The air in the antique shop felt wrong.
It still smelled like old paper, rusted metal, and dried herbs—but underneath it all lingered something sharp and restless. A faint tang of ozone clung to the walls, mixed with adrenaline and fear that had nowhere to go. The kind of air that remembered violence.
Elara stood near the counter, fingers wrapped tightly around a chipped ceramic mug. Steam rose from the dark tea Morwen had insisted she drink. It smelled earthy, grounding—roots, bark, something ancient. Normally, it would have calmed her.
Today, it barely touched the edges.
Exhaustion tugged at her bones, heavy and deep, but beneath it burned something stronger. Purpose. Resolve. A quiet fire she didn't recognize, yet trusted.
The King's whispers were still there.
Not loud. Not pressing.
Just waiting.
Morwen watched her carefully, amber eyes missing nothing as Elara packed a small leather satchel. Dried herbs. A folded, time-worn map of Havenwood. Crystalline shards that shimmered faintly when touched by light.
"Are you sure you're up for this?" Morwen asked gently. "The Collective will be watching the old places. Nexus points draw attention—especially now."
Elara didn't look up as she secured the satchel strap. "Kaelen is still out there. And that fragment is our best chance to bring him back. To seal the King fully."
She paused, then gave a crooked smile. "Besides, Elara seems to have developed a habit of surviving impossible situations. What's one more?"
Morwen huffed a soft laugh. "Oh, child. Confidence is good. Overconfidence gets people buried."
She reached beneath the counter and withdrew a dark wooden staff, its surface carved with spiraling symbols worn smooth by time. As she placed it in Elara's hands, the locket beneath Elara's shirt warmed in response.
"This belonged to your great-grandmother," Morwen said. "It will help focus your power. And if nothing else—it's sturdy."
Elara weighed it in her hands, surprised by how natural it felt. "Feels like it remembers me."
Morwen's smile faded into something deeper. "It does."
"So," Elara said, straightening, "we start with the standing stones near the lighthouse?"
"Yes," Morwen confirmed. "The Collective has been circling there. Residual energy may still linger."
Before Elara could respond, a sharp voice cut through the room.
"Leaving without backup now?"
Lord Volkov stood in the doorway, coat pristine, presence filling the shop like a sudden drop in temperature. Lyra flanked him, her stance relaxed but coiled, eyes scanning every shadow.
Elara turned slowly. "Last time I checked, this was still my shop."
Volkov inclined his head slightly. "True. But when your movements affect Havenwood's survival, coordination becomes necessary."
Lyra stepped forward. "My pack has been tracking movement near the lighthouse—and something else near the old shipwreck cove."
Elara's stomach tightened. "Something else?"
"Lights," Lyra said. "Voices. Not the Collective."
Oberon's voice chimed in before anyone could respond.
"Ancient things don't like being ignored."
A green shimmer split the air, and the Fae stepped through, looking far too pleased with himself.
"Moonpetal berries," he said cheerfully. "Divine."
Lyra growled.
Oberon's expression shifted when he noticed the staff. "Oh. Oh, that is impressive."
"Enough," Volkov said. "What did you find?"
Oberon sobered. "The Collective isn't just probing. They're digging. And not only near the lighthouse."
He gestured toward the map.
"They're interested in the Thorne family crypt."
The word crypt landed heavy.
Elara's breath caught. "My family… why?"
Morwen answered softly. "Because your bloodline is more than a conduit. It is a key."
Realization hit Elara like ice water. The Collective wasn't just chasing power. They were chasing her—her past, her ancestors, their sacrifice.
"I'm going," Elara said immediately.
Volkov's eyes sharpened. "No."
"It's my family."
"And that makes you vulnerable."
Lyra stepped in. "It also makes her necessary. My pack will secure the perimeter."
Oberon clapped his hands. "And I'll go with her. Moral support."
Morwen nodded. "Then it's decided."
Volkov sighed. "If she's harmed—"
"I know," Morwen said.
As they prepared to part, Elara felt it clearly now.
She was done waiting.
The staff warmed in her grip. The locket pulsed steady and alive.
Tonight, she would face her past.
And whatever waited beneath it.
The mist outside thickened, curling close—as if eager to follow.
The iron gates of the Thorne crypt groaned as they opened.
The sound carried too far, echoing into the trees like a warning. Elara stepped through first, staff in hand, heart pounding so loud she was sure the forest could hear it.
The manor loomed behind them—abandoned, hollow-eyed, its windows dark. She hadn't been here since she was a child. Back then, it had smelled of dust and old furniture.
Now it smelled like earth and magic.
And blood.
The mist curled low around the ground, hesitant at the threshold, as if even it feared what lay beneath. Lyra's pack spread out silently, wolves blending into shadow. Oberon hovered close to Elara, unusually quiet.
"You feel that, don't you?" he murmured.
"Yes," Elara replied. "Like something is… awake."
They descended the stone steps into the crypt. The air grew colder with each step. Torches flared to life as they passed, igniting without touch.
That shouldn't have happened.
The walls were carved with names. Thorne after Thorne. Generations watching her walk deeper into their grave.
This is where it began.
Her locket pulsed once.
Then again.
"Elara," Lyra whispered urgently from behind. "We're not alone."
A low chant drifted through the chamber.
Not loud. Not rushed.
Ritual words, spoken with patience.
The Collective emerged from the shadows—five figures in dark robes, symbols burned into the stone beneath their feet. At the center stood a tall woman, hood lowered.
Elara recognized her instantly.
"Maribel?" Her voice cracked. "You helped raise me."
Maribel smiled sadly. "I protected you."
"By betraying me?"
"By preparing you," Maribel corrected. "You were never meant to live a normal life, Elara. None of the Thornes were."
The ritual circle flared.
The ground shook.
And far away—
Kaelen screamed.
Chains of shadow tightened around his wrists as the King's realm convulsed. Light fractured overhead. He felt her panic slam into him, raw and unfiltered.
Elara.
He strained, blood seeping where the bindings cut deep.
"She's close," the King said calmly. "So close to understanding."
Kaelen bared his teeth. "Stay out of her mind."
The King tilted his head. "Why? When she's already opening doors for me?"
Back in the crypt, the stone altar split open.
Inside lay a heart-shaped crystal—dark, veined with red light.
Another Echo Stone.
"No," Elara breathed.
"Yes," Maribel said. "The final anchor. Your ancestors bound the King using three stones. One lost. One awakened in you. And this one—hidden with the dead."
The locket burned.
The altar pulsed.
"Elara, don't listen," Lyra growled. "This is a trap."
Maribel stepped closer. "We can end this cleanly. No endless war. No suffering. You open the gate. The King returns fully. Order is restored."
"And Kaelen?" Elara demanded.
Maribel hesitated.
That was answer enough.
The ritual surged.
Kaelen felt it.
The chains loosened.
Not freeing him—redirecting him.
"No," he roared. "She's not yours!"
The King smiled.
"You were never the point."
Elara lifted the staff, power spiraling wildly. The chamber shook, dust raining from the ceiling.
"I choose," she said, voice shaking but fierce. "Not my blood. Not my past. Me."
She slammed the staff into the ground.
The circle shattered.
Maribel screamed as magic tore through her.
But the crystal cracked—
Not breaking.
Opening.
The King's laughter flooded every space at once.
Elara gasped as a new presence brushed her mind.
Not whispering.
Entering.
The crypt doors slammed shut.
And Kaelen vanished from her senses completely.
The light went out.
And something ancient took its first breath.