The transition from the volcanic peaks of the Obsidian Kingdom to the Sun-Drenched Isles was jarring. The air here didn't taste of ash; it was thick with the scent of salt, overripe hibiscus, and a strange, metallic sweetness that Elara recognized as magic. The islands were a cluster of emerald jewels floating in a turquoise sea, but beneath the beauty, the "Whisper" in Elara's mind was screaming.
"The joy here feels fake," Elara whispered as they navigated their horses through the bustling markets of the port city. People were laughing, dancing, and singing, but their eyes were vacant, their movements rhythmic and forced.
"It's the Shard," Lyraki replied, his hood pulled low to hide his crimson eyes. "The Shard of Joy doesn't just give happiness; it enforces it. It's a drug that keeps the citizens from seeing the rot underneath."
As they reached the entrance to the Labyrinth, a series of ancient limestone tunnels beneath the city, a group of Void-worshippers emerged from the shadows. They weren't soldiers; they were zealots, their eyes clouded with the same sickly green light Elara had seen in the Glade.
"The King and his little light-bulb," the leader hissed, drawing a jagged ritual dagger. "The Alpha Thorne said you would come. He told us to make you smile before we kill you."
Lyraki stepped forward, his claws unsheathing, but Elara felt a sudden, violent surge of energy in the mark on her neck. It wasn't just a shield anymore; it was a reservoir. She felt the emotions of the crowd around her, their forced happiness, their hidden fear, and she realized she could shape it.
Don't just read the thoughts, the Whisper urged. Write them.
As the zealots lunged, Elara stepped in front of Lyraki. She threw her hands out, her violet eyes glowing so brightly that even the midday sun seemed to dim.
"See the truth!" she commanded.
She didn't just speak the words; she projected them. She took the crushing weight of the "Feral Madness" she had felt in the Pit and the cold terror of the burning Redwood Pack and slammed it into the minds of the attackers.
The zealots stopped mid-air. They didn't scream. Instead, they dropped their weapons, their faces contorting into masks of pure, unfiltered horror. To them, the sunny street had turned into a burning hellscape. They began to scramble away, clawing at their own eyes to escape the visions Elara had forced into their brains.
Lyraki stared at her, his jaw dropped. "You didn't just read them. You made them see what you wanted."
"I projected my pain," Elara said, her voice trembling as the light faded. Her hands were shaking. "I didn't know I could do that."
"The Whisperer is growing," Lyraki said, his voice a mix of pride and caution. He wrapped a hand around hers, grounding her. "But use it sparingly, Elara. The more you project, the more of yourself you give away."