Page 42 of Wild Ivy
Morrigan’s eyes meet mine, ancient and knowing. “The end of the old ways and the beginning of something entirely new. The question is not whether it will happen, but whether the world will survive the transition.”
“And that depends on Ivy,” Bram says softly. “On whether she can become what she needs to be before Life’s death triggers the collapse.”
I clench my fists, hating how helpless I feel. “So we really can’t do anything to help her?”
“We can make sure she has something to come back to,” Tate says firmly. “Make sure we’re ready when she does return.”
“And how exactly do we do that?” I ask.
Blackthorn moves back to his desk, spreading out several ancient texts. “By understanding exactly what’s happening in the void. The necromancers here have been monitoring the changes. The barriers between life and death are becoming more permeable.”
“Meaning?” I prompt, because I’m really getting tired of everyone speaking in riddles.
“Meaning the void isn’t just a place of death anymore. It’s becoming something new. A place of transformation.”
“Like a cosmic crucible,” Tate adds thoughtfully. “Where Ivy is being remade.”
“But into what?” I ask, because that’s the real question, isn’t it?
“Something that encompasses both life and death,” Morrigan says. “A being of balance, not division. Which is why my power won’t return to me. It’s evolving, just as she is.”
“Through Mr Sinclair,” Blackthorn nods. “The magick needed a vessel that understood both sides. A Dark Fae with a connection to death, but also to life through his own transformations.”
“Great,” I mutter. “So we’ve got evolving magick, a transforming void, and Ivy stuck in the middle of it while Life thinks she’s just containing Death until she can steal her power.” I run a hand through my hair in frustration. “What do we actually do about any of this?”
“We prepare the way,” Blackthorn says, tapping one of the ancient texts. “There are rituals, ways to stabilise the transformation. To ensure that when Ivy does emerge, the world is ready to receive what she’s becoming.”
“No more rituals,” I growl.
“And if it’s not?” Tate asks quietly, ignoring me.
The silence that follows is answer enough.
21
IVY
The transformation isn’t aspainful as I expected. Instead, it feels inevitable, like watching storm clouds gather before the first drop of rain falls. Everything in my existence—my life as a shifter, my death, my rebirth as Death, and even my relationships with Tate, Torin, and Bram—has led to this moment, pieces of a cosmic puzzle finally sliding into place with an almost audible click.
The void around me pulses with an ethereal rhythm, no longer the empty darkness I remember. Now, it ripples with shades of midnight blue and deep purple, occasionally shot through with threads of silver that remind me of lightning in storm clouds. The assembled Deaths watch as power flows into me, their forms flickering like candles in a wind that doesn’t exist. Not just Death magick now, or chaos magick, but something more fundamental. Life force mingles with the darkness, creating ribbons of energy that twist and writhe in impossible patterns. Where they meet, they create something entirely new - neither light nor dark but both, neither life nor death but something transcendent.
“You understand now,” Mazzarat says, his ancient form becoming translucent as more of the void’s power transfers to me. His edges blur like watercolours bleeding into parchment, his voice carrying the weight of millennia. “Why it had to be you.”
I do. A shifter who became Death. Someone who’s lived and died and lived again. Someone who understands both sides of existence in a way no one else ever has. The knowledge settles in my bones like winter frost, both chilling and clarifying.
“Life thinks she’s containing Death until she can steal Morrigan’s power,” I say, watching the energies swirl around me like a tornado in slow motion. Each strand of power has its own texture - death magick cool and smooth like silk, life force warm and vibrant like summer sunshine, chaos magick crackling with untamed potential. “She has no idea she’s actually accelerating her own destruction.”
“And your ascension,” David adds. His form is fading, too, becoming part of the growing power surrounding me. Where he stands, the void seems to bend and fold, reality itself making way for what’s coming.
“You’re all becoming part of this,” I gasp, watching as the other Deaths dissolve into pure energy. Their forms fractal and splinter, like breaking glass, each shard carrying centuries of memory and power. Some appear as ancient as time itself, others newer, but all of them flow toward me like rivers to an ocean. “Part of what I’m becoming.”
“We’re returning to the source,” Mazzarat explains, his voice growing distant, echoing as if from the bottom of a well. “All Deaths, all souls, all power - flowing together as it was always meant to.” His words resonate through the void, making the very fabric of reality shiver.
The void pulses with each transfer, growing stronger, more alive. The darkness takes on depth and texture, like black velvetunder moonlight. This isn’t just about death anymore. It’s about the entire cycle of existence. Each pulse sends ripples through my consciousness, expanding my awareness beyond anything I thought possible.
I can feel it all now - every life, every death, every transformation in between. The natural order spreads before me like an infinite tapestry, threads of existence weaving together in patterns too complex for mortal minds to comprehend. It isn’t about separation, about drawing lines between this and that. It’s about flow. About balance. About the eternal dance between all things.
And Life, in her desperate attempt to control everything, has forgotten that most basic truth. Her fear has become a poison, corrupting the very essence she seeks to preserve.
