Winner (April 2026) "The Jack of Elyra and the Death God" (Part 3)

Too quiet. Too still.

The kind of still that means something is gathering.

Storms don't ask permission. They arrive.

The sky darkens slowly at first, then all at once. Thunder rolls low and heavy, like the world clearing its throat.

The first crack of lightning splits the sky open.

Rain follows immediately.

Not gentle rain.

Violent rain.

The boat lurches. I grab the railing before I lose balance. Keene's hand snaps out automatically -- not dramatic, just instinct -- steadying my elbow for half a second longer than necessary.

"I'm fine," I say.

"I am aware," he replies, but he doesn't let go immediately.

The wind howls. The river turns chaotic, waves slamming against the hull. The boatmaster shouts orders that disappear into thunder.

Another bolt of lightning hits somewhere too close.

The mast shudders.

"This is inefficient," Keene says calmly.

"This is a storm," I shout back.

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, it is."

The boat swerves toward a cluster of dock lights ahead. The nearest river town. We crash into the dock harder than intended.

Ropes are thrown. Knots tied fast.

Rain pours.

Wood splinters behind us with a sharp crack.

When the storm finally passes hours later, the damage is obvious.

The mast leans.

A beam is fractured.

The railing is half gone.

The boatmaster doesn't need to say it, but he does anyway the next morning.

"Three days minimum," he tells us. "Needs new timber. Structural repairs."

Three days.

I stare at the river like it personally offended me.

"We don't have three days," I mutter.

Keene stands beside me, hands folded behind his back.

"We cannot proceed by ship," he says.

"I noticed."

"We also cannot teleport to the Marshes."

"I know."

The dockmaster shrugs and walks off.

I turn to Keene.

"I know my room here."

He looks at me immediately.

"No."

I blink. "You don't even know what I'm going to say."

"Yes, I do."

"I can teleport to the castle," I continue anyway. "Gather what we need. Check the archives. Ask questions. Then teleport back to the inn room. I know it now."

"That is unnecessary risk."

"It's calculated."

"It is impulsive."

"It is efficient."

His jaw tightens slightly.

"You are assuming stability," he says. "Weather disruptions can affect long-distance teleportation. Emotional instability can affect--"

"I am not emotionally unstable."

I glare at him.

"This is about time," I continue. "If we sit here three days, we lose momentum."

"You are not a soldier on a timed campaign."

"No," I say quietly. "I'm someone who has already lost two years watching her brother get forced into an unwilling marriage."

That lands.

He doesn't respond immediately.

The dock is damp. Workers move around the broken ship, hammering and measuring.

"I will go," I say. "Quickly."

"You will not."

"I will try."

"You frequently try."

"And you frequently lecture."

He steps closer without meaning to. Or maybe he does mean to. It's hard to tell with him.

"You are not going alone," he says.

I cross my arms. "You don't have to come."

"I do."

"Because you're tied to me?"

"Yes."

"Or because you don't trust me?"

He pauses.

"That is not the primary variable."

I stare at him.

"That wasn't my question."

Silence stretches.

The air still smells faintly like rain.

Finally, he says quietly, "You destabilize things."

I blink.

"That is not reassuring."

"You destabilize things," he repeats. "And then you stand in the middle of the collapse as if you expected it."

"That's unfair."

"It is accurate."

There's something else under his tone. Not anger. Not exactly.

Concern.

Which is... irritating.

"I can handle myself," I say.

"I know."

"Then what's the issue."

"You handle yourself alone."

That catches.

For a second, I forget to respond.

He looks at me like he's realized he said to much.

I look away first.

"I don't need supervision," I mutter.

"I am not supervising."

"You're hovering."

"I am ensuring continuity."

"That is the most unromantic way anyone has ever said they care.

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

Silence.

He freezes.

I freeze.

The dock creaks somewhere behind us.

"I did not say--" he begins.

"I know," I cut in quickly. "You didn't."

His gaze stays on me a fraction too long.

"I am coming," he says finally. Firm. Controlled.

"Because you're tied to me," I say.

"Yes."

"Not because you want to."

He doesn't answer that.

Which is answer enough.

We rent a small room at the dockside inn.

I memorize everything.

The position of the bed. The window frame. The crack in the ceiling.

Keene watches me carefully.

"You are overextending," he says.

"I am preparing."

"You are anxious."

"I am strategic."

"You are avoiding the fact that this is reckless."

I turn to him.

"For goodness' sake, you're Death. Why are you afraid of teleportation?"

"I am not afraid."

"Then what?"

He steps closer again.

Close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, steady and real and very much not abstract like a god should be.

"I do not like variables I cannot control," he says quietly.

"That sounds like fear."

"That sounds like experience."

We stand there for a moment that stretches longer than it should.

Too close.

Too aware.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter.

"Yes."

"I'm going."

"I know."

I take a breath. Focus on the castle. On stone corridors and familiar air.

Keene moves closer automatically, hand hovering near mine -- not touching.

Not quite.

"Stay within range," he says softly.

"You're dramatic."

"You're reckless."

Lightening flickers faintly outside, the last remnants of the storm.

I lock onto the image.

The world shifts.

Folds.

And just before everything disappears, his fingers brush mine-- brief, steady, intentional.

Then, we're gone.

From the Author

I like to write
And read
And sing
And draw
And play the piano

You can find more of Ri's work HERE.