Chapter 15

The void spits me out, and I hit stone—real stone—jagged and cold, my blood smearing as I skid to a stop. The crown shard clatters beside me, its bone-white edges glinting in a faint, sourceless light, still warm from my scalp, still whispering—*"Yours… ours… take…"*—in a voice that's half mine, half hers. My hands shake, torn and bleeding from ripping it free, and my head throbs, a hollow ache where it fused, where it *almost* won. The air's thinner here, sharp with a metallic tang, and the darkness isn't absolute—cracks glow faintly, violet and bruised, outlining a chamber smaller than the last, its walls pulsing like flesh stretched too tight.

I stagger to my feet, robe in tatters, every breath a knife in my lungs. The entity's hum is softer now, a lurking murmur beneath the stone, but it's here—I feel it watching, waiting, its tendrils coiled just out of sight. The shard's my only anchor, clutched tight in my fist, its barbs biting into my palm, grounding me against the void's pull. Kaelen's gone—his real voice, his touch, a memory I cling to—and Rhea's a ghost, her twisted echo dissolved. The thread's dead, a silence that gnaws at my core, but I'm not done. Not yet.

A sound—soft, rhythmic—drips from the cracks: water, or something thicker, pooling somewhere below. I creep forward, shard raised, my shadow twisting on the walls, elongated, wrong. The chamber narrows, funneling me toward a crevice—a gash in the stone, leaking that violet glow, and beyond it, a faint shimmer, like air rippling over heat. My heart hammers, the shard's whisper growing urgent—*"Go… claim… end…"*—and I hesitate, every instinct screaming trap, but standing still isn't an option. The hum spikes, a low growl that shakes dust from the ceiling, and I dive through, the crevice scraping my arms raw.

I land in a hollow—a dome of black glass, smooth and reflective, the floor slick with ooze that clings to my knees. The shard's light flares, illuminating a pedestal at the center, empty but pulsing, and above it, a tear—smaller than before, but alive, leaking whispers that curl around me like smoke. The entity's voice slithers out—*"Back… always back…"*—and the glass reflects not me, but her again: bone-crowned, smiling, her violet eyes piercing mine. She's closer now, her form solidifying in the tear, tendrils spilling from her shadow, reaching for the shard in my hand.

"You don't have me," I snarl, voice raw, and I thrust the shard toward the tear, its barbs cutting deeper as I channel what's left of my magic—violet sparks, weak but defiant, arcing from my bloodied palm. The tear recoils, hissing, and the entity screeches—a sound like tearing metal—tendrils lashing out, wrapping my legs, yanking me forward. I swing the shard, slashing one free, and the ooze sizzles, retreating, but more come, faster, coiling around my waist, my throat, their grip cold and alive.

The pedestal trembles, the tear widening, and she steps through—her, me, the bone-crowned queen—her bare feet silent on the glass, her smile widening as the tendrils lift me, dangling me before her. "You fought," she says, voice soft, mine, "but you're mine." Her hand brushes my cheek, warm where the shard was cold, and a flicker of Kaelen's touch ghosts through me—his lips, his hands, a memory she twists, offering peace I can't trust. The hum swells, the glass cracking beneath her, and the tendrils tighten, forcing my arm up, the shard inches from her grasp.

"No!" I scream, wrenching free with a surge of will—not magic, just me—and I drive the shard into the pedestal, not her, the bone sinking into stone like flesh. The chamber erupts—violet light explodes, the tear shrieks, and she staggers, tendrils dissolving into ash. The glass shatters, plunging us into freefall, and I grab her wrist, her eyes widening—mine, violet, terrified—as we tumble into the dark, the shard's glow flickering between us.

The hum cuts off, silence slamming in, and we land—hard—on a ledge, the void stretching below, the tear gone. She's still here, panting, her crown cracked, her form flickering between me and something else—eyeless, gaping, then back. "You can't," she gasps, clawing at the shard, but I hold it tight, blood dripping, and the ledge trembles, crumbling at the edges. The entity's not dead—it's weakened, furious, its whispers clawing back—*"Mine… always…"*—and I feel it rising, a tide below, ready to swallow us both.

I stand, shaking, the shard my only weapon, her my mirror, and the void my judge. One push, one strike, one chance—but the ledge cracks, and I don't know if I'm saving myself or damning us all.