Elara stood frozen in the heart of the crypt, her breath shallow, her hands numb.
The truth pressed down on her like a grave.
Her great-grandmother was not just trapped inside the sarcophagus—she was being used. Bound. Broken. A living path for the King's power to move through blood and time. The King was not only awake. It was waiting.
Waiting for Elara.
The Collective had planned everything. The ritual. The locket. The bloodline. They meant to tear the King from her ancestor and force it into Elara's body, turning her into its new vessel.
The thought made her stomach twist.
This was not death.
This was worse.
A sharp roar cut through the chamber.
Lyra and her pack tore through the shadows, claws and teeth flashing as they slammed into the Collective. Stone cracked under their weight. Dark figures screamed as they were thrown back.
The moment broke.
"Lyra!" Elara shouted, her voice raw but steady. "Get them away from the sarcophagus!"
Lyra did not hesitate. She shifted mid-leap, her form a blur of muscle and fury.
"Already on it," she snarled. "No one touches the dead on my watch."
She crashed into the Collective agents guarding the sarcophagus, driving them back with savage force. Her pack followed, forming a wall of teeth and growls.
Elara's eyes returned to the sarcophagus.
Her great-grandmother's face stared back at her—twisted in pain, eyes glowing with something dark and ancient. It hurt to look at her. It hurt more to look away.
Oberon landed beside Elara, his wings trembling slightly as he drew his dagger. His usual calm was gone, replaced by cold anger.
"This is a disgrace," he said sharply. "To use the ancestors like this. To turn memory into a weapon."
He launched himself into the fight again, blade flashing, movements precise and deadly.
"Elara."
Morwen's voice entered her mind, firm and urgent.
"They are trying to complete the transfer. The Dark Echo is the anchor. Destroy it, or the bond will deepen."
Elara's gaze snapped to the obsidian locket in the reedy-voiced agent's hand.
The Dark Echo pulsed slowly, almost gently.
It called to her.
A voice followed.
Soft. Familiar.
"Come closer."
The King's presence slid into her thoughts like cold silk.
"You can end her pain," it murmured. "You can free her. All you must do is accept what you are."
Images flooded Elara's mind—her ancestor screaming, breaking, fading. The promise of silence. Of peace.
Her feet shifted forward before she realized it.
Then she stopped.
"No," Elara said aloud, her voice shaking but clear. "You don't free. You consume."
The King's tone changed. No longer coaxing.
Now commanding.
"You carry my blood," it said. "You carry my mark. This power was never meant to die with her."
Elara raised the staff, her hands trembling.
"It doesn't belong to you," she said. "It never did."
She pressed her palm to her locket and focused. The warmth surged, spreading through her chest, down her arms. Blue light flared to life.
The power burst forward.
The reedy-voiced agent screamed as the magic struck. Its form shattered, shadows tearing apart like smoke in wind. The Dark Echo fell from its grasp, striking the stone floor with a sharp crack.
Its glow dimmed.
"Yes!" Lyra shouted, ripping through another agent. "That's how you do it!"
But the chamber screamed in response.
The King's roar tore through the crypt, furious and deep.
"Fools," it thundered. "You are too late."
The darkness inside the sarcophagus surged wildly, faster, stronger. The air vibrated. Elara's head snapped back as pain exploded behind her eyes.
Her great-grandmother's face shimmered.
Changed.
Her features stretched, twisted—then began to reshape.
Into Elara.
"What is happening?" Elara gasped, clutching her head as her vision blurred.
Oberon stared in horror. "The essence… it's adapting. It's using her as a pattern."
The shadow rose.
It stepped out of the sarcophagus, tall and terrible, cloaked in darkness.
And it wore Elara's face.
Her eyes.
Her mouth.
But empty of warmth. Filled with the King's cold fire.
Lyra froze, teeth bared. "That's… deeply unsettling."
The creature smiled.
"Elara Thorne," the King said, its voice now layered—hers and something ancient beneath it. Calm. Certain. Absolute.
"You cannot escape your blood. Your heritage was forged for me."
It took one step forward.
"This body," the King continued, voice low and commanding, "was always meant to be mine."
Elara stared at the thing standing before her.
It wore her face.
Her eyes. Her mouth. The shape of her body.
But everything else was wrong.
The smile was too slow. The gaze too knowing. The presence too heavy, pressing against her chest like a weight she could not breathe under. It was as if the worst part of her fear had stepped out of her shadow and learned how to speak.
