My brother stood, a mirror of me, staring at the star, the dome of thorns, and the final stage of the ritual.

‘One brother understands. In his despair, he accepts.’ Olesca’s voice broke into a snarl. The whites flickered to yellow, the eyes behind the thorns becoming bestial. Black claws stretched through, and then were gone. ‘The other brother refuses the truth. His hope is simply denial,’ Olesca said. ‘In this, they are broken.’

As if summoned by the word, a figure appeared at the furthest point of the star. A hooded figure with their hands shackled in front of them. A woman we each recognised. Though I couldn’t see whether it was Rebecca or Margarete beneath the coat, I knew this was the woman I loved.

My brother knew it too. He started towards her, drawing his knife.

‘Christophor, no!’

The dome of thorns blocked my path to my brother. I couldn’t stop him, so I had to reach Rebecca first.

‘He starts to see what must be done,’ Olesca said, his face pressed against the inside of the dome.

‘Don’t listen, Christophor,’ I shouted as I ran towards the hooded figure.

‘But he already knows. Her power. That woman’s power,’ Olesca said, ‘over you all. He knows what to do.’

My brother made it to the hooded figure a moment ahead of me, just long enough to pull back the hood. It was Rebecca. I could tell from the way she held herself, how much softer she was than her night-sister, that much happier. Her hair was loose, as she wore it during the day. But she wouldn’t look up, not at me nor my brother.

On seeing her, I felt what I had always felt: the sharp double-edge of love, and the knowledge it could not last. That edge cut so very deep then.

I grabbed Christophor’s arm, before he could bring his knife to bear. He looked at me, startled, his eyes wild; he’d clearly thought I was an illusion or a phantom, conjured by the boy Olesca.

‘I’m here, brother,’ I said. He tried to pull away, but I held him firm.

‘She… This woman,’ he said, unable to even speak her name, ‘has to die.’ The wildness was gone now, replaced by a kind of zeal. He had believed, really believed – as a priest believes in their god – that this woman was a witch.

For my part, I had believed that was the reason he burned with bile when I was with her. I should have known better; Christophor had sent countless men and women to the gallows and the stake. He didn’t rage that way with them. I didn’t even think my cold, selfish night-brother – who spent most of his life denying me – could feel so strongly. But Rebecca was different.

I loved her. And Christophor hated that.

Enough to destroy everything.

‘Yes,’ Olesca purred. ‘Yes. First her blood is spilled, then each other’s, then a world’s.’

This had been the boy’s intention all along. He wanted to use Rebecca to fracture us, like so many lost souls in Reikova are broken. But in this impossible night he made it possible for us to destroy ourselves directly. That was to be our unique fate.