She speaks the name. Not just any name—her name. The true one. Danalael.
It doesn't come easy. It tears from her like birthing a second mouth, like vomiting glass. Her throat rips; her lungs convulse. Her bones resist the syllables. It's a name that was chained for a reason.
But she says it anyway. And the world listens.
The Circle screams.
Not in sound, but in architecture. Walls buckle inward. The floor spasms under her feet like a muscle. The runes carved into the throne catch fire with black light, eating themselves. Something ancient howls—not just in rage, but in fear.
Because this isn't just a name. It's a counterspell. A loaded gun fired backward into the mouth of the god that thought it had already won.
Daniela's body begins to split. Not in halves—in versions. She sees them:
The obedient vessel, still kneeling.
The monster, fully transformed.
The child, who first made the deal.
The liar, who pretended she forgot.
The girl, who loved the seventh soul.