The whispers grew louder.
Not around her.
Inside her.
They no longer brushed her thoughts. They dug into them.
"Look at them," the King said calmly, its voice layered—hers and something ancient beneath it. "Your protectors. Your friends."
The false-Elara turned slightly, its glowing eyes passing over Lyra, over Oberon, over the pack fighting desperately in the shadows.
"They fear you," the King continued. "They always have."
Elara shook her head, her breath unsteady. "That's not true."
"Isn't it?" the King asked softly. "Watch them."
The words slid into her mind like poison.
"They follow you because you are useful. Because your power frightens them. The moment you lose control, they will turn away."
The false-Elara stepped closer.
"Your Guardian," the King said, voice lowering. "He will run first."
The words struck deep.
Kaelen's face flashed in her mind. His steady hands. His quiet strength. His promise to come back for her.
Would he still look at me the same way?If he saw this?
Her heart tightened painfully.
"You are alone," the King said. "You were born alone. You will end alone."
"No!" Elara cried, forcing the word out through clenched teeth. "You're wrong."
She lifted her chin, even as her knees trembled.
"He believes in me," she said. "He chose me."
The King laughed.
It was not loud.
It did not need to be.
"Belief is fragile," it replied. "Fear is stronger."
The false-Elara tilted its head. "Ask yourself this—does he love you… or the idea of you? The girl before the truth?"
Elara felt something inside her crack.
Her thoughts scattered. Her chest burned.
"My ancestors believed they could cage me," the King continued. "They bled. They died. They broke."
It gestured toward the sarcophagus.
"Look at her."
Elara's gaze flickered to her great-grandmother's body, still bound, still suffering.
"She loved her family," the King said. "Just as you do. And love made her weak."
The false-Elara extended a hand toward the Dark Echo lying on the floor.
The obsidian locket pulsed.
Answered.
It began to rise.
"No," Elara whispered.
Her body refused to move.
The air pressed in around her, thick and heavy. The King's will wrapped around her like chains, holding her in place.
"Lyra!" she shouted. "Oberon! Stop it!"
They turned too late.
Lyra snarled, trying to break free from a shadowy grip. Oberon lunged forward, but another agent slammed into him, forcing him back.
The Dark Echo floated higher.
The King's voice deepened, commanding and sure.
"You opened the path," it said. "Through blood. Through grief. Through love."
Elara's breath hitched.
"I did not," she whispered.
"You did," the King corrected. "The moment you reached for her. The moment you let her essence touch yours."
The Dark Echo drifted closer to the false-Elara's hand.
"This will be faster," the King said. "Cleaner."
Elara's vision blurred.
"You will not fade," the King continued. "You will become."
The Dark Echo hovered inches from the King's palm.
Her heart screamed.
Then—
CRACK.
The sound split the crypt like lightning.
Blue light tore through the air, violent and bright, forcing shadows back. The ground shook as a portal ripped open between Elara and the King.
A figure burst through.
He hit the stone floor hard, rolling once before rising to his feet.
Kaelen Vane.
His armor was cracked. Blood streaked his jaw. His eyes burned dark, filled with fury and fear and something rawer still.
"Get away from her."
His voice was not loud.
It did not need to be.
The King turned slowly.
Kaelen stepped forward, placing himself between Elara and the false-Elara without hesitation.
"You don't get to wear her face," he growled. "You don't get to touch her soul."
The Dark Echo trembled in the air.
The King studied him.
"So," it said calmly. "The Guardian returns."
Kaelen did not look away.
"I came back," he said. "Just like I promised."
Elara's breath broke.
"Kaelen," she whispered.
He glanced at her briefly, just enough to see her. To ground her.
"I've got you," he said.
The King smiled.
"How touching," it said. "And how useless."
The false-Elara stepped forward, its presence pressing hard against Kaelen's will.
"You cannot save her," the King said. "She is already bound to me."
Kaelen tightened his grip on his blade.
"Then you'll have to go through me."
The King's eyes flicked to Elara.
"You see?" it said. "He will die for you. And then you will kneel."
Elara felt something shift inside her.
Not fear.
Not doubt.
Fire.
"No," she said quietly.
The King paused.
Elara stepped forward, pushing against the weight holding her.
"You don't get to decide my ending," she said. "Not my family's. Not his."
The Dark Echo shook violently.
The King's smile faded—just slightly.
The battle was no longer about escape.
It was about who would claim her soul.
And the crypt held its breath.