Chapter 14

The void doesn't release me—it reshapes itself, molding the darkness into a throne room of twisted obsidian, its jagged spires piercing an unseen sky that bleeds violet and black. I'm sprawled on cold stone, my hands slick with Kaelen's blood—or mine, I can't tell anymore—and the shard hovers above, no longer a fragment but a crown, bone-white and pulsing, its edges dripping ooze that sizzles where it lands. The hum is constant now, a drone that vibrates through my skull, and the entity's presence is a weight on my chest, crushing, claiming, whispering my name in a voice that's mine yet not—*"Lysara… ruler… vessel…"*

I push myself up, trembling, my shredded robe clinging like a second skin, and the room shifts—mirrors rise from the floor, reflecting not me but *her*: bone-crowned, violet-eyed, smiling with a serenity that chills me more than the tendrils ever did. She's me, perfected, hollowed—my hair spilling like ink, my body bare and unmarked, power radiating from her in waves I feel but can't touch. The thread's absence is a gaping wound, a silence where Kaelen and Rhea once lived, and I clutch my chest, nails digging in, desperate to feel something—anything—but the void's taken it all.

Footsteps echo again, and I spin, breath catching as Kaelen emerges from the shadows—not the broken man I lost, but whole, his scars gone, his gray eyes glowing with that bruised purple light. "Lysara," he says, voice soft, hers woven into his, and he steps closer, his tunic pristine, his touch warm as he cups my face. "It's over. You're safe." The lie is honeyed, tempting, and my knees buckle, a sob tearing free as I lean into him—his scent, cedar and rain, flooding me with memories of us entwined, unbroken.

But it's wrong—his warmth is too perfect, his grip too steady—and the mirrors laugh, her voice spilling from them. "Wear it," he urges, guiding my hand toward the crown, and I feel the entity through him, its hunger pulsing in time with my heartbeat. The throne looms behind, carved with runes that writhe like worms, and tendrils coil from its base, slow and deliberate, brushing my ankles, my wrists, coaxing me closer. "Be us," he whispers, lips grazing my ear, and the hum swells, a chorus of a thousand voices—mine, his, Rhea's—chanting surrender.

I jerk back, stumbling, and his face flickers—Kaelen's, then hers, then something eyeless and gaping—before settling on him again, smiling sadly. "You can't fight forever," he says, and the mirrors shatter, shards raining down, slicing my arms, my legs, as the room tilts, the throne rushing toward me. The tendrils tighten, dragging me onto it, stone biting into my spine, and the crown descends, hovering inches above my head, its weight a promise of oblivion.

The void ripples, and Rhea's there—remade, her auburn hair dripping ooze, her eyes glowing purple, her body a twisted blend of flesh and shadow. "You chose this," she croaks, claws clicking as she circles me, and the entity's laughter peaks, shaking the spires, dust and ooze raining down. Kaelen kneels beside the throne, his hand on my thigh, warm and possessive, and I feel the thread's ghost—a cruel mockery, tugging at my heart as he leans in, lips brushing mine. "Let go," he murmurs, and the crown lowers, cold against my scalp, its whispers flooding me—*"Queen… eternal… ours…"*

My mind splinters—centuries alone, his touch, her screams, all dissolving into the entity's vision: me, crowned, the tower a beacon of void, Vyrithia consumed. I scream, thrashing, but the tendrils pin me, and Kaelen's kiss deepens, soft and wrong, his hands sliding up my sides, promising peace if I yield. Rhea's claws graze my arm, her laughter joining his, and the crown settles, heavy, burning, fusing with my skull as the void pours in—darkness, power, nothing.

But then—a spark, faint, buried deep—a memory of Kaelen's real voice, rough and real: *"Don't let it win."* It's not the thread, not magic, just me, clawing back from the edge. I bite his lip, tasting blood—not his, not hers, but mine—and wrench free, ripping the crown from my head, its barbs tearing flesh as I hurl it at the throne. The room screeches, stone cracking, and Kaelen's form collapses into ooze, Rhea dissolving beside him, the mirrors exploding inward.

The void surges, enraged, tendrils lashing, and I fall—back into the nothing, bleeding, screaming, alone—but alive, defiant, the crown's echo pulsing in my hands, a shard of hope or damnation I can't yet name.