Page 104 of The Devil's Canvas

Another speaks, the molten gold of their throne glowing faintly beneath them. “You may return—for a short time.”

“Not to stay,” a different voice clarifies, older, clipped. “But to say what must be said.”

“You are no longer mortal,” comes the next, calm and precise. “But the ones who knew you deserve the truth. And you deserve peace.”

Ophelia lifts her head, steadier now. “You want me to tell them.”

“To say goodbye,” the Concord confirms. “To leave the world as you found it—with clarity, not shadows.”

“To speak your truth,” says another, “before you begin weaving others.”

The fire flickers again, but it doesn’t show visions now. Only soft light, curling like smoke around her feet.

“You will not return to live among them,” the voices continue, layered like wind through a hollow. “But you may return to remind them of who you were—and who you have become.”

“And after?” she asks. “What happens next?”

“That’s when you begin again,” says the Concord. “As a Duvain. As soulmatch. As Weaver.”

Her hand moves instinctively to her chest, fingers brushing the place the bond first took root.

No flames rise this time. Only stillness. But I feel it. The shift, the weight of fate settling into her shoulders—not as a burden, but as something real. Something hers.

And she nods, not for them, but for herself.

She presses a hand to her chest like she can feel time there, ticking differently beneath her skin. The threads. The bond. The world she used to know pulling tight against the one she stands in now.

“I’ll go,” she says, voice quiet. “But… does this mean I never see them again?”

One of the figures leans forward, the glow beneath their hood softening—just barely. Still cloaked in shadow, but not in cruelty.

“No,” they say, and the word settles like a balm. “This bond is not exile. It is expansion.”

Another speaks, voice like polished stone. “You are not lost to them. Only changed.”

“They may still call to you,” says a third, older than the others. “And when they do—you will hear them.”

Ophelia turns to me, eyes wide, searching. “How?”

“I’ll show you,” I tell her. “The hallways. The paths that thread between worlds. If they reach for you with truth, you’ll feel it. You’ll know.”

She exhales shakily. It’s not relief, it’s something deeper. Permission.

“So I won’t have to cut them off?” she asks. “Bella. Rosalind. I can still—”

“If you choose,” one of the Concord interrupts gently, “you may answer.”

“The bond was never meant to sever,” another adds. “It was meant to bind. To bring you to where you’re most needed. To who you truly are.”

“And to those who truly see you.”

I watch her shoulders ease—not drop, not collapse—just settle. Like for the first time, she understands that becoming something new doesn’t mean losing everything old.

She turns to me. The fire behind her fades, but the glow hasn’t left her eyes.

There’s no fear there. No doubt. Only resolve, she’s whole.

“I need to do this,” she says, not asking for permission—just making it known.

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