She stepped through the fog without sound. Like she’d always been there. A pale silhouette in the distance, forming from the nothingness, walking with quiet grace.

At first, Blaze didn’t care. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even watch. Just another phantom. Another figment. Another delusion of his soul. But then—he saw her clearly. And something different settled into the air.

She was graceful in a way that didn’t ask for attention but held it. Her fur, ghostly white, shimmered with a subtle radiance, broken only by the dark blue markings on her neck, face, and ears. Her horns spiraled gently back behind her head like twin crescent moons, and long, silken white hair flowed behind her like a funeral veil caught in starlight. In her hands, she carried a massive, darkened scythe—its edge etched with ancient symbols not meant for the living to read.

Blaze stared at her for a moment, eyes dulled by centuries. He didn’t recognize her.

Didn’t want to.

“If you’re here to lecture me,” he muttered, voice hoarse and cracked, “get in line. Already have enough waiting to take a bite.”

The figure didn’t stop.

Didn’t flinch.

She walked slowly. Confident. Measured.

Her eyes never left him.

Only when she stood a few feet away did she speak—her voice soft, calm... grieving. “You’ve taken what doesn’t belong to you.”

Blaze scoffed. “Everyone takes. That’s what surviving is, right?”

“They were not yours to claim.”

“Then tell your gods they should’ve stopped me sooner.”

“They tried,” she said simply. “And they failed. Which is why I am here.”

Her voice had no malice.

No fury.

But the finality in it?

It weighed more than any rage.

Blaze studied her now, narrowing his glowing eyes.

There was no trembling in her stance. No self-righteousness. No divine arrogance. Just quiet certainty.

It annoyed him.

“Let me guess,” he said, flicking ash from his fingers. “You’re another martyr. Another guilt-forged soul pretending to carry the weight of others.”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she gently ran a claw along the edge of her scythe. The blade sang—a low hum, like breath through ancient bones.

“I am Aislinn,” she said. “Reaper of Bound Souls. And for hundreds of years, I have watched you... corrupt the dead."

Blaze yawned. “Add me to your poetry. I don’t care.”

“You should,” she replied, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Because I am not here to stop you.” She stepped forward once more, shadows curling behind her feet like threads cut from destiny. “I am here to end you.”

Blaze tilted his head, flame curling subtly along his shoulders. Not defensive. Not aggressive. Just... amused. “You’re different. I’ll give you that.”

“Because I remember what I was,” Aislinn said, lifting her scythe. “And what I could’ve become.”

“Then why bother?” Blaze asked, voice flat. “Why care? If everything fades, what’s the point of judging anything at all?”

Aislinn’s expression didn’t change. But her eyes, for the first time... softened. “Because the moment we stop caring, we become what you are.” She pointed the scythe at him—not in challenge, but in declaration. “Empty.”

And Blaze, for the first time in centuries... Didn’t have an answer. Yet his snarl cut through the silence like a blade.

He rolled his shoulders—bones cracking, sinew tightening beneath his withered, reformed skin. The jagged edges of his grin twisted beneath glowing yellow eyes that hadn’t sparkled in centuries. And then—

He laughed.

A dry, bitter sound. Raspy and too wide. A laugh that hadn’t escaped his throat in eons. “You’re serious,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “You really think you can judge me?” The pink and magenta flames ignited fully around his neck and head, coiling down his arms and licking at his tail, flickering like warped fire in the Hollow wind. “You can try.”

She moved first.

*~*~*~*~*~*