Shared Ghosts

The apartment was silent when they returned, except for the humming of the ceiling fan and the faint buzz of the streetlamp outside. Amile’s shoes hit the floor with a thud, her jacket slipping from her shoulders. She dropped onto the couch and pressed her palms into her face.

Erevan stood across the room, silent as stone. Watching.

“It was like a dream,” she muttered into her hands. “Except I was awake. I could feel everything. The stone under her knees. The heat from the torches. The way… she hated you.”

Erevan said nothing.

Amile pulled her hands away and looked up. “You said she betrayed and saved you. What did she do, exactly?”

He took a moment before speaking. “She was one of the first to worship me—not out of fear, but understanding. The other gods, they didn’t like that. Mortals weren’t supposed to get too close. She defied them. And when they demanded my end, she sealed me instead. Called it mercy.”

He sat beside her, carefully, as though afraid to disrupt the fragile distance between them.

“She was powerful,” he continued. “Wise. But she made a choice for me I didn’t ask for. And in doing so, she tied herself—and her bloodline—to my fate.”

Amile stared at him. “So you were angry.”

“I still am.”

Silence settled again. Thick. Old.

“But I also owe her everything,” Erevan added. “Because I’m still here. And now I’ve met you.”

She looked at him then. Really looked. The angles of his face were too perfect to be mortal, too sharp to be gentle. But something in his eyes had changed. The hard gleam of a god had softened into something... searching.

“I don’t remember choosing this,” she whispered.

“I didn’t either,” he said. “That’s the curse.”

That night, Amile dreamed again.

She was walking through a corridor made of bone-white stone. Shadows whispered her name, curling along the walls like smoke. At the end of the hallway stood a massive black gate, pulsing with red light and ancient symbols—the same seal burned into her wrist.

Standing before it was the priestess.

Her.

But not her.

The woman turned, and her eyes met Amile’s. “You came back,” she said. “I didn’t think you would.”

Amile felt herself speak, though her lips never moved. “What am I?”

“You are the echo,” the priestess said. “The last gate. When you open, he awakens fully.”

Amile reached out toward her doppelganger—but the vision shattered like glass, and she gasped awake in the dark, chest heaving, hand clutching her wrist.

The mark was burning again.

The next morning, Erevan was waiting with a strange calmness about him.

“You saw her,” he said.

Amile nodded, still shaken. “She called me the last gate. Said when I open, you awaken.”

Erevan didn’t flinch. “Then we were right. The seal she placed on me wasn’t just a prison. It was a key. You’re the key.”

Amile stood and paced. “Okay. Just to recap: I’m a reincarnated priestess, possibly a walking key, and the only thing standing between you and some kind of full divine awakening. Sound about right?”

“You make it sound ridiculous.”

“That’s because it is ridiculous!”

He waited. Let her vent.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” she said. “I was supposed to be finishing my thesis and maybe making out with a barista, not unlocking shadow gods and seeing my past lives.”

“I know.”

His voice was soft. Understanding.

“And yet,” she said slowly, “I can’t make myself walk away.”

Erevan looked at her. “That is your choice. Not fate. Not magic. Yours.”

That meant more to her than she expected.

They decided to go back to the church.

Something about the mark pulsed stronger when they neared it—like a signal growing louder. But this time, when they entered the small stone sanctuary, the atmosphere was different. The dust was unsettled. The air crackled.

Someone else had been there.

Fresh footprints in the dirt confirmed it.

Erevan’s expression darkened. “We’re not alone.”

At the altar, the carved seal had been partially erased—like someone had tried to break it.

Amile knelt beside it. Her mark flared hot against her skin.

Then the shadows in the room twisted.

They recoiled from Erevan—but curled around Amile like smoke, whispering words she couldn’t understand.

He lunged forward and grabbed her wrist, yanking her away just as the shadows tried to sink into her skin.

The room exploded in light.

And silence.

Amile gasped. “What the hell was that?”

“Someone is trying to awaken you forcefully,” Erevan said grimly. “They're rushing it. You're not ready.”

“But who—”

Before she could finish, a voice echoed behind them:

“She’s more ready than you think.”

They spun.

A figure stepped into the doorway.

He was tall, cloaked in grey, with silver eyes that shimmered like moonlight over a grave. His presence radiated a celestial coldness, unmistakable even to Amile.

“Who are you?” she asked, instinctively stepping back.

The figure smiled. “An old friend of your god here.”

Erevan’s stance shifted. “Lorian.”

Amile watched his expression—pure loathing.

“You were part of the council,” Erevan growled. “You voted for my exile.”

“I still believe in it,” Lorian replied. “But I also believe in the prophecy.”

“What prophecy?” Amile asked.

“The day the gate opens,” Lorian said, “the dead shall rise, and the forgotten shall rule again.”

She froze.

Erevan stepped in front of her protectively. “You’ll go nowhere near her.”

Lorian raised his hands. “I come with a warning, not a weapon. The others—those more cruel than I—they won’t wait for you to awaken naturally. They will force the gate open.”

“And what happens if they do?” Amile asked.

Lorian looked at her, gaze solemn. “You lose yourself. And Erevan becomes something far worse than what he was.”

Back at the apartment, Amile stood at the window, staring out at the city she thought she understood just a week ago.

Everything had changed.

“Tell me the truth,” she said without turning. “If they force this... if they unlock the seal before I’m ready, what happens to me?”

Erevan hesitated.

Then: “You disappear. Your soul burns itself out holding my power. You’re replaced by what’s underneath.”

Amile turned slowly. “Then why didn’t you walk away the moment you knew?”

He met her gaze.

“Because when I fell, I thought I’d lost everything,” he said quietly. “But then I met you. And I realized the worst part of my punishment... would be forgetting you, too.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Instead, she walked to him, stood inches away, and held up her wrist.

“Then we figure it out. Together.”

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