You Already Won

It's hot.

That was Jonathan's first thought—blistering, skin-prickling, mouth-drying heat. The kind that didn't just sit on your skin but crept beneath it, pressing into your bones like smoldering hands.

He groaned and opened his eyes.

The first thing he noticed was that the pain was gone. The crushing, searing agony from the car—gone, like it never existed. So was Elena.

His hand flew to his chest, his ribs, his legs. He was… whole. Jeans intact. Black T-shirt clinging to his sweat-damp skin. Timbs still laced and solid on his feet. He looked exactly like he had a few minutes ago—before he threw himself into traffic.

No blood. No broken bones. No hospital.

Then he looked up.

And all the breath left his lungs.

The sky—or what was left of it—was split between dull red cracks and gaping holes, as if the heavens had been torn open and never stitched shut. Giant rings of light circled dying stars, their halos broken and leaking raw gold and black mist. Far-off towers—some spiraling, some jagged—floated above an impossible horizon, suspended by chains of light that cracked with every second.

The ground beneath him was a mixture of scorched, blackened stone and wild, twisted roots—roots that pulsed with ember-like veins, faintly glowing with cursed life. Volcanoes bled molten rivers into lakes that hissed with unnatural steam, while colossal bones jutted from the earth like the remains of forgotten gods. In the distance, something moved—a cathedral of flesh dragging itself across the cliffs.

Not a tree in sight, but everything felt alive. Watching.

Jonathan staggered forward. His boots clanked against the cracked surface, dust rising in little spirals like they were trying to whisper to him.

"What the actual fuck," he muttered.

His voice felt too small for this place. Too human.

He was somewhere else now.

Somewhere wrong.

He spun around in place, chest rising and falling, every breath coming quicker than the last.

Nothing but a hellish landscape in every direction.

Charred rock. Molten cracks. Towering silhouettes in the distance that may have once been structures—or monsters. Every now and then a streak of pale lightning crossed the clouds, but there was no thunder.

Jonathan clutched his head.

"No, no, no. What—what is this? How?!"

He spun again, hoping something, anything, would make sense. But it didn't.

"Am I in hell?" he shouted, voice cracking. "Seriously? You can't just throw me here without a warning! What happened to the whole pearly gates deal, huh?"

He looked up and screamed into the sky, voice echoing off jagged cliffs and vanishing into smoke.

"What about a trial? A checklist? At least a damn pamphlet?!"

Nothing answered him. Not even the wind. Just that same dead heat bearing down, heavier now, like the sun was sitting on his shoulders.

He groaned and rubbed his temples, sweat already dripping down the side of his face. "This has to be a dream," he muttered. "A coma. Something."

But the pain in his chest was real. So was the heat. So was the faint scent of ash and blood.

He didn't like standing in the open. The land felt aware. Like it was watching him linger.

So he started walking. Just… anywhere that wasn't here.

Anywhere that might have shade—or answers.

But unknown to him, silence was king in this place.

And he had shattered it.

His voice—his screams—rang like a dinner bell across the scorched land. And something heard.

Things that hunted not by sight, but by scent. By sound. By the trembling rhythm of frightened hearts and stomping feet.

They were already moving.

Ghoulish-looking birds. Tall, emaciated things with twisted legs and sinewy bodies. Their wings were shriveled and useless, but their speed on land made them apex predators. Eyes white, beaks jagged, and teeth—not just in their mouths, but lining the inside of their throats.

They didn't screech. They didn't caw. They just ran.

Jonathan felt it before he saw it—the rhythmic pounding, growing closer. Vibrations in the broken earth, loose pebbles bouncing.

He turned.

And nearly pissed himself.

At least fifteen of them. Darting like shadows, eating up ground at terrifying speed.

"NOPE!" he shouted, already bolting.

He ran. He ran harder than he ever had in his life. Faster than gym class. Faster than track meets. Faster than fear had ever pushed him before. His lungs burned. His legs screamed. But adrenaline carried him like a windstorm.

The birds shrieked—finally making a noise. A hungry, bone-rattling wail.

He didn't dare look back. He just ran.

Jonathan sprinted over cracked ridges and jagged rocks, the terrain lashing out at his ankles like it had a vendetta. His Timbs caught the edge of something sharp, and he stumbled—barely catching himself before faceplanting into a cluster of charred thorns.

"Shit!" he hissed, limping a step before adrenaline numbed the pain.

