He stepped outside first, scanning the trees. No sound. Just dew clinging to the silence.
Behind him, Tilda hovered near the doorway, barely visible under the thinning moonlight.
Her presence shimmered faintly, pale silver against the darkened stone.
"She's ready," he said.
Tilda glanced back at the unconscious girl laid across the wooden table, her lips pressed tightly. "Where will you take her?"
"Back to her home," he replied. "Before dawn. She won't remember much."
"That's good," she said softly, then added, "She doesn't deserve to carry this."
He looked at her with a strange expression—something unreadable.
Then, without a word, he wrapped the girl in his long cloak, lifting her gently into his arms.
Tilda followed quietly, gliding behind as he moved through the woods.
The way he carried the girl—careful, protective—made something in Tilda tighten, but she said nothing.
For a while, there was only the sound of his steps crunching leaves, the girl's soft breathing, and the wind weaving through the trees like whispered secrets.
"I didn't expect you to help." Tilda finally said.
"And I didn't expect you to let go." he answered.
She tilted her head. "Do you trust me now?"
"No," he said without pause. "But I trust what I saw tonight. And that's enough—for now."
A low chuckle escaped her lips. "Fair."
Soon, the village rooftops came into view—scattered shadows beneath the breaking sky.
He stopped at the edge of the forest, crouching low near one of the side cottages, hidden behind an old oak tree.
"This is her home," he said. "Her family wakes early. They'll find her."
Gently, he laid the girl down near the steps, nestling her between the porch wall and a stack of firewood, where she'd be warm and safe.
He pulled his cloak tighter around her before stepping back.
Tilda hovered silently at his side.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the girl for a beat too long.
"I meant what I said earlier," she murmured.
His voice was low. "Which part?"
"I'm tired."
He looked over at her, his gaze narrowed. "Then come back. We'll talk. We'll find a way."
She smiled.
And it wasn't soft.
It was sad.
And sharp.
And full of something old.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"What—"
But by the time he turned fully, Her glow wavered—silver draining to smoke.
Then, with a whisper of wind and sorrow, she was gone.
Gone.
He cursed under his breath, eyes scanning the trees, heart pounding faster than he liked. He stepped forward, then back. The girl stirred behind him, but didn't wake.
He stood still for a long while, the cool air pressing against his skin.
She tricked him.
He had known she might.
Still… it stung.
The hunt would begin again.
But this time, something was different.
Because now… Tilda was no longer running to survive.
She was running for vengeance.
And this time, she had tasted power—and freedom.
And worse still…
She had learned how to lie.