A Dance with Shadows

The first time Alfred spoke to her, it was not with words.

He had woken up once more, the pain of his last death still lingering like a phantom touch. His lungs ached, the scent of burning flesh still clinging to him, even though his body was whole again. He gasped for air, his fingers trembling as they clutched the cold ground beneath him. He should have been grateful for another chance at life.

But all he felt was exhaustion.

And then, he saw her.

She stood at the edge of the ruins, her dark silhouette barely illuminated by the dying embers of a once-thriving city. The wind carried the whispers of the dead, swirling around her like a mourning song. Her expression was unreadable, her eyes—deep, endless voids—watching him with an intensity that sent shivers down his spine.

Alfred exhaled, forcing his shaking body upright. His lips curled into a smirk, despite the ache in his chest.

"So," he rasped, his voice hoarse, "do you always just stand there and watch, or am I special?"

Silence.

The woman didn't move. Didn't blink. If she had any reaction at all, it was hidden beneath the perfect stillness of her being.

Alfred huffed, rubbing his neck. He wasn't sure what he had expected. Maybe an answer. Maybe some kind of explanation. But deep down, he knew. She was the reason he was still here.

"You're the reason I can't die, aren't you?"

Still, no response.

Frustration flared inside him, a desperate anger that had nowhere to go. He staggered forward, closing the distance between them. "Say something," he demanded. "You keep showing up, watching me—why? Why do you let me suffer like this?"

Finally, she moved.

A single step. A tilt of the head.

Her lips parted, and for the first time, Alfred heard her voice. Soft, yet carrying the weight of eternity.

"I do not let you suffer."

The words sent a chill through him, though he couldn't quite understand why. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Then why am I still alive?"

A pause. Then, she whispered, "Because you are not meant to die yet."

Alfred swallowed hard, his throat tightening. He had lost everything—his friends, his family, his home. And yet, she stood before him, the embodiment of death itself, telling him that he was not allowed the peace he so desperately craved.

Something twisted inside him. A sick, wretched feeling.

And yet, beneath it all, beneath the grief, beneath the anger… was something else.

Curiosity.

He should have been terrified. He should have run.

But instead, he found himself stepping closer.

And Death did not move away.

Alfred sat in the ruins of what was once a grand city, watching the sky bleed into dawn. The air was thick with the scent of ashes and decay, the remnants of another civilization wiped away in the gods' relentless cycle of destruction and renewal.

And yet, he remained.

He had died here. He had felt the flames licking his skin, had heard his own screams as his body was consumed. The memory was still fresh, his flesh still tingling with the phantom pain of death. But as always, when the clock struck midnight, he was reborn.

He should have been grateful. He should have wept with relief.

But there was no one left to share in his survival.

His friends, his family—every person he had ever loved—were gone. He had watched them die, one by one, taken by war, disease, disaster. And yet, he remained. The gods had taken everything from him, but not his life.

A cruel joke.

A slow breath escaped him as he turned his gaze toward her.

She stood at the edge of the broken city, cloaked in twilight, the only constant in this ever-crumbling world. Her black hair cascaded like ink over her pale shoulders, her expression unreadable as always. Alfred wondered if she ever felt anything. If she had ever wept, or laughed, or screamed.

"Are you enjoying the show?" His voice was bitter, but it lacked true venom. He was too tired for that.

Death didn't respond.

"Of course not," he muttered. "You never do."

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. It was always like this. He spoke, she listened. She stood, he moved. A strange, quiet dance between the one who could not die and the one who ended all things.

Alfred exhaled sharply, running a hand through his disheveled blond hair. "How long are you going to keep following me?"

Death tilted her head slightly, her dark eyes studying him. "Until it is your time."

Something about the way she said it made his chest tighten.

"And when will that be?"

She didn't answer.

Of course she didn't.

Alfred let out a humorless laugh. "I should hate you," he admitted, leaning back against the rubble. "You've taken everything from me. Every time I get close to someone, you rip them away. You leave me with nothing."

Death stepped forward. It was a small movement, almost imperceptible, but Alfred noticed.

"You are not nothing," she said softly.

His breath hitched. It was the first time she had ever spoken to him without answering a question. The first time she had offered something without being asked.

He looked up at her, truly looked at her, and for the first time, he wondered—

If he was doomed to wander this broken world, cursed to live through its endless suffering…

Then why did she always come to him?

Why did she linger?

And why, despite everything, did he suddenly feel less alone?