Page 118 of The Devil's Canvas

I feel my pulse stutter. “What does that mean?”

“It means he gave up more than his life.” Owen's voice softens, like the truth might hurt less that way. “He gave up his soul. And when that happens, the connection—whatever bound you two—” He swallows. “It breaks. Or maybe... it burns out. You still feel it, because you loved him. Still do. But he—”

He shakes his head. “He’s not yours anymore, Ophelia. Because he’s not fully... him. Not in the way you knew.”

“So I’m still his… but he’s not mine.”

“Not really,” he says. “Not the way he was.”

I stare at him, waiting—needing more than that.

“Julian gave up his demonhood when he gave up his soul. That’s the cost,” Owen continues. “He has a soul now—fully, painfully human. No magic. No power. No way to shift or command or defend himself.”

My breath catches.

“He’s stuck in Hell,” Owen says, quieter now. “Powerless. And because he’s no longer part of their system, the other demons see him as broken. Worse. They see him as prey.”

I shake my head, barely able to speak. “But he still remembers me?”

“Yes,” Owen says, quickly. “He still loves you. That didn’t change. But he can’t feel you through the bond anymore. He thinks of you constantly—he just doesn’t know if you’ll ever be able to reach each other again.”

He pauses. “And he’s alone, Ophelia. Really alone. Trapped in a place that was once his to control. And now… now he’s something the rest of Hell would love to tear apart.”

Owen doesn’t wait for a response. He steps back, eyes shadowed with something that looks too much like mourning. He vanishes.

And I’m still here—sitting in the ruins of a life I barely got back.

The boxes Julian packed are still lined against the walls, untouched.

I walk to the one marked paintings, press my hand against it, and feel nothing. No spark. No echo. No warmth through the mark on my chest.

It’s still there. But he isn’t.

I sink to the floor, knees hitting wood, fingers curling into the edge of the box like it might hold me together.

I break. No noise. No screams. Just the quiet collapse of someone who loved too much and still lost everything.

I don’t know how long it’s been.

Days blur into nights, and nights stretch into something that doesn’t feel like time at all. Maybe it’s been a week. Maybe it’s been a month. Or maybe I died the second he was dragged beneath the earth and no one bothered to tell me.

I don’t care anymore. I’ve barely eaten. I don’t sleep. I stare at the wall until the light changes. Sometimes I cry, sometimes I can’t, sometimes I think the silence will finally swallow me whole. I wish it would.

He's gone.

And not just gone—not the kind where someone might come back. Not the kind that leaves a door open. He gave up everything, and the world just… moved on. Like he never existed. Like I imagined it all.

I tried to call Owen. The others, anyone. I begged—whispered their names through the bond, over and over like a prayer.

No one answered. They can’t hear me anymore. And I can’t feel him.

My mark is still there—barely. A faint shimmer under my skin, like a burn that never healed right. It used to pulse. It used to sing. Now it just… hums. Faint. Hollow. Like a memory trying not to fade.

I remember what the council said. Their voices echo every day. The longer you're apart, the weaker the bond becomes. Until one day, there is nothing left at all.

I wake up sometimes with my hand clutching my chest. Right over where the mark used to burn. Like I can hold onto it the same way I held onto him.

But it’s slipping. So am I.

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