Chapter Thirteen: The End of Kings
Valen stood motionless at the threshold of the Sanctum, golden fire dancing in Elena's eyes. He bared his fangs, lips curled in a snarl not of power — but fear.
"You don't know what you're invoking," he hissed. "You can't control it."
"I don't have to control it," Elena said. "I am it."
She stepped forward, the obsidian blade now wrapped in living flame. It pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat — or something beneath it. The runes along the chamber walls responded, glowing brighter with every breath she took.
The Veil shimmered behind her, threads unraveling and weaving anew. It no longer looked fragile. It looked watchful.
Lucien rose slowly, still weak, leaning on the altar for support. "Elena—whatever happens—don't let him reach it."
She nodded once.
Valen's form twisted, shadows curling off his skin as he shed the illusion of civility. His robes melted into tendrils of black mist. His eyes stretched wide and endless, voids filled with stars long dead.
"You want to be her?" he growled. "Then die like her."
He charged.
Elena didn't flinch. She met him head-on, blade colliding with claws, light clashing with darkness. The entire Sanctum trembled beneath the force of it.
Their battle was not just physical. It was memory, bloodline, magic older than words. Every blow she struck summoned whispers from the past — Isolde's voice, the cries of ancestors, the warnings of the Veil.
Do not become the gate. Do not become the storm.
Valen was fast — faster than death, faster than thought — but Elena was more than mortal now. Her blood answered every strike, her body moving with precision not taught, but remembered.
"You were never meant to rule," she snarled, driving him back with a flurry of strikes. "You were meant to rot in history."
Valen screamed, his voice warping the air. The runes cracked. The Veil trembled.
And then — he struck her chest with a blow that sent her flying across the chamber.
She slammed into the altar and collapsed, gasping.
The golden fire around the blade flickered.
Valen limped toward her, wounded but smiling. "You're still just a girl. And girls break."
He raised his hand — the final blow.
And Lucien appeared behind him.
With a cry, Lucien plunged a silver blade into Valen's side.
Valen howled.
Elena surged to her feet. Blood streamed from her temple, but her eyes burned brighter than ever.
"No," she whispered.
She didn't strike with rage.
She struck with purpose.
The obsidian blade cut through Valen's chest, slicing through shadows, bone, and the spell that had kept him bound to life for centuries.
Valen froze.
He looked at her, not with hate — but with recognition.
"She was always stronger than me," he whispered.
And then he fell.
As his body hit the Sanctum floor, the shadows around him scattered like dust in sunlight. The Veil behind them pulsed once… then fell still.
Silence.
Elena dropped the blade.
Lucien collapsed beside her, coughing.
"It's done," he said.
But the Veil shimmered again.
Not in warning.
In invitation.
A voice echoed in Elena's mind — one she had never heard but somehow knew.
"Child of blood.
You bear our seal.
Step through… or seal us forever."
Elena turned to Lucien.
"I think… I have to finish what Isolde started."
He looked at her, sorrow in his eyes. "If you go in—"
"I might not come back," she said. "I know."
She pressed her hand to his cheek, a fleeting touch full of everything left unsaid.
Then she turned.
And walked into the Veil.