The birds were right behind him. Close enough that he could feel their breath, rancid and hot, on the back of his neck. Their claws scraped at stone. Their legs moved like bladed pistons. But somehow—somehow—he dodged them. Sliding under twisted branches. Vaulting over dead things. Ducking at the last second before a hooked beak could cleave into his spine.

And then something clicked.

A half-memory. A dream. A flicker of déjà vu.

"I've done this," he muttered.

Another turn. Another jump.

"I've done this already."

The landscape grew familiar—not in a comforting way, but like watching a rerun of a nightmare.

"Next is the hole," he said, his voice low, stunned. "The hole's right—"

The ground vanished under his feet.

"—there."

He dropped with a yell, plummeting into darkness as the birds screeched above, their claws scrabbling at the edge of the sudden sinkhole. He hit the ground hard, landing on his shoulder and rolling across warm, packed soil.

Groaning, coughing, his voice hoarse, Jonathan looked up toward the sliver of light above.

"Called it," he wheezed, before everything faded to black.

But that didn't make sense.

Jonathan's breath caught in his throat. The heat, the birds, the hole—sure. All of that was insane, but this specific flavor of insanity was familiar.

Why?

He blinked, staring up at the dark, jagged lip of the sinkhole. The birds were circling now, hopping down with awkward, stuttered flaps. Their claws clicked and scraped, shadows stretching in every direction.

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His heartbeat pounded in his ears, but his thoughts were louder.

Wait.

Why am I here?

The concert. Elena. His mom. The sugar rush.

"No," he whispered. "That was after."

He squeezed his eyes shut.

What came before that?

His sister? Yeah. The show. The parking lot. The car.

No.

Something else. Something heavier.

He was on his back. And for some reason, that made it clearer. As if lying flat forced the memories to drop in like weights.

Blood. Lightning. A scream.

A name carved into stone.

A gem. A spear. A storm.

A mountain falling in slow motion.

His eyes snapped open.

"I was fighting…" he muttered. "A guardian."

He sat up slowly, pain rippling across his shoulder and spine, and stared at the flickering edge of memory. The birds hissed as they drew closer.

"I was fighting a guardian," he said louder, like speaking it aloud would ground him. "In the cave. Purple gem. Zavrien."

The name hit like a thunderclap behind his eyes. His hands trembled.

"…So what the hell is this?" he whispered.

Because if that was real…

Then what wasn't?

The world didn't glitch. It didn't stutter.

There was no grand unraveling or sharp sting to the transition.

He just… woke up.

A soft fire crackled beside him, flickering shadows along the forest cave's jagged walls. The light was gentle—almost comforting—casting amber tones on moss-lined rock and damp earth. Jonathan let out a slow, shuddering breath.

He was back.

Whatever that was, it was over. The hellscape. The birds. The spiral of memories.

Just a dream. Right? A twisted mix of old trauma and new fear.

He turned his head—and froze.

Tinsurnae sat just a few feet away, fiddling with the embers, face unreadable. Jonathan shifted upright, lips parting to speak… but the word that came out wasn't the one he meant.

"Yo, Rhan."

His voice sounded deeper. Rougher. Like it had lived through too much to be soft anymore.

Tinsurnae didn't flinch. Because it wasn't Tinsurnae.

The figure turned slightly, the firelight catching on green eyes that weren't Tinsurnae's at all.

They were Rhan's.

Jonathan blinked.

What—?

He tried again, only to realize… he wasn't in control.

His body moved on its own. He felt everything—the ache in his knuckles, the dry air clinging to his throat—but he wasn't the one talking, or even thinking clearly.

And the voice that left his mouth wasn't quite his own.

"Can't believe it took four of us," he heard himself say, a slow smirk curling his lips as he leaned back on one elbow. "And I still had to be the one to land the final blow."

Rhan snorted beside the fire. "Only because Yamdamorti pulled the guardian's aura down to your level. You'd be ash without him."

"Heresy." The grin deepened. "He softened it. Vari froze it. You danced with it. And I? I killed it."

Jonathan's breath caught in his real, buried mind.

Yamdamorti?

Vari?

He glanced down at the hands he wasn't controlling. The fingers bore a sigil—swirling with black and crimson flame. One he knew.

His pulse jumped.

No. No, no, no.

This isn't a dream.

