The Blade That Should Have Died

For the first time in years, Elira was afraid of a ghost.

Not because he wore the face of someone she'd once loved.

But because he bowed to her—with the same reverence he'd once shown her mother—and followed it with words that shattered something deep inside her.

"By the Queen's final command," Malric said, his voice rough and hollow, like steel grating over stone, "I have returned… to end you."

The courtyard froze.

Even the Disciples—those warped things that served the Undying King—stopped moving. As if something older, something buried in the bones of the mountain, had just been stirred awake.

Kael stepped in front of her instinctively. Sword raised. Blood dripping from his temple. His body ached, but his stance didn't waver.

"You're dead," he growled.

Malric turned his head just slightly, eyes glowing a faint red. He looked at Kael like one might look at a crack in the wall—something insignificant. Not worth fixing.

"I was."

Elira barely breathed.

This was General Malric. The last sword of the Queen. The man who'd stood on the palace steps for three days and three nights, alone, holding off wave after wave of dark magic. He'd been legend. Myth. A name whispered in half-prayers and bedtime stories.

And now he stood here—not alive, but moving.

"Explain," she said, her voice tight.

Malric didn't blink. "The Queen knew the curse would rise again. She knew your blood wouldn't just carry her magic—it would carry her burden."

His eyes fixed on hers.

"And if you became what she feared… she ordered me to return."

Elira's fingers curled. "I haven't become anything."

"Not yet."

And then, he drew his sword.

Kael didn't wait.

He lunged, steel singing, but Malric moved like a shadow drawn by gravity—too fast. Too clean. Their blades met in a burst of sparks, and Kael was thrown backward, boots scraping stone.

Malric didn't pause. He advanced like a falling star—inevitable.

"Don't!" Elira shouted, raising her hands.

Magic lit her veins—but the spell stuttered. Died.

She looked around, heart pounding.

Something was wrong.

All along the walls of the sanctum, the carved glyphs—the ancient protections, the royal seals—were blinking like dying stars.

They were fading.

They were rejecting her.

"No," she breathed.

Kael grunted under Malric's next strike. "What's happening?!"

Elira dropped to her knees, palms pressed to the cold stone.

The temple's core was slipping away from her. She could feel it, like sand pouring through her fingers.

"I… I don't know."

But she did.

"If your power awakens too soon…"

The Queen's voice was no longer a memory. It was inside her.

"…it will not know you. It will remember me. And I was not welcome when I died."

Elira's eyes stung. Her chest burned.

The temple didn't see her as heir.

It saw her as an echo.

A reflection of the Queen who had broken too many oaths.

"Stop fighting him!" Kael shouted, parrying one-handed now. "Elira—do something!"

"I can't," she gasped. "He's following her command. It's bound in blood."

"So what, we let him kill you?!"

"No," came another voice—strong and clear.

Everyone stilled.

Mira stepped through the archway, eyes locked on Malric.

"Elira is not the Queen," she said. "She's her daughter. Her opposite. Her chance to undo what was broken."

Malric didn't so much as blink.

"She carries the blood. She carries the curse. The command stands."

Mira walked forward, slow and sure.

"Then you'll have to kill me too."

Malric raised his blade—

And stopped.

His arm trembled.

His glowing eyes flicked over Mira. Confused. Flickering with something… almost human.

"You were not part of the order," he said.

"No," Mira said softly. "But I'm her shield now. And I choose to stand."

Silence.

Something broke behind Malric's gaze.

A flicker.

A tremor.

And then—his sword dropped.

Not from surrender.

From rupture.

His body spasmed. A horrible sound tore from his throat. Smoke—thick, black, unnatural—poured from his mouth, his eyes, his chest. Magic spilled from his veins like oil catching fire.

Elira screamed.

"Malric!"

She ran, catching his body just as it collapsed.

His armor burned cold in her hands. His breath came in sharp, dying bursts.

Then—his lips moved.

"Run… before… he…"

He never finished.

Elira felt the last flicker of warmth leave his skin.

He didn't rise again.

Not this time.

The Queen's blade—the last of her sworn—was gone.

Truly gone.

Kael dropped beside her, eyes searching hers. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head, tears spilling freely now.

"No. Just… broken."

He reached for her hand. "You didn't kill him."

"Didn't I?" she whispered.

Because the temple still didn't accept her. The glyphs were still dying. Her magic—hers, not the Queen's—was being rejected.

Eryx had been right.

She was unraveling.

That night, Elira sat alone in the Queen's chamber.

High in the northern spire. The room was thick with dust. Cracked mirrors. Books left untouched for years.

Her reflection stared back at her—drawn, hollow, trembling.

She didn't recognize herself.

And then—

A whisper.

"I never wanted this for you."

Elira spun.

No one there.

But the air… pulsed.

She turned back to the mirror.

And what stared back at her—

Wasn't her.

It was the Queen.