Smoke still curled from the ruins of the throne hall.
The Queen was gone. Her vessel, Venra, reduced to ash.
The crown of black magic—shattered.
But the silence that followed wasn't peace.
It was the beginning of something worse.
Mira stood in the heart of the destroyed palace, Serathin still in her bloodstained grip.
Her breathing was ragged, her vision flickering between the real and the beyond.
She could still hear it—that scream.
The Queen's dying shriek hadn't faded; it echoed within her bones, as if something inside her had absorbed the sound and now played it on repeat.
Serya placed a hand on her shoulder, grounding her.
"She's gone," Serya whispered.
"For now," Mira replied. "But we all know evil doesn't die in fire. It hides in the embers."
The rebellion's survivors gathered in the west courtyard—dozens injured, several dead.
Some sat dazed in pools of blood, their swords fallen.
Others wept openly.
A little girl, barely ten, clutched her dead brother's hand, refusing to let go.
Mira knelt by her, whispering words in the old tongue—soothing, binding.
She wasn't a queen.
She was the last shield between the city and the darkness it kept birthing.
Before the sun rose, Mira gave the order to seal the palace.
They burned what remained of the throne room.
The ashes were collected in enchanted urns and scattered into the river—a ritual meant to break soul anchors.
But deep in her gut, Mira knew it wasn't enough.
Venra's ashes weren't ordinary.
When the flames died, they left behind not black soot—but silver dust that shimmered under moonlight.
And shimmered again even after they were cast into the river.
By dawn, the city of Veyrum was under lockdown.
The nobles had either fled or barricaded themselves in their estates.
The High Judge's body had not been found.
The council chamber—emptied.
Its ancient seal torn from the wall.
Serya approached Mira with grave news.
"We checked the catacombs. The runes that bound the Queen's soul? They're cracked. Something is still stirring."
Mira rubbed her temples.
"I felt it."
"You think she's still alive?"
Mira looked up, her eyes bloodshot, haunted.
"No. Not alive. But awake."
Later that day, a council of the willing was formed.
Scholars, priests, rebels, even a few frightened nobles.
They met in the Grand Library—its upper levels barricaded from looters.
Maps were unrolled, scrolls studied, curses examined.
Serya stood at Mira's side, acting as her voice when Mira's throat refused to work.
The Queen's return had cost Mira more than blood.
She hadn't slept since the battle.
Every time she closed her eyes, she heard whispers in her own voice—mocking her, tempting her.
"Wear the crown."
"Let the kingdom fall and rebuild it with your fire."
"You were born for more than resistance."
"I want answers," Mira growled to the council.
An old scholar stepped forward. His name was Fenrick. Blind in one eye, but wise beyond anyone in the chamber.
"She was never meant to be contained by death," he said, placing an ancient book on the table.
"This is the Arcanum Nocturne, written by the first to face her. It speaks of a prophecy… about the Shadow Line."
"What's the Shadow Line?" Serya asked.
Fenrick turned the book to a page filled with blood-red ink and crooked glyphs.
"It is a veil between dimensions," he said. "A prison not built by man, but by fate itself. To truly end the Queen… you must cross it. And bind her where even magic forgets her."
Mira leaned forward. "How?"
He gave a hollow laugh. "You must die."
The silence was heavy.
"No," Serya snapped. "We just risked everything to save her. Don't talk about sacrifice like it's the only choice."
Fenrick shook his head. "I said she must die, not stay dead. There is a ritual… forbidden for centuries. A death-walk. The soul departs the body and journeys to the Netherplace. If you return, you bring something with you—something that can anchor the Queen permanently."
Mira's lips curled. "Or I bring her back stronger."
"No one's ever returned whole," Fenrick said quietly. "Some never returned at all."
Later that night, Mira stood in the reflection chamber—an ancient sanctum beneath the library.
The walls were glass, etched with binding runes. The floor shimmered with memory water.
Serya joined her, wrapping a black cloak around her shoulders.
"You don't have to do this tonight," she said softly. "You could rest."
"I can't," Mira replied. "I feel her… in me."
Serya nodded.
And began drawing the sigil of death around her.
The ritual began at midnight.
Candles lit. Runes activated. Blood spilled in a perfect circle.
Mira lay in the center, hands crossed, Serathin beside her.
Serya chanted.
The wind died.
And Mira's breath slowed…
Until it stopped.
The Netherplace was not what she expected.
It wasn't fire. Or screams. Or endless night.
It was a garden.
Twisted trees. Silver grass. A black sun above.
And hanging from those trees…
People.
Faces she knew.
Her father. Her mother.
Her brother. Her childhood friend.
All dead.
All whispering her name.
And standing at the heart of the garden… was herself.
Or a version of her.
Eyes black. Skin cracked with silver veins. Wearing the broken crown.
"You came," the dark-Mira smiled. "I've been waiting."
"You're not real," Mira said, stepping forward.
"Oh, I'm more real than you," her double replied. "I'm the part you buried. The part that enjoyed watching the Queen scream."
"I don't want power."
"Liar."
Mira pulled Serathin.
But it shimmered—flickered—like it didn't belong here.
"You can't kill me," the double said. "You must accept me."
"No."
"Then the Queen will win. Because you will always be incomplete."
Mira screamed—and lunged.
The two versions of her clashed—memory against magic, shadow against flame.
The garden shook.
The trees bled.
And finally—Mira won.
Not by killing the double.
But by embracing it.
She pulled the shadow-self close and whispered:
"I don't fear you anymore. I name you. I own you. You are mine."
A blinding flash.
And Mira opened her eyes—gasping.
Back in the chamber.
Serya sobbed beside her. "You were dead for four minutes!"
Mira sat up slowly, eyes glowing faintly violet.
"I saw it," she whispered. "The anchor."
"What is it?"
"A soul. One who betrayed the Queen in her first life. One who still exists… reborn."
Serya's eyes widened. "Who?"
Mira's lips trembled.
"The High Judge."
Far beyond the city walls, across the Ashen Ridge, the High Judge stood before an ancient mirror.
He bled freely, offering sacrifice after sacrifice.
In the mirror, a form stirred.
Venra's face… twisted.
"Soon," the voice hissed.
And he smiled.
"Soon, my Queen."