Acheron stopped sleeping sometime after the Court confrontation.

Not that anyone noticed immediately.

The Lord of Death had always existed strangely apart from ordinary rhythms. He did not eat in front of others. He rarely sat still unless forced into Court assemblies. Entire weeks sometimes passed where he vanished into the lower sanctums without explanation.

But this was different.

The palace began changing around him.

The shadows grew unstable first.

Servants whispered about corridors freezing without warning. Silver fires dimmed whenever Acheron entered rooms. Twice, palace guards reported hearing movement beneath the walls even after the lower sanctums had been sealed.

No one said the obvious thing aloud.

The throne itself was reacting.

Eva noticed because the contract would not let her ignore him anymore.

At night, warmth pulsed restlessly beneath her wrist whenever Acheron remained awake somewhere in the palace. The sensation came unpredictably now. Sharp surges of emotion echoed faintly through the bond between them, gone almost before she could understand them.

Frustration.

Hunger.

Something darker she could not fully name.

By the fifth night without proper sleep, Eva finally lost patience.

The western corridors stood nearly empty past midnight. Silver fire drifted softly through the ancient halls while rain struck the palace windows in slow, steady rhythms.

The Underworld did not normally have rain.

That alone felt concerning.

Eva followed the pull of the contract through increasingly isolated sections of the palace until she reached one of the oldest towers overlooking the outer sanctums.

The doors stood partially open.

Inside, something shattered.

The sound echoed violently through stone chambers.

Eva froze.

Then Acheron’s voice came low and dangerous through the darkness.

“You should not be here.”

“Well,” Eva replied cautiously while pushing the doors wider open, “that generally stops being effective advice after the fourth terrifying noise.”

The chamber beyond looked ancient.

Older than the throne hall.

Older than the palace itself, perhaps.

Massive black statues lined the circular walls, each depicting forgotten gods with cracked crowns and empty eyes. Silver chains hung from the ceiling overhead while stormlight flashed intermittently through towering windows.

And at the center of the room stood Acheron.

Or rather—

Something close enough to him to unsettle her immediately.

His black coat hung discarded across the floor beside shattered stone fragments. One of the statues near the wall had lost its entire head.

Acheron stood motionless beneath the stormlight with one bare hand pressed tightly against the edge of a marble altar.

The silver cracks beneath his skin had spread.

Eva’s breath caught slightly.

Usually they remained hidden beneath gloves and sleeves, faint lines glowing only when he lost control emotionally.

Now they crawled visibly across his hands and throat like fractures spreading through ice.

The shadows surrounding the chamber moved violently around him.

Not obedient tonight.

Agitated.

The contract beneath Eva’s wrist pulsed painfully the moment she stepped closer.

“Acheron.”

His silver eyes lifted toward her instantly.

And Eva realized immediately he had not slept at all.

Not for days.

The exhaustion in his face looked strange on him. Gods were not supposed to appear worn down by anything. Yet shadows darkened the space beneath his eyes now, while tension pulled sharply across his shoulders like something beneath his skin refused to settle.

“You should leave,” he said quietly.

Eva ignored the warning entirely.

Mostly because she had developed alarming confidence around death gods lately.

“You’re bleeding again.”

A thin silver-black line trailed slowly from one of the cracks near his wrist.

Acheron glanced briefly downward.

“It is irrelevant.”

“That answer becomes less convincing every time you say it.”

Another crack splintered sharply across the marble altar beneath his hand.

The shadows throughout the chamber recoiled violently.

Eva stopped several feet away from him and studied the ruined room carefully.

Broken statues.

Shattered stone.

Deep claw-like fractures running across the floor.

The realization arrived slowly.

“You did all this?”

Silence answered.

Wonderful.

That meant yes.

Acheron finally straightened from the altar. The movement looked controlled, but barely. Like every motion required concentration now.

“The Court continues pressing the veil imbalance,” he said evenly. “The throne answers their fear.”

Eva frowned immediately.

“The throne is alive?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“That is somehow the worst possible phrasing.”

The storm outside intensified suddenly. Rain hammered against the tower windows while silver lightning flashed across the distant sky beyond the Underworld.

Eva crossed her arms tightly.

“You haven’t slept.”

“I do not require sleep.”

“That was not an answer.”

His gaze shifted away from her.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Acheron never avoided questions unless the truth irritated him.

The contract beneath Eva’s wrist pulsed again. This time she felt something sharper behind it.

Restlessness.

Not hers.

His.

The sensation unsettled her enough that she stepped closer without thinking.

Immediately, the shadows around the chamber surged toward her.

Not threatening.

Desperate.

Like starving animals recognizing warmth.

Acheron went completely still.

“Do not.”

Eva stopped.

Too late.

The silver cracks beneath his skin had begun glowing brighter now, spreading slowly upward along his throat beneath the open collar of his black shirt.

The sight made her chest tighten painfully.

“What’s happening to you?”

A long silence followed.

Then, quietly:

“The throne is reacting.”

“To me?”

“To us.”

The answer settled heavily between them.

Outside, thunder rolled across the Underworld sky.

Eva looked toward the shattered statues lining the chamber walls.

“These were gods.”

“Yes.”

“You broke them.”

“Yes.”

“That feels emotionally significant.”

One corner of Acheron’s mouth twitched faintly despite himself.

There.

Even now.

That impossible almost-amusement she kept dragging out of him against his will.

But it vanished quickly.

The shadows around his feet twisted violently again.

Not outward this time.

Inward.

Like they were trying to crawl beneath his skin.

Eva’s stomach tightened.

Acheron’s expression darkened sharply.

He turned away from her immediately, one hand bracing hard against the altar again while the silver cracks spread farther along his wrist.

For the first time since meeting him—

He looked afraid.

Not of the Court.

Not of the fracture.

Of himself.

Eva moved before fully thinking it through.

Again.

Her survival instincts truly had abandoned her permanently.

She stepped directly behind him and caught his wrist carefully before he could pull away.

Heat exploded violently through the chamber.

The storm outside cracked with thunder.

Acheron inhaled sharply.

Every shadow in the room froze instantly.

His skin beneath her fingers felt wrong.

Too cold.

But beneath that cold—

Something pulsed violently.

Alive.

Hungry.

Ancient.

Eva tightened her grip slightly despite the heat burning through the contract.

“You’re shaking.”

“I am not.”

“You shattered six statues tonight.”

Silence.

Then, very quietly:

“I shattered nine.”

Eva stared at the back of his head in disbelief.

“That is genuinely the detail you chose to correct?”

The tension in his shoulders shifted slightly.

Not relaxed.

Never relaxed.

But less violent than before.

The shadows throughout the chamber slowly loosened their grip on the walls.

Interesting.

The contact was calming him.

That realization should have terrified her more than it did.

Acheron finally looked down at her hand wrapped around his wrist.

The silver cracks beneath his skin glowed softly beneath the stormlight.

And for one dangerous second—

The thing beneath his control looked very close to breaking free entirely.

“You should fear me more,” he said quietly.

Eva’s pulse stumbled painfully.

Probably because she realized, with growing horror, that he was no longer warning her about death.

He was warning her about desire.