They arrived in silence.
One moment wrapped in the soft glow of Arbor, the next stepping into a realm painted in dusk and memory.
Calavera's domain.
The Realm of the Afterlife.
It unfolded around them like a dream half-remembered, unsettling and beautiful, a place where reverence hummed in the bones.
Glowing marigold petals drifted gently through the air, suspended in an unseen breeze. They left streaks of golden light as they fell, vanishing before they touched the ground. The scent of earth and incense clung to everything, warm, bittersweet.
Above them, the sky was twilight, always twilight. Purple and cobalt streaked with silver, stars too close, pulsing softly like heartbeats.
Skeletal dancers moved in slow, graceful patterns through an open courtyard, their bones lacquered and gilded, adorned in silk robes and jeweled veils. Their movements were mesmerizing, like ritual, like mourning, like joy remembered at the edge of grief.
The trees whispered as they passed, leaves made of pressed gold and etched bone, the bark dark as charcoal, the branches heavy with wind chimes crafted from forgotten names.
Somewhere, faintly, music played, strings, slow and haunting, like a requiem stretched thin by time. It came from nowhere and everywhere. Malvor swore he heard a name in the wind. One he almost remembered. One that hurt.
Annie paused beneath one of the trees, brushing her fingertips against a golden leaf. The leaf pulsed once, soft and warm, and she blinked, as if something brushed her mind, then let it go.
"Don't linger too long," Malvor said softly.
"I'm not afraid," she replied.
And everywhere—
Everywhere—
Spirits.
Not monstrous.
Not cruel.
Just present. Quiet. Watching. Whispering.
Soft echoes of laughter and sorrow brushed past them like warm wind.
Malvor's skin crawled.
He pulled his coat tighter around him and muttered, "You would think Death could tone it down. This is aggressively poetic. I get it, mourning, flowers, regret. We all have a phase, but this is…"
He shuddered as a spectral butterfly passed through his chest.
"…excessive."
Annie didn't react at first. She just walked forward with calm, steady steps, the marigold petals drifting around her like she belonged.
Then she glanced at him, eyes sharp beneath her sheer black veil.
"Do not be disrespectful."
He blinked. "I was not—"
"You were."
He opened his mouth, paused, then sighed. "Fine. But if the violin music starts playing itself, I am leaving."
She gave him a quiet smile. "No, you are not."
He scowled but followed her deeper into the painted dream.
Because Annie was unshaken.
And here in the land of death, somehow, she was the one who looked eternal.
The castle rose from the twilight like a cathedral carved from shadows and memory, dark stone veined with veins of gold and inlaid bone, towers spiraling like twisted spires of mourning. Candles floated along the air in slow, solemn procession, flickering in blues and oranges, their flames casting ghostly reflections on the onyx floor.
Malvor muttered under his breath, "If a haunted opera house and a cathedral had a baby…"
Annie nudged him sharply. "Respect."
He shut up.
They stepped into the great hall.
And there she was.
Calavera.
Seated upon her throne of bone and gold, tall and impossibly still. Her gown was layered lace in shades of smoke and ash, draping like a funeral veil down the stairs. A crown of golden marigolds rested upon her ink-black hair, glowing faintly. Her skin was smooth as porcelain, yet skull like paint adorned her face, elegant, symmetrical, beautiful in the way a hurricane is beautiful.
Flickering candles lined the room, flames dancing to an invisible rhythm. Behind her, the shadows moved, but never too close, as if they too knew to keep their distance.
She smiled.
Not cruel. Not kind.
Knowing.
"The living rarely walk here without cost," she said, her voice a melodic hum, like a lullaby for the dead. Every word dripped with weight, as if she spoke in both language and soul.
A lifted brow. "You walk like one who has died and refused to stay dead."
Annie stood tall beside Malvor as Calavera's voice faded into the flicker of candlelight. The room pulsed with magic and memory, marigold petals floating around them like soft sparks.
She glanced at Malvor, expecting a comment.
Some irreverent joke. A nickname.
Bone babe.
Skelly queen.
Petal pie.
Anything.
But he was silent. Hands still. Expression unreadable.
And that's when it struck her.
He had not called her a single ridiculous nickname since they entered the realm.
Not shadow sugar, not mourning muffin, not even a basic death dove.
Nothing.
Just Annie.
And suddenly she realized… he never called Calavera anything either.
No nicknames. No teasing.
He never mocked Death.
And he was not mocking her here either.
The quiet respect he offered Calavera… he was extending to her. Here. Now.
It was not fear.
It was reverence.
She looked back toward the throne, where Calavera's eyes glittered with knowing, and Annie stood just a little straighter.
Malvor did not need to say a word.
She understood him more than well enough to hear what he wasn't saying...
She stepped forward, just one step. "We need answers."
Calavera tilted her head, marigold petals drifting slowly from the unseen rafters above.
"And answers," she said, "often come at a steeper price than questions."
The flicker of the candles reflected in Annie's glowing runes.
Calavera saw them immediately.
Her smile faded.
"Oh," she whispered. "So that's what they dared to carve."