Rhan chuckled softly and added more wood to the fire. "Your ego was always the fifth member of our team."

A voice from the trees called out, casual, cocky. "Ooh! Jafar! You better not be taking credit for my kill!"

Jonathan's entire mind recoiled.

His body stood up in response. Turned with confidence.

And smiled.

"Well well," he heard himself say, as the full horror crept into place. "Speak of the devil. And she's not wearing Prada."

A branch snapped in the distance.

Footsteps.

Smooth. Deliberate. Like someone who knew the land would shape itself around her.

From the trees emerged a woman—tall, poised, draped in a midnight-black jumper suit seamlessly blended with the hanging silks of a robe. Her hair, so pale it nearly gleamed white, fell in two thick braids over her shoulders. Every step she took stirred the wind. Her golden eyes gleamed like molten crowns in the firelight.

Jonathan—or rather, Jafar—felt the grin pull wider across his face, unbidden.

"Took you long enough," Rhan mused, lips twitching. "The ice queen returns."

"Please," Vari said, her voice velvet smooth and laced with amusement. "If I were a queen, at least one of you would've died for real by now. Besides, the fox should be coming back soon. I heard the screaming start to simmer down. Shouldn't be long now."

She stopped just beside the fire and gave Jafar a look. Not hostile—never that—but layered. Teasing. Knowing. The kind of gaze that said she remembered everything and forgot nothing.

"You're really over here retelling history like you felled the guardian alone?" she asked, raising a brow. "I know you love to monologue, Jafar, but don't let the smoke go to your head."

"I gave it the final blow," he said coolly.

"Only after I froze its heart," she shot back. "And don't forget Yamdamorti split its aura. Twice."

Rhan chuckled into his hand, enjoying the show. "He's rewriting the tale before the ink even dries."

"Jafar always liked his edits," Vari mused. Then she stepped in closer, golden eyes narrowing playfully. "Tell me, should we update the records too? Something like: 'The great Prince of the Blood Realms descended with wild hair, bleeding charm, and couldn't land a hit without backup from the crew.'"

Jafar opened his mouth, ready with a rebuttal—

But hesitated.

Just for a second. A half-stumble.

Vari's smile widened. "Just a halfwit war mongrel who nearly got themselves killed again."

Jafar smirked. "Big words from someone with a name that sounds like a coughing fit."

Rhan snorted without looking up. "You ever try saying that out loud in a storm? Lightning corrects you."

She rolled her golden eyes. "Says the guy named after the villain from Aladdin. And another who just has a H to make it seem like effort was put into their name."

"I'm pretty sure half the syllables in your name don't even exist in known languages."

"Excuse me?" she said, stepping forward with slow, deliberate confidence. Her boots crunched softly on the grass as she approached. "You two are ganging up on a lady? Where's your chivalry?"

"Lost in the ruins of your vowel-heavy legacy," Jafar quipped. He laughed so hard he had to lean forward. "Your name sounds like the final boss of a forgotten JRPG. B'Raixa! Hahah!"

Rhan just sighed, resting his chin in his hand.

Jafar held up a finger. "And a slight correction. Iconic Disney villain. There's a difference."

She stepped closer, eyes narrowing, voice velvet-soft and dangerous. "You keep pushing, and you'll be a tragic Disney villain."

Jafar's eyes flicked to her boots, now nearly touching his. "You keep standing that close, and I might make you forget how to spell your name entirely."

She stepped even closer. "I'm here to make sure you don't bleed to death, King of Idiots."

"And maybe I'm bleeding for you."

"Oh please," she said—but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her.

Jafar tilted his head, eyes glittering. "You get prettier every time you try to insult me."

Vari folded her arms. "Careful. I might start believing you actually mean that."

Jonathan could feel the flicker of heat rise in his cheeks—not his—but Jafar's, and it was infuriating how smoothly the recovery came.

"Seriously though, who named you?"

"For your information," she said coolly, "my mother made it up."

Jafar blinked. "You're kidding."

"She wanted something 'unique,'" she said, making air quotes. "Said it sounded regal."

"Oh it's regal alright," Rhan muttered.

Vari rolled her eyes. "Don't speak, Rhan! Your name sounds like something that breaks in a car. Or a side effect. 'May cause dizziness, nausea, or sudden Rhan.'"

That caused them to all laugh, and the air around the campfire seemed warmer now.

Jonathan, trapped behind the memory, could only watch in disbelief.

So this… this was them.

Rhan. Vari. And Jafar.

Before becoming divine. Before becoming Malefic.

The fire crackled, sending up lazy embers into the violet-hued night. Rhan rested his chin on his knuckles, watching the sparks dance with an expression halfway between boredom and tiredness. Vari sat on a floating rock nearby, legs crossed, golden eyes half-lidded but never unfocused. Jafar leaned back against a slanted tree trunk, his hands steepled in front of him, pretending to be more relaxed than he was.

"So," Rhan began, tone light. "Are we waiting for that storm or are we pushing forward?"

Vari let out a slow breath. "The temple is nearly uncovered. Once the storm passes, it's only a matter of who gets there first."

"Then we get there first," Jafar said, voice cool. "We've already taken the guardian. Next step is cleansing the seal and using this Fracture Key. Then finding the damn entrance. Having the guardian just protect the outer wall is annoying…"

Vari gave him a sidelong glance. "You mean you'll find it. We'll all just carry your glorious cape while you narrate your own legend."

"Someone has to keep the story alive," he said with a smirk.

"Then it's your turn to cook next time," Rhan added.

"Hell no."

The three bickered casually until a shadow fell across the clearing.

Footsteps. Careful. Deliberate. Each one like a scalpel carving silence into the world.

"Ah, there's our favorite psychopath," Rhan muttered without looking.

From the forest walked a tall figure in flowing robes dyed a deep, bruised purple and ocean blue. Emblazoned across the back of the robes, etched in silver ink, were the universal symbols for Kill All—not artistic, not stylized. Just blunt. Honest. Unmistakable no matter the language.

White hair fell to his shoulders, impossibly smooth. His skin looked almost too perfect, and his eyes—his red, predatory eyes—gleamed like knives dipped in wine. He smiled, wide and hollow, the grin of a reaper on their birthday. No joy. Just excitement.

"Friends," Yamdamorti drawled. "Have you missed me? I was sharpening my mind. And my fingers. One was rusting."

Jafar lifted a hand in greeting. "Yam."

"No," said Rhan, not turning.

"Unfortunately," Vari muttered under her breath, but smirked anyway. "Though it's funny you needed to take a "walk" after the battle."

Yamdamorti sat cross-legged without disturbing a single blade of grass, hands folded neatly in his lap like a devout monk at prayer. His nails were tinted the same shade of red as his eyes. Only these were far fresher.

"So," he whispered, "are we finally on the move? Because I smelled something delicious dying in the distance, and I would so love to investigate."

"Uh huh… you just wanna relive whatever crime you just committed you freak. We're heading to the temple tomorrow," Jafar said, chuckling. "Gonna use that Fracture Key and all that jazz."

Yam's smile widened. "Ohhh, the temple. Where gods forget what they are. My favorite kind of place."

Rhan chuckled darkly. "Just don't forget what you are when we get there. Fighting you would be a nuisance."

"Oh, I never do," Yam said softly. "That's the problem. Besides, I prefer people over wildlife."

Rhan scoffed but Vari stood cutting him off. "Let's move at dawn. And please, no fighting again tonight."

Jafar nodded, eyes drifting toward the fire. "Let's just hope whatever's ahead… bleeds."

Yamdamorti giggled. Not laughed. Giggled. Like a child.

Jonathan couldn't take it anymore.

The fire. The banter. The casual way they spoke about storms and temples and Fracture Keys like it was just another Friday.

This wasn't his team.

Caroline wasn't here with her snark and spark. Tinsurnae wasn't awkwardly tagging along. Sšurtinaui wasn't off scouting, pretending she wasn't secretly protective. These weren't memories he lived—they were echoes of something older. Something hungrier.

And Vari—

Vari was the cold-hearted bitch who said everyone would die. No kindness. No compromise. Just divine arithmetic and acceptable losses.

And if Rhan and Vari were both Supreme Family Heads—then this freakshow Yamdamorti had to be one too. Though the name didn't come up before. Maybe he wasn't one. Maybe he was another king? No, that didn't make sense. It didn't matter anyway. Nothing about this was right.

This wasn't his guardian nor his battle. In fact this wasn't even his story. And with that—

The world tilted.

Jonathan lurched forward—and fell.

—Fell into memory.

—Fell into names of guardians from a past that no longer existed.

—Fell into the past of a man who carved fate into bleeding scripture.