The chamber shook as Zyran hurled a vase across the room. It exploded against the wall, shards scattering like glittering fireflies before vanishing into shadow. The sound echoed through the obsidian hall — sharp, furious, alive.
"Useless," he muttered through clenched teeth. "All of it. Useless!"
He paced like a caged storm, his golden cuffs clinking faintly against his wrists. The air around him pulsed, responding to his fury; the torches lining the walls flickered in rhythm with his heartbeat. His reflection shimred faintly in the polished black floor — disheveled, furious, divine.
On the center pedestal, the scrying orb hovered, glowing faintly with threads of blue light. It pulsed whenever he poured magic into it — his father’s magic, his magic — but the image never cleared. Just mist. Always mist.
He slamd both hands on the pedestal. "Co on," he growled. "Show . Show , damn it!"
The orb crackled. The mist twisted, for a mont forming sothing that looked like a silhouette — a woman’s outline, maybe — and then it faded. Gone again.
Zyran let out a breathless, bitter laugh and dragged his hands down his face. "Why her?" His voice cracked, sowhere between anger and desperation. "Why can’t I see her when I can see every other soul in this miserable realm?"
His magic could pierce oceans, skies, even the boundaries of life and death. But her? Isabella? She was a void in his sight — untouchable, unreachable.
He clenched his fist around the orb, veins in his arms standing out as blue light streaked through his skin. "You think you can hide her from ?" he muttered, looking upward as though speaking to the heavens—or perhaps, to his father. "I am a god, not so forgotten shade!"
The orb flashed once, resisting his touch. Pain shot through his palm, burning white-hot. He cursed, flinging it across the room. It hit the wall and rolled away, still glowing faintly.
"Gods damn it!"
He kicked the pedestal hard enough to leave a dent. His breathing ca fast, ragged. For a long mont, the only sound in the chamber was his own heartbeat thundering in his ears.
He dragged both hands through his hair, gripping the roots until it hurt. "Where are you, Isabella?" he whispered. "Why can’t I—"
"Because she doesn’t want to be found."
The voice ca from behind him, calm, quiet — like a drop of water landing in fire.
Zyran froze. Slowly, he turned.
Cyrus stood in the doorway, half-shadowed by the golden torchlight. His posture was still, his expression unreadable, but his eyes — those deep, gentle eyes — carried sothing heavy.
"You can stop worrying," Cyrus said softly. "She’s fine. I checked on her."
For a heartbeat, Zyran just stared, the words not quite registering. Then his body tensed. His jaw tightened.
He turned fully to face him, disbelief flashing into raw fury.
"I said it," he hissed. "You’re a fucking snake."
He started toward him, slow at first, then faster. "In fact—what the fuck did I expect? You are a snake! A liar. A selfish liar." His voice rose with every word, echoing through the chamber.
"You’re the sa man who told you didn’t know where she was. So how the hell are you standing here now telling you’ve checked on her?"
Cyrus didn’t flinch. His expression didn’t even change. "I have my ans."
"Oh, gods—save from your innocence act," Zyran snapped, cutting him off with a harsh laugh. "You think you’re fooling anyone with that quiet, gentle tone? You think it makes you noble? Sweet? You expect to fall for that?"
He stepped closer, voice lowering to a growl. "I don’t give a fuck. Tell where she is."
"I cannot," Cyrus said simply.
"You cannot?"
"I cannot tell anyone where she is," he said again, his tone patient but firm. "Because Isabella would not like that."
For a heartbeat, there was only silence.
Then Zyran laughed — a short, incredulous sound that held no humor. "You’re still out here playing Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes, huh?" He tilted his head, smirking cruelly. "Do you really think she still cares about you?"
Cyrus’s eyes lifted at that, slow and sharp, sothing dark flickering behind them.
"You’re the one who said it yourself," Zyran pressed, voice dropping to a sneer. "She rejected you."
Cyrus’s pupils narrowed; his hands curled into fists. "She did not reject ." His voice was low, dangerous, trembling.
"Oh, really?" Zyran leaned closer. "Then what would you call it? She told you she hated you. She told you she never wanted to see you again. Sounds like rejection to ."
Cyrus looked away, his jaw tightening.
Zyran’s tone softened — almost mockingly. "You feel the bond, don’t you? You can’t leave it. You can’t run from it. That’s worse than rejection, isn’t it? That’s pity."
Cyrus inhaled deeply, then exhaled — slow, steady, forced. But the tremor in his hands gave him away.
"Say what you want," he said finally. "You’re right. I might not have won after all."
He turned to leave. His voice was quiet, almost too calm. "But if you think that with the way you keep acting — all temper and pride and shouting — that you’ll ever get her to love you..."
He looked back at Zyran, his expression unreadable. "...then you’re an even bigger drear than ."
The words landed like a blade in Zyran’s chest.
He didn’t reply. He just stood there, fists trembling, eyes wide.
Cyrus gave one last look — soft, sorrowful, broken — and walked out.
The sound of the door shutting echoed like thunder in the empty room.
Zyran stood there, frozen, chest heaving. Then he let out a roar so loud it shook the torches in their brackets. The flas flared higher, reacting to his fury.
"DAMN YOU!"
He swept his arm across the table, sending scrolls, orbs, and weapons crashing to the floor.
His eyes flared red, burning so fiercely it cast flickering light across the walls — like fire trapped behind glass. The air around him distorted, trembling with his fury. The floor cracked beneath his feet, unable to withstand the pressure of his anger.
"I just want to see her!" he shouted to the ceiling. His voice cracked, breaking sowhere between fury and grief. "That’s all I want!"
He kicked the broken pedestal again, breathing hard, his body trembling from rage. He hated this — hated the helplessness, the uncertainty. Gods weren’t supposed to worry. They weren’t supposed to feel.
He slamd a hand against his chest, his heartbeat pounding like war drums beneath his skin.
"Why can’t I stop thinking about her?" he muttered. "Why—"
The mory of Cyrus’s words hit him again. You’ll never get her to love you.
He clenched his teeth. His claws lengthened. For a second, the darkness in him stirred — that cruel, divine rage that ca from his bloodline. He wanted to destroy sothing. Anything.
He punched the wall. The stone cracked under his fist.
"I hate mortals," he hissed, his voice shaking. "Fragile, foolish, selfish mortals." He hit the wall again. "They break everything they touch."
But his voice cracked at the end.
He stopped moving.
He stood there, panting, hair disheveled, the room a wreck around him — like the inside of his mind.
Cyrus’s words echoed again, soft and painful: You’re an even bigger drear than .
Zyran let out a shaky breath and sank to the floor. The cold stone pressed against his knees, grounding him just enough to stop shaking.
He raked a hand through his dark hair and laughed quietly — a humorless, broken laugh that didn’t sound like him.
"Maybe I am," he whispered.
For a long while, he stayed there, kneeling in the wreckage of his own fury, the glow of the shattered orb flickering weakly beside him — the only light in the darkness he’d made for himself.
And for the first ti in centuries, the son of Anubis felt truly, unbearably mortal.